The Bride In Blue Page 4

  'Feeling better now?' he enquired in his usual cool manner. The mark on his cheek had faded, she was glad to see.

  'I'm fine, thank you,' came her somewhat stiff reply, but without a stammer in sight, thank God. A sigh of relief puffed from her lungs. Maybe she would survive the next few minutes after all.

  'Good. Come and I'll get you a drink, then,' he said, and taking her hand in his, began to draw her across the room.

  His grip was oddly gentle, such a contrast from the last time he'd held her hand upstairs, a few minutes ago. But it had no less of an effect on her, bringing a disturbing rise in her pulse-rate which she determin­edly put down to nerves. Sophia refused to admit it could still be fear. Why should she fear Jonathon? The idea was ridiculous. Fear should be reserved for one's enemies, and Jonathon was not her enemy. Nor did she really hate him. That had been the silly child within her thinking that a while ago.

  She didn't want anyone else thinking she hated him, either. Sophia came to a sudden decision, grinding to a halt and extracting her hand from Jonathon's as she turned to face everyone else in the room.

  'I… I have something to say,' she began, clasping her hands nervously together in front of her. 'I…I'm very sorry for causing a scene earlier. And I'm very, very sorry for having hit Jonathon. No, please, Jonathon,' she insisted when he went to interrupt, a grimace on his face. 'I have to say this.'

  She scooped in another steadying breath before continuing in a reasonably composed fashion. 'It was very wrong of me to do what I did when you've been so kind. I can see the way Godfrey acted might have looked a little irresponsible to your eyes and I can understand why you feel angry with him. I can't think of many brothers who would do what you have done here today.' Tears pricked at her eyes but she held them back. 'I'm sure Godfrey would have wanted me to co-operate with you, not… not make your life dif­ficult. I… I feel as if I've let him down somehow.'

  By this time, she was also finding it extremely hard not to cry. Wilma, probably seeing her distress, leapt to her feet.

  'What rubbish! You have done Godfrey proud today,' she insisted firmly, coming forward to take both Sophia's hands in hers. 'Hasn't she, everyone?'

  There were murmurs of assent all round. But not, Sophia realised unhappily, from Jonathon. He stood beside her in stoical silence.

  'And I'm sure Jonathon holds no grudge against you for giving him a little slap,' Wilma raved on. 'I would imagine it's not the first time a lady has given his cheek the taste of her hand,' she added mockingly.

  'I can think of one woman who might benefit from the back of some man's hand,' he muttered under his breath so only Sophia and Wilma could hear.

  The interchange quite startled Sophia out of her threatening misery. Her eyes darted to Wilma, who seemed delighted to have evoked such a reaction in her boss. When a drily amused smile pulled at Jonathon's mouth, Sophia's confusion was complete. Truly, she did not understand their relationship at all. Were they friend or foe?

  'Let's sample some of this mouthwatering food Maud's been bringing in,' Wilma continued. 'I'm starving.'

  The evening went reasonably well for a while after that. Maud had prepared mainly finger-food which was easy to eat either standing up or by sitting with a small plate in one's lap. Conversation revolved mostly around Maud's delicious food and the recent spate of rainy weather, which were both very safe topics.

  Not that Sophia was really enjoying herself. The strain of the day was taking its toll, the beginnings of a tension headache pressing in over her eyes. When Harvey poured her a glass of red wine she took it readily, settling down on the couch Ivy and Wilma had recently vacated. A small smile came to her lips as she sipped the drink and recalled the many eve­nings she had sat with Godfrey either before the fire or out on the back porch, drinking cheap claret and discussing the latest book she was reading.

  She was completely off in another world, not no­ticing when Harvey sat down beside her, so that when he said, 'Penny for your thoughts,' she jumped in surprise. But her reply consisted of nothing but a sad little smile, knowing that a man like Harvey would never understand what she and Godfrey had shared; what she had felt for him. In his eyes—as in Jonathon's—Godfrey had been a loser, a plain, balding thirty-seven-year-old loser who had no right to the love of a pretty young girl.

