The Bartered Bride

Inconsequently, it struck her that his mouth was at variance with the rest of his features. It was the mouth of a sensualist in the face of a man who otherwise gave the impression of being supremely self-disciplined.

But it was the meaning of his extraordinary statement, rather than the contradiction between his mouth and his eyes that preoccupied her at the moment.

‘What do you mean?’ she said warily.

‘I need a wife. You need financial support. Do you understand the word fortuitous?’

‘Of course I do,’ she retorted, her long-lashed green eyes sparkling with annoyance at the implied aspersion on her intelligence.

It was true she had been considered a dunce by most of her teachers and had never done well in examinations. But that was because she hadn’t been interested in the things they wanted her to learn...grammar, maths, physics and incredibly tedious bits of history, all of them taught in a way guaranteed to send most normal teenagers—particularly the sort of restless, hyperactive teenager she had been—into a trance of boredom.

She said, ‘It means happening by chance...especially by a lucky chance. But I can’t see anything lucky about my father dying of a massive coronary in his middle fifties with his business on the rocks and his wife destitute,’ she added coldly.

Matching her coldness, he said, ‘In my experience, most people make their own luck. Your father’s lifestyle wasn’t conducive to a long healthy life. As a businessman, he took too many risks for a man with responsibilities.’

‘Did you have dealings with him?’

She knew next to nothing about her father’s business life. Since her late teens he had spent little time with his family. It was years since he and her mother had shared a bedroom. Fran knew there had been other women.

‘Not directly. But after seeing that picture, I made a point of finding out more about you. I was on the point of making contact when your father died and I put the matter on hold. In the light of subsequent events, I’ve adapted my original plan to deal with things more expeditiously. If my information is correct, you have no relationships with men in train at the present time?’

‘How did you find that out?’

He said coolly, ‘I had you investigated...a reasonable precaution in the circumstances. Marriage is a very important contract. When people are buying a house, they have searches made by surveyors and lawyers. I had you checked out, very discreetly, by a private detective. You may want to run a similar check on me. For the time being my secretary has prepared a file which will give you most of the information you need.’

Retrieving the file she was holding, he placed another slimmer folder on the edge of the desk in front of her.

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I thought this was a merchant bank...not a marriage bureau.’

Fran’s eyes were both baffled and angry. He didn’t look like a crazy person. In his expensive suit and diagonally striped silk tie—perhaps the emblem of one of those old boys’ networks which still wielded so much influence—he looked eminently sane and sensible. But he must be out of his head to believe he could buy a wife as casually and easily as everything else in the file he was putting away in a drawer.

‘It is a bank and I am its chairman,’ he said calmly.

‘You wouldn’t be for much longer if your shareholders heard what you’re suggesting. They’d think you were out of your mind. You can’t buy a wife.’

‘It isn’t the usual method of acquiring one,’ he agreed, going back to his chair. ‘But these are unusual circumstances. I have neither the time nor inclination to follow the traditional course. You are in urgent need of someone to straighten out the financial shambles you find yourself in. If you agree to marry me, your mother won’t have to move and you won’t have to worry about her future. I’ll take care of that. Think it over, Francesca. When you’ve had time to assess it, I think you’ll agree it’s an eminently sensible plan.’

For some reason his use of her first name detonated the anger which had been building inside her. Despite the red glints in her chestnut hair, it was rare for Fran to lose control of her temper. But she did now.

Jumping up, she said fiercely, ‘I don’t need to think it over. Nor would any sane person. I’m furious you’ve made me come here, thinking I’d hear something useful. This trip to London has been a complete waste of time. I’ve a damned good mind to write to your board of directors and tell them they’ve got a nutcase in control.’

Without waiting for his reaction, she marched to the big double doors of solid mahogany and yanked one of them open. Glowering at the startled secretary at her desk in the outer sanctum, she slammed it resoundingly behind her and returned to the private lift which had brought her up to this rarefied level of the building.

‘Is everything all right, Mr Kennard?’

His PA didn’t know why he had sent for Francesca Turner, but she knew there could be no justification for the girl to emerge from his room scowling like one of the snake-haired Furies in classical mythology.

A conservative fiftysomething who had been promoted to PA while the late Sir Miles Kennard was chairman, Miss Jones knew enough about Ms Turner to conclude she was thoroughly spoilt.

Perhaps Mr Kennard had told her a few home truths. Although diplomacy was one of his many skills, when it was appropriate he could be outspoken, even ruthless. He was a much tougher man than his father. And needed to be. The world was a harsher place now than when she had joined the bank as a junior secretary almost thirty years ago.

‘Everything’s fine, Miss Jones, thank you.’

Although he was always formal, sometimes he gave her a smile which was far more rewarding than the casual use of her first name. That he should smile now surprised her. She had expected Ms Turner’s ill-mannered exit from his presence to leave him in one of his forbidding moods.

