The Wanton Bride

‘Won’t do no good.’ Her derision was emphasised by an impatient hand flick. ‘We ain’t never gonna find Tarquin like this. We should forget him and find another punter.’

A string of curses from Mickey met that suggestion.

Jenny more volubly repeated her idea.

‘Hold your tongue, woman,’ he roared. ‘Can’t you see I’m thinking?’

‘Penny for your thoughts…’

Mark surfaced from his sightless contemplation of the ceiling as his naked mistress leaned over him and kissed him on the lips. A corner of his mouth tilted in appreciation, but his hands remained pillowing his head, his blue eyes watching the spectral shadows above him.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Barbara asked huskily, stretching out sinuously on the feather mattress beside him. She slid a finger softly over the muscled ridges on his torso, then let it drift lower. Her tone had hinted at pique, but she was canny enough not to vent it. For some weeks now she had sensed that her hold on this charismatic bachelor was weakening. She didn’t want that; she wanted his ring on her finger and her belly swelling with his child. After many years together as friends and lovers she wanted a promotion in Mark Hunter’s life.

They were of similar age and a decade ago had been planning to marry, although no formal arrangements were made. Then Mark had taken himself off on a Grand Tour despite Barbara’s protestations. Barbara had been desolate to discover that he was not after all crooked as tightly about her finger as she would have liked. It was shortly after Mark sailed for France that she, while still in a temper, accepted a proposal from someone much older and far richer. She had long regretted resorting to such tactics to punish Mark for abandoning her.