  She'd seen everyone's shocked looks when she'd been brought here to Parnell Hall and introduced as Godfrey's de facto wife. Even his own mother had been surprised, despite Godfrey's having been her favourite son. The news that Sophia was expecting his baby had initially been met with a stunned silence. Sophia was hurt for Godfrey, once she realised they hadn't even believed he was man enough to father a child.

  Well, they were wrong, weren't they? she thought defiantly as she sat there, her fingers linking over her gently swelling stomach. He had fathered a baby, and next week, after she'd had her ultrasound, she would know if it was a boy or a girl. She hoped it was a boy. And she hoped he was just like Godfrey!

  'I can see you're not in the mood for chit-chat,' Harvey said quietly from her side. 'I just wanted to say I think you're great and I hope everything turns out well for you. But if it doesn't and you ever need a shoulder to cry on, give me a call.'

  Sophia was touched by the offer and turned a grateful smile his way. 'That's very kind of you, Harvey. I'll remember that. Thank you.'

  Harvey patted her wrist and stood up, almost brushing shoulders with Jonathon as he did so.

  'Leaving, are you, Harvey?' Jonathon said in clipped tones.

  Harvey seemed taken aback for a second before glancing at his watch. 'Not yet,' he returned. 'I was just going to get myself another glass of wine.'

  'No more for Sophia,' Jonathon ordered brusquely, glaring down at her near empty glass.

  'That's up to her, isn't it?'

  Sophia was thinking the very same thing.

  'Jonathon,' his mother interrupted, materialising by his side and thereby saving the awkward moment. 'Why don't you put some music on? Something nice and relaxing. Mozart, I think. You like Mozart, don't you Sophia? You were playing him the other day.'

  'I adore Mozart,' she agreed. 'He was Godfrey's favourite composer.'

  Ivy's sigh was wistful. 'Of course… You know, I played him Mozart from the day he was born. It always put him to sleep.'

  'Mozart would put anyone to sleep,' Jonathon muttered, his irritation obvious as he stalked over to the stereo and started flipping through the CDs.

  'Don't take any notice of Jonathon,' Ivy whispered as she sat down next to Sophia. 'For some reason he's always been a little jealous of Godfrey. Lord knows why. Poor Godfrey wasn't born with any of his brother's natural advantages. He was a sickly child, whereas Jonathon never even got colds. I couldn't count the number of nights I had to spend sitting up with Godfrey, especially when he had asthma.'

  Sophia began thinking that maybe Jonathon was jealous, not of Godfrey himself, but all the love and attention his mother obviously lavished on her older son. She'd never had any brothers and sisters herself, but she could well imagine it must be very hard growing up knowing a brother or sister was favoured over you. Still, it seemed Godfrey's father had favoured his second son so maybe the love and at­tention bit was balanced out in the end.

  Mozart's Flute and Harp Concerto in C major brought a brief end to any conversation as its pristine notes cut through the drawing-room. Jonathon's choice sent Sophia's heart squeezing tight, plus a host of vivid memories to the forefront of her mind. She almost expected to look over at the empty armchair opposite and see Godfrey materialise, his head tipping back and his eyes closing as they did whenever he listened to this particular piece.

  'Aah,' Ivy sighed next to her. 'What magic… what bliss…'

  Sophia gritted her teeth against the unexpected pain the music was evoking, knowing she could hardly ask for it to be turned off. But she couldn't help grim­acing a little as she glanced over towards the stereo. Jonathon turned around at that moment and their eyes met, Sop
hia shivering at the austere hardness in his face as he walked back towards her.

  And sympathy for him disappeared. The man was pure granite, not the sort to ever feel deprived of a mother's love. Or any other person's love for that matter. She doubted he'd ever felt anything even ap­proaching love in his whole life. It was no wonder his first marriage broke up. No normal woman could endure living with a block of stone.

  'You're looking tired, Sophia,' he announced brusquely on returning. 'I think it's time you went up to bed.'

  'Yes, you do look tired, dear,' Ivy agreed.

  She was about to argue when common sense inter­vened. She was tired, and her headache was getting worse. On top of that, the prospect of staying here and listening to Mozart was more than she could bear.

  'Yes, you're right. I am tired.'

