The Bride In Blue

The lady standing next to Wilma had been similarly supportive. Maud had been the housekeeper in the Parnell household since the year dot. No one knew how old she was, but sixty-five would not have been far astray, though she was very sprightly for her age. And a hard worker.

She’d been cool to Sophia at first, till Sophia had made it clear that she had no intention of lounging around Parnell Hall like some parasite. From day one, she’d insisted on doing her own room and en-suite, as well as helping in any way she could.

Sophia had had plenty of practice with housework during her growing-up years and saw no reason to sit around like a useless lump, simply because she was pregnant. Maud had become her champion in this regard a week or two after her arrival when Jonathon expressed the opinion—quite dogmatically—that she shouldn’t be doing the cleaning in her ‘condition’.

‘The girl’s pregnant, not sick!’ Maud had argued with a forthrightness reminiscent of Wilma. ‘When I had my Jerry, I worked right up till they carted me off to the hospital. Provided the girl is healthy, then no harm can come to her. What do you expect her to do, sit around painting her nails all day?’

Sophia had been astounded when this last remark seemed to strike Jonathon dumb, though his eyes spoke volumes. He’d given Maud a savage look and marched off, clearly furious. Maud’s grin of secret triumph had sparked a curiosity within Sophia that she hadn’t as yet satisfied. Though she did suspect that the lady who had filled in her time painting her nails must have been Jonathon’s ex-wife. Who else could have inspired such a reaction?

Sophia found herself thinking of Jonathon’s ex-wife again as they stood, side by side, in front of the marriage celebrant. All she knew about Jonathon’s first marriage was that the divorce had become final only recently. Had his wife been beautiful? Had he loved her as much as she had loved Godfrey? If so, who had divorced whom, and why?

Wilma had implied once or twice that Jonathon had been deeply hurt by his divorce, suggesting that his wife had been at fault. Maybe she’d had an affair…

Sophia found it hard to imagine any woman being unfaithful to Jonathon. Who would dare?

She slid a surreptitious glance over at him, standing ramrod-straight, his shoulders as squared as his chiselled jaw-line. There wasn’t a weak line in either his face or his body. Sophia realised some women might be attracted to Jonathon’s strong silent type, but she knew she could only ever be drawn to a man who showed a degree of sensitivity and compassion.

Godfrey had been all sensitivity and compassion.

Sophia could still remember the day they’d first met, when she’d stumbled, weeping, into the old orchard behind the deserted farmhouse next door. She’d thrown herself down into the cool sweet grass under the spreading branches of an ancient apple tree and cried and cried till there were no tears left.

It was then that Godfrey’s gentle voice reached her ears.

‘What has happened, lass, to upset you this much? Sit up and tell your Uncle Godfrey all about it.’

Frightened at first, she had shot to her feet, about to run, but the sight of Godfrey sitting at his easel, looking so unlike an accoster of young ladies, eased her fears. His eyes were a gentle grey, his soft brown hair already receding, and he had a way of looking at one that warmed and gladdened the soul.

Jonathon accused his older brother of being a dreamer and a fool, but to her he’d been a saint and a saviour. She hadn’t fallen in love that first day when she’d poured out her heart to him. But by the time he’d given her sanctuary two years later he’d meant the world to her.

Her whole chest contracted, her eyes shutting momentarily as she struggled to gather herself. She shouldn’t have started thinking about Godfrey. Biting her bottom lip till the pain propelled her out of her reverie, Sophia still found that her fingers had begun twisting feverishly together.

Jonathon clamped both of his large hands over hers, holding them in a rock-like grip as the celebrant started speaking.

‘We’ve come together on this lovely September afternoon to celebrate the marriage of Jonathon and Sophia…’

He droned on, Sophia hating the sentimental words, hating the way Jonathon was holding her still, hating Jonathon. It should have been Godfrey standing beside her, not this cold, heartless individual. Godfrey, with his love of everything fine and gentle and romantic. He’d taught her so much, about music and poetry and literature and art, shown her a world she hadn’t known existed, a world he’d always loved but had been denied him most of his life.

Not that Sophia had known about Godfrey’s background prior to his falling ill. She hadn’t gleaned much about his past life even then, from either Godfrey or Jonathon or Mrs Parnell, who was so upset by her son’s advanced cancer that she was incoherent most of the time.

Wilma had finally filled in the missing pieces for her: how Henry Parnell’s first-born son had not taken after his father at all, inheriting instead his mother’s softer nature, as well as her appreciation of culture and gentility. As an adolescent, Godfrey had yearned to become first a dancer, then a painter, only to have both his ambitions scorned as effeminate by his domineering father.

