When he arrived at his house in Knightsbridge his expression darkened. He’d imagined bringing Diana here after their honeymoon, carrying her over the threshold, taking her to bed...
Well, that would not happen now. Would never happen. The black, dark anger that he was now so familiar with, that seemed always to be there now when he thought of her—which was all the time—swilled in his veins. His mouth set in a hard line.
He reached for his phone. Dialled her number. It went to voicemail, and he was glad of it. He did not want to hear her voice.
His message was brief. ‘I’m in London. I require you. Be here tomorrow. We have an evening party to go to.’
He disconnected, his expression masked. Diana—his wife, his bride—might have made clear what she thought of him, what she thought of their marriage, but that was of no concern to him right now. She had duties to perform. Duties he was paying her to perform.
However reluctant she might be to do so.
* * *
Diana arrived, as summoned, at the end of the following afternoon. The housekeeper admitted her. Nikos was still at his London offices, but he arrived shortly afterwards. She had installed herself in a bedroom that was very obviously not the master bedroom. She’d brought a suitcase with her and was hanging up her clothes—including several evening dresses.
As he walked in she started, and paled.
‘Nikos—’
There was constraint in her voice, in her face—in her very stance. Yet the moment her eyes had lit upon him she had felt the disastrous, betraying leap of her blood.
He ignored her, walked up to the wardrobe she was filling with her gowns and leafed through them, extracting one and tossing it on the bed.
‘Wear this,’ he instructed. ‘Be ready to leave in an hour.’
He walked out again.
Behind him, Diana quailed. She had dreaded coming up to town, dreaded seeing him again, but knew she had to. Could not evade it. Could not hide at Greymont any longer.
I have to talk to him—stop him being like this. Try to make it like it was originally between us—civil, friendly...
The words mocked her. Agitation and worse, much worse, churned inside her.
Joining him in the drawing room, changed into the gown he wanted her to wear, steeling herself, she felt them mock her again. He was wearing evening dress, tall and dark and devastating, and as her eyes lit on him a ravening hunger went through her, blood leaping in her veins. She almost ran towards him, to throw herself into his arms, to hold him tight.
Memories exploded in her head of herself in his arms, he in hers...
She thrust them from her.
I cannot let myself desire him.
Desperately she schooled herself to quench that perilous leaping of her blood, the flood of memories in her head. Too dangerous.
He turned his head at her entry, and for just a second she thought she saw the briefest flaring of his eyes as they alighted on her. Then the light was extinguished. He let his gaze rest on her.
‘Very suitable,’ he said.
His voice was flat, his face closed. She made herself walk towards him, his chill gaze still upon her, feeling the swish of her silken gown around her legs, the low coil of the chignon at her nape, the cool of her pearl necklace around her throat. On the little finger of her left hand her signet ring glinted in the lamp light—the St Clair family crest outlined. A perpetual reminder of why she had become his wife—to keep the house that went with this armorial crest.
She fancied she saw Nikos’s shuttered gaze flicker to it, then away.
‘Nikos...’ She made herself speak, lifting her chin to give her courage—courage she did not feel, feeling only a hollow space inside her. ‘Nikos, we have to talk.’
He cast her a crushing look. ‘Do we? Have you yet more to tell me, Diana?’
There was a harshness in his voice she had never heard before. An indifference. Absently he busied himself adjusting his cufflinks, not looking at her.
She swallowed again, her throat tight. ‘Look, Nikos, our marriage was a mistake. A misunderstanding. I’m sorry—so very sorry—that I got it so wrong in understanding what you...’ She swallowed again. ‘What you expected of it.’