  When Jonathon held out his hand, she hesitated, then resignedly placed her hand in his. It closed, large and strong, around her fingers, drawing her to her feet. Once again she was reminded of how big he was. And how tall. Even with high heels on, she had to crick her neck back to look up into his face.

  'I'll walk you upstairs,' he offered.

  Sophia's panic was instant, as was her return to stammering. 'N-no, I… I…' When she tried to pull her hand out of his, his fingers tightened.

  'Don't be ridiculous,' he hissed. 'I'm not going to eat you. I'm just taking Sophia up to bed,' he an­nounced out loud. 'She's exhausted. Say goodnight, everyone.'

  Everyone said goodnight, Wilma coming forward to give her a kiss on the cheek, after which she frowned down at where Jonathon was still holding Sophia's hand. Sophia was appalled to feel a flustered heat sweep up her neck and into her cheeks. Wilma's eyes rounded a little, which only served to make Sophia even more mortified. She recalled how Wilma had told her one day that a lot of women were drawn to Jonathon's darkly brooding personality, finding him challenging and extremely sexy.

  But I'm not one of them! she wanted to scream at her friend, her eyes flashing her distress.

  She didn't manage to get her message across, how­ever, Wilma's face turning drily knowing when Jonathon began to lead a seemingly meek and com­pliant Sophia from the room. My God, she thinks I'm attracted to the man. She thinks I want him to hold my hand. Maybe she even thinks I want him in my bed!

  Sophia yanked her hand out of his grasp once they reached the top of the stairs. Jonathon immediately ground to a halt to glare at her, clearly at the end of his tether. 'What the hell's wrong with you?' he snapped. 'Am I some kind of monster in your eyes that my holding your hand frightens the life out of you? Or is it that you think Godfrey is looking down at you from his place in heaven and disapproving of your allowing any other male to touch you in any way at all?'

  'No!' she denied, stunned that he would think such a thing. Godfrey had never been a jealous or a pos­sessive man. That kind of thing wasn't in him.

  'Then why are you so frightened of me?' Jonathon asked, his tone totally exasperated.

  'I'm not!'

  'Yes, you are,' he bit out. 'You very definitely are. I only have to come within three feet of you and you get the jitters, stammering when you never stammer with anyone else. The only time you speak normally with me is when you're so infuriated, you forget your fear. Wilma tells me all the time that I'm a natural bully so I suppose that might explain some of your reactions. But I have to tell you, Sophia, I can't abide it. I can't abide it at all!'

  'I—I'm s-sorry.'

  'See what I mean?'

  She hung her head, unhappy and humiliated.

  'Don't do that!' he ordered. 'Look up at me!'

  She did so, her eyes blurring with tears.

  His groan sounded tortured. 'I've done it again. Hell, I don't mean to. I really don't. God, don't cry. I can't stand it.'

  Before Sophia could resist, he had drawn her into his arms, holding her tight and stroking her hair. 'I mean you no harm,' he rasped. 'Honestly… If I have been brusque, then I apologise. But you've no idea… how difficult… I have found all this. God, if only you weren't so… so…'

  His arms tightened around her for a few astonish­ing seconds before he abruptly put her away from him, his breathing ragged, but his face as grim as ever. Grimmer, maybe. 'I'm sorry,' he ground out. 'I've made a mess of things with you, as usual. Go to bed. I'll try to do better in future.'

  Whirling, he disappeared down the stairs, Sophia staring after him. Her own breathing was as ragged as his had been, her head spinning.

  Good heavens, she thought breathlessly, and stared down at the palms of her hands which were still tingling from where they'd rested against the hard ex­panse of his chest. Why hadn't she used them to push him away? Why had she simply spread her fingers wide, placed her cheek between them and sagged into him?

  She supposed there was some excuse for her wall­owing in the warmth and comfort of his embrace. It had felt so good to be held and stroked, his strong arms like a haven from all her recent pain and distress.

  She hadn't thought there would be any harm in it. Or danger.

  She just hadn't thought.

  It was still hard to believe that what had happened had happened.

  Jonathon… aroused. Jonathon… desiring her. Jonathon… not a cold, unfeeling machine after all.

  There had been nothing cold or unfeeling about what had risen between them, pressing its hard, throbbing life into her stomach.