Godfrey, as the elder son, was supposed to follow in his father’s footsteps in the family property development business, but he’d hated the ruthless cut and thrust of the real estate world from the start. Not that he hadn’t tried to conform to his autocratic father’s wishes. He had, even to marrying the daughter of another wealthy property tycoon, though his failure to sire an heir had only added to his general sense of inadequacy.

When he’d deserted the family company and his unhappy marriage shortly after his father’s death of a heart attack, no one had been seriously surprised. Neither had anyone been surprised when Jonathon had slipped into his father’s shoes to make Parnell Property Developments more successful than ever. He was the spitting image of his father in looks, business acumen and ambition.

While the family business had benefited by Godfrey’s defection, his mother hadn’t. Ivy had become ill with worry over wondering where Godfrey was and what he was doing. His only communication had been a letter with a Sydney postmark which he’d sent shortly after he left, saying he was all right but that he had to live his own life and not to worry about him.

Jonathon had tried to trace his whereabouts but could never find him, not knowing that Godfrey had changed his surname to Jones and was living in a rundown farmhouse just outside the old mining town of Lithgow, over a hundred miles from Sydney.

Any happiness and relief Ivy had felt when Godfrey had finally contacted his family had been superseded by her devastation at his illness and subsequent death. Sophia took some comfort from the fact that in five months’ time she would be able to put Godfrey’s child in Ivy’s arms. Maybe then the woman would come really alive again.

An elbow jabbing into her ribs jolted Sophia back to reality.

‘Say “I will,”’ Jonathon hissed into her ear.

‘I…I w-will,’ Sophia stammered, to her mortification.

‘God,’ came the low mutter from beside her.

Jonathon bit out his ‘I will’ as if he were giving a guilty verdict for murder. When the celebrant pronounced them ‘as one’ in a flowery way, followed by a sickening smirk and a ‘you may kiss your bride’, Sophia darted Jonathon an anxious look.

She didn’t want him to kiss her but she couldn’t really see how they could avoid it. Everyone else knew their marriage was a sham, but the celebrant didn’t. Jonathon looked just as reluctant to oblige, but, seeing perhaps that he had no alternative, he took Sophia firmly by the shoulders, turned her his way and bent his head.

Sophia steeled herself for the cold imprint of his mouth on hers, so she was somewhat startled to find that the firm lips pressing down on hers were quite warm. Her eyelashes fluttered nervously, her mouth quivering tremulously beneath his. His mouth lifted, and for a second he stared down into her surprised face. Something glittered in that cold blue gaze.

Then he did something that really shocked her.

He kissed her again.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_14afaa2e-2478-5ca0-b6d8-6c704da1e044)

SOPHIA’S first response was a bitter resentment. Who did he think he was, forcing another kiss on her when he knew she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her at all?

But as those determined lips moved over hers a second time, Sophia’s resentment was shattered by an astonishing discovery. Jonathon’s mouth on hers was not an entirely unpleasant experience.

Of course, I’m not really enjoying it, she kept telling herself for several totally bewildering seconds.

When Jonathon made no move to end the kiss, the pressure of his mouth increasing, if anything, Sophia began to panic. What must the others be thinking? The grip on her shoulders increased as well, his fingers digging into her flesh. When Sophia felt his tongue demanding entry between her lips, she gasped and reefed her head backwards.

Her eyes, which had closed at some stage, flew open, flashing outrage. But Jonathon was already turning away to shake the celebrant’s hand.

‘I never tire of seeing couples genuinely in love,’ the man said, pumping Jonathon’s hand. ‘But if you don’t mind, Mr Parnell, could we sign the appropriate documents straight away? I really must dash.’

Jonathon turned back to Sophia then, his eyes and demeanour as unflappable as ever, while her face was burning up, her heart still beating madly in her chest. How dared he presume to kiss her like that?

Not that she didn’t know what lay behind it. Frustration. He was frustrated with the situation his deathbed promise to Godfrey had put him in. A kiss, Sophia imagined, could be an expression of anger as well as love—both emotions capable of evoking a fiery passion.

It just showed what kind of man Jonathon was. Nothing like Godfrey at all! Godfrey would never have kissed her out of anger or frustration. Why, Godfrey hadn’t even kissed her at all till that fateful night. Even then, she’d been the one to initiate the first kiss. Not that he hadn’t kissed her back quickly enough, cupping her cheeks and covering her face with beautiful, gentle kisses.

Her eyes misted with the memory of the sweet pleasure they had evoked, of how they had fulfilled all those wonderfully romantic dreams she’d been harbouring about Godfrey for such a long time.

‘Sophia.’

The impatient calling of her name snapped her out of her daydreaming, as did those harsh blue eyes glowering at her blurred vision.

‘W-what?’

‘Good God,’ Jonathon muttered darkly.