Ryan's Revenge

Getting to her feet, she went back to the kitchen and, making a determined effort to think about the brighter future she had envisaged, rather than the unhappy past, began to wash up and clear away the debris of the meal.

She had only just finished and plugged in the kettle when she heard the sound of Charles’s key in the lock.

Hurrying through to the hall, she smiled at him. ‘You’re back nice and early.’

Hearing the relief in her voice, he was glad that he’d hurried straight home rather than going on to a pub, as his companion had suggested when their business was over.

‘How did your appointment go?’

‘Very well.’

‘That’s good.’

She sounded distracted, he thought, as though her mind was on other things.

Studying her pale, drawn face, he asked gently, ‘Headache still bothering you?’

‘No, not really. I took some tablets when I first got home. By the way, the kettle’s on if you’d like some coffee?’

‘Love some.’

Wearing the robe he had bought her, and with her curly hair tumbling around her shoulders, he thought she had never looked so lovely. Nor so fraught. Something had happened to seriously upset her.

Wondering if she wanted to talk about it, or if she would prefer to be alone, he asked carefully, ‘Were you thinking of having an early night?’

Shaking her head, she explained, ‘I didn’t bother getting dressed again after my shower.’

‘Then if you’re not off to bed, why don’t you have some coffee with me?’

‘Yes, I’d like to. There’s something I want to tell you.’

He hung up the jacket of his suit, and was starting to follow her into the kitchen when she said hastily, ‘I’ll bring it through to the living-room.’

The kitchen was still uncomfortably full of Ryan’s presence.

When she had filled the cafetière and had put the coffee things on the tray, she carried it in and set it down on the low table.

The west-facing room, always pleasant in the evening, was full of low sun, which threw a distorted pattern of oblong window panes and leafy branches onto the magnolia walls.

She poured the coffee, stirred sugar and cream into his, and handed it to him.

‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve being waited on,’ he remarked humorously.

Too tense to sit still, she left her own cup untouched and, wandering over to the window, stood looking out while the silence lengthened.

Now the moment had arrived, she had no idea how to broach the subject.

Watching her and guessing her difficulty, he said, ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

Still she hesitated. Suppose he’d had second thoughts about his proposal? Decided it had been a mistake?

Well there was only one way to find out. Turning, she took the bull by the horns. ‘When you asked me to marry you, you said if I ever changed my mind the offer would still be open…’

Thrown, because it was the last thing he’d expected her to say, it was a second or two before he assured her, ‘It is.’

As she let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding, his blue eyes filled with a dawning hope, he asked urgently, ‘Have you changed your mind?’

‘Yes. I will marry you, if you still want me to.’

‘Darling!’ He was on his feet and gathering her close, eager as a boy. ‘Believe me, I’ve never wanted anything more.’

He held her firmly, with no sign of diffidence, and his kiss was pleasant, almost exciting.

After a while he stopped kissing her to ask, ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘Well, I…I got to thinking… I’d like a husband and a home and a family… You do want children?’ she added a shade anxiously.

‘I’d never actually thought about it,’ he answered honestly. ‘But if that’s what it takes to make you happy… How many were you thinking of?’ He sounded like a man on a high, a man who could hardly believe his luck.

‘At least two, possibly three or four.’

‘Why stop at four?’ he teased.

‘Charles… You are quite certain this is what you want? A wife and family, I mean?’

‘Quite certain. Forty-three isn’t too old.’

‘No, of course it isn’t.’

‘But I’m not getting any younger, so how soon will you marry me?’

‘As soon as you want.’

‘What kind of wedding would you like?’

‘A quiet one.’

‘You don’t want a white dress with all the trimmings?’

Knowing she must tell him the truth, she said flatly, ‘White is the sign of virginity.’

‘And you’re not a virgin?’

‘No. I’m sorry if that bothers you.’

‘My darling, I’m not Victorian enough to support the old double standard. Though I’ve been fairly circumspect in my dealings with women, I certainly haven’t lived like a monk, and I wouldn’t expect a woman of twenty-four never to have had lovers—’

‘Not lovers in the plural,’ she said quietly.