  Her shock was still with her an hour later as she lay in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. For the first time since coming to live in this house her night­time thoughts were not of Godfrey, or of her coming child. Her mind was occupied trying to recapture the very moment she'd become aware of Jonathon's arousal, when she'd realised what it was she could feel.

  There was no doubt in her mind that he hadn't pushed her away immediately. He'd given in to his frustration for a few seconds before his conscience had got the better of him.

  Of course, none of it meant anything. Not really. Everyone knew men were much more easily aroused than women. Jonathon might as easily have been turned on by hugging any number of women. It didn't mean he particularly fancied her. He couldn't! Why, he didn't even like her. She irritated the death out of him.

  But Sophia was still disturbed. She wished it hadn't happened. How was she going to face him in the morning? It was awkward, and embarrassing, and…and…

  She rolled over and punched her pillow. Several times. It didn't make her feel any better. In fact, it made her feel much worse, reminding her forcibly of her earlier irrational behaviour with the blue hat.

  Self-disgust had her forcibly lying still, with her hands jammed down at her sides.

  'I am going to go to sleep,' she told herself out loud. 'I am not going to get up. I am not going to go down­stairs. I am not going to risk running into Jonathon again tonight.'

  Sophia repeated this litany of advice over and over and, eventually, she did fall asleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sophia woke feeling wrung out the next morning. Yet the bedside clock showed after eight, which meant she'd had plenty of sleep. The state of the bedclothes, however, indicated a restless night.

  Her groan echoed this fact. She hadn't felt this rotten since the day after Godfrey's funeral, which probably meant it was more an emotional condition rather than a physical one.

  Yes, she gradually realised. It was. She felt terribly down. And awfully alone.

  No. Not alone. Lonely.

  Not even thinking about her baby made her feel better. He or she was not going to be born for nearly five months and, while Sophia was absolutely certain she was going to enjoy being a mother, there was no baby for her to love and hold at that very moment.

  At that very moment, she was just a grieving girl who had recently lost the man she loved, who had yesterday married his brother for the most well-in­tentioned reasons, but who was now wishing whole­heartedly that she hadn't.

  She should have refused, despite Jonathon's deathbed promise to Godfrey. She should
have gone her own way, been her own boss, lived her own life. Instead, she had weakly allowed Godfrey's domineer­ing brother to take her under his wing, to draw her into the bosom of his family and to make all her de­cisions for her.

  Sophia knew that she was not as submissive a creature as Jonathon thought her to be. Though not normally given to the wild outbursts of temper she'd suffered from yesterday, she could still be very stubborn and wilful, as her stepfather had found out in the end. That was why she was so astonished at how she always reacted to Jonathon. It was testimony to his formidable personality that she went to mush in his presence, giving in to his demands most of the time without a quibble.

  Sophia took some consolation from the fact that he'd now decided to divorce her once the baby was born. Also that he was going to get her a place of her own. She was sure she'd be a much more content and confident person away from Jonathon. He did not have a good effect on her all round. She'd also be lying if she denied that what had happened last night at the top of the stairs wasn't an added concern.

  Jonathon was nothing like Godfrey and, while she didn't really see him as a potential rapist, the incident had blown apart her misconception that Jonathon was cold and passionless. There had been nothing cold or passionless about the man who had held her and stroked her. Heck, no! Just thinking about the inci­dent made her stomach flutter nervously. It was going to be difficult to face him today without making a fool of herself.

  With a shudder, Sophia threw back the bedclothes and climbed out of bed. At least she didn't have to worry about any awkward encounters till this evening. At this hour on a Monday morning, Jonathon would already be in his big fancy office in North Sydney, wheeling and dealing, planning how to make his next million and giving Wilma a hard time.

  The man was a workaholic, Sophia decided rue­fully as she dragged herself into the bathroom for a wake-up shower. The hours he kept would kill a brown dog. Eight till six at the office six days a week. Home by seven, dinner at seven-thirty then into his study for more work. The light was always still on under the study door when Sophia went to bed, which was sometimes quite late, if she'd watched a movie on television or the video. She didn't know how he kept it up. Sunday was his only day off, spent mainly on the golf-course.