As his visibly baffled PA withdrew, it crossed Reid’s mind that Barbara Jones and Francesca Turner were about as dissimilar as any two women with roughly the same background could be.

The only child of middle-aged parents, Miss Jones had spent her adult life caring for them in their old age. She was the most selfless, reliable, deserving person he knew. The only rewards she could expect were the satisfaction of duty well done and a modestly comfortable pension.

Francesca represented the opposite extreme. It seemed likely she had never performed an unselfish act in her life. Unfairly, she had all the assets his PA lacked: a beautiful face and figure, a vibrant personality and a high degree of self-confidence, partly inborn and partly the result of an expensive élitest education.

Although Reid could usually predict how most people would react to any given circumstance, not having met Francesca he hadn’t been sure how she would respond to his proposition. On the whole her spirited reaction had pleased him.

It showed that she was hot-tempered, impulsive and combative. At the same time it revealed that she wasn’t a coward, willing to clutch at any straw to save herself from having to grapple with the gritty realities of switching from rich girl to poor girl.

From the moment she had entered the room, he had known that the shots in the social pages of the glossies hadn’t given a false impression. In reality she was even more attractive than she looked in her photographs.

Although his main motive for marrying was not the customary one, it wasn’t his plan to have the kind of relationship where physical pleasure was something found outside the marriage. The extra-marital liaisons engaged in by many of his peers were not on his own agenda. In his view there was no reason why a practical marriage shouldn’t include good sex.

Taming that pretty firebrand until she ate out of his hand was a challenge he hadn’t foreseen but expected to enjoy.

Contrary to what she had angrily told Reid Kennard, Fran had another reason for coming to London: to pack all the personal belongings in her father’s London pied-à-terre. This was now in the hands of an estate agent who expected to sell it quickly. Whatever price it fetched wouldn’t help Fran and her mother. It would go towards paying off George Turner’s numerous creditors.

The flat was near Marble Arch, part of a low-rise block built on the site of a large private mansion. All the trees had been carefully preserved, making the gardens surrounding the block seem an oasis of peaceful greenery in the heart of the noisy metropolis.

After her father bought the apartment, Fran had supervised the redecoration and chosen the furnishings. She had done the same at their home in the country. Her mother, a dedicated gardener, had no interest in interiors.

Occasionally Fran had toyed with the idea of taking a course in interior design and starting a business. But always something had happened to distract her. Anyway her most serious and important ambition had been to be Julian’s wife.

As soon as she got back to the flat, she changed out of the businesslike black suit she had chosen for the interview with Reid Kennard. Under it she was wearing a white bodysuit, a flesh-coloured bra and sheer black pantyhose over micro-briefs. She stripped them off, stuffed her thick mane of hair into a plastic cap and took a long hot shower.

After putting on fresh underclothes and the apricot sweatshirt and jeans she had brought in her overnight case, she began to feel better, calmer, capable of reviewing the episode more rationally.

Coming back in the taxi, too upset to remember that taxis were a luxury she could no longer afford, she had found herself trembling with rage...and some other emotion not as easily defined. Now the most sensible course was to put the experience out of her mind. Forget it. Get on with the job in hand, clearing the flat of her father’s things and her own.

Her mother had never come here. Daphne Turner disliked London. Big cities had nothing to offer her. Even the famous Chelsea Flower Show didn’t appeal. She was a country person. Which was just as well because sometimes George Turner had entertained other women at the apartment.

Once, five years ago, Fran had arrived in London unexpectedly and found him in bed with an unknown woman at four in the afternoon. She could still remember the horrified looks on their faces when, thinking the flat was empty and puzzled by the strange noises coming from her father’s bedroom, she had disturbed a scene deeply shocking to a seventeen-year-old virgin.

She had already guessed that her father was unfaithful, but to catch him in the act had been traumatic. Her affection for him, never as strong as her love for her mother, had turned to revulsion.

Her own experience of sex had been limited to a few kisses. By that age most of her friends had gone all the way, but Fran had been saving herself for Julian. She had known since she was fourteen that he was the love of her life and also that he wouldn’t like it if she let other boys do more than kiss her.

The day his mother had told her he was engaged had been the worst day of Fran’s life. She had always believed that he loved her but, because he was the son of Jack Wallace, her father’s chauffeur, was keeping it under wraps until he had established himself.

Two months ago, she had been a guest at Julian’s wedding. By the day she heard him say ‘I do’, she had pulled herself together enough to get through the service and the reception without showing the misery she felt. A week later her father had died. Soon after that, when the truth about his business came out, her mother’s world had caved in.

Recently, life had been a series of disasters. But that was the way it went. One damn thing after another. And it wasn’t over yet. She had to find somewhere affordable for her mother to live and the means to support them both. A tall order.