Miss Prim and the Billionaire. Lucy Gordon
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Her mind was swimming. Through the confusion she could hear his voice crying ‘Cassie,’ but had he said it or had she imagined it through the fog of her agitation? Had he known her all the time and concealed it? What would he do now?
She felt herself laid down and heard voices above her. She gave a soft gasp and opened her eyes.
‘I think Mrs Henshaw’s coming round,’ the doctor said.
Marcel’s face hovered over her.
‘I’m all right, honestly,’ she murmured. ‘I just bumped my head against the tree and it made me dizzy for a moment.’
‘Let’s do a check,’ the doctor said.
She barely heard. Her eyes were seeking Marcel’s face, desperate to know what she could read in it.
But it was blank. There was nothing there.
For a moment she fought the truth, but then she forced herself to accept it. He hadn’t recognised her, hadn’t spoken her name. She’d simply imagined what she wanted to believe.
No!
A thousand voices screamed denial in her head. That wasn’t what she wanted. She wouldn’t think it or allow him to think it.
The doctor finished checking her, cleaned the graze and pronounced himself satisfied. ‘But I’d recommend an early night,’ he said. ‘Are you staying here?’
‘No.’
‘Does anyone live at home with you?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. I’d rather you weren’t alone tonight.’
‘She won’t be,’ Marcel intervened. ‘She’ll stay in my suite, with a woman to watch out for her.’
‘Oh, will I?’ she said indignantly.
‘Yes, Mrs Henshaw. You will. Please don’t waste my time with further argument.’
He walked out, leaving her seething. ‘Cheek!’
‘Be fair,’ said the doctor. ‘He obviously cares a lot about you.’
‘Not at all. I’ve only just met him.’ In a few minutes it was clear that Marcel had gone to make arrangements. He returned with a wheelchair. ‘I don’t need that,’ she said, aghast. ‘Yes, you do. Take my hand.’
This was the moment to hurry away, put the whole disastrous evening behind her and forget that Marcel had ever existed. But he had firm hold of her, ushering her into the chair in a manner that brooked no refusal.
Since arguing was useless she sat in silence as he took her into the elevator and upstairs to his suite, where a pleasant-looking young woman was waiting.
‘This is my sister Freya,’ he said.
‘I’ve brought you a nightdress,’ Freya said.
‘I’ll leave you.’ Marcel departed quickly.
‘This is the bedroom and bathroom,’ Freya told her. ‘I’ll look in often to make sure you’re all right. Let me help you undress.’
As they worked on it Freya asked, ‘Whatever did Marcel do to you?’
‘It wasn’t his fault. I fell against a tree.’ ‘Well, he obviously feels responsible.’ ‘He has no need.’
‘Perhaps he’s just a very generous and responsible man. I’m still getting to know him.’
‘I thought he said you were his sister.’ ‘His stepsister.’ Freya laughed. ‘He keeps calling me his sister so that he doesn’t have to marry me.’ ‘What?’
‘Amos wants me to marry one of his sons so that I’ll really be part of the family. His first choice is Darius but Darius is no more keen than I am. So then Marcel is “next in the firing line” as he puts it. That “sister” business is his way of protecting himself.’
‘How do you feel about that?’
Freya chuckled. ‘I’m not weeping into my pillow. He’s not my style at all. Too much like his father. Oh, it’s rotten of me to say that when Amos has been so kind to me, but now I can still escape. The thought of being married to a man like that—’ She gave a melodramatic shudder.
‘Like what?’
‘Money, money, money. That and always being one step ahead of his enemies.’
‘Does Marcel have a lot of enemies?’ ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t think he has many friends. There’s a coldness in him that it’s hard to get past. There now, you’re ready for bed. Would you like me to stay?’ ‘No, thank you. You’ve been very kind.’ She was desperate to be alone. As soon as the door closed she pulled the covers over her head and tried to sort out her confused mind.
Freya had spoken of his coldness, but the young man she’d known and loved had been incapable of coldness. Somehow, one had become the other.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be. I’ll wake up and find it was a dream. At least, I hope so. Or do I hope so? Is that what I really want? Did he recognise me or not? Is he just pretending not to? What am I hoping for?
But thinking was too troubling, so at last she gave up and fell asleep.
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