A Place of Storms by Sara Craven Page B

she did so. A light make-up would suffice, she thought, and she would put her hair up under the coronet. A quick pang of regret smote her. On the rare occasions when she had imagined her own wedding, it had always been with her family there—Clare to act as bridesmaid, and Aunt Marian to advise her on colour schemes and hairstyles. She had never envisaged that she would be totally alone like this. Her throat was aching suddenly and her eyes stung, and throwing herself across the bed, she gave way to a fit of desolate weeping.
    When it was over she lay for a long time, the damp ball of her handkerchief pressed against her mouth, and tried soberly to face the facts. The trouble she was in she had brought upon herself. Tomorrow she was to be married to a man who had demonstrated his utter indifference to her as a woman, and had made it plain she was merely being used by him, Unfortunately, and she resolutely smothered a little choking sob, she did not echo his indifference. It was ironic to think how she had always despised women who were ruled by their senses and emotions, and now she was one of them, as vulnerable as any. One essential was to keep this vulnerability from Blaise. He must never know the aching, trembling need he could rouse in her almost at his lightest touch, or his total cynicism might prompt him to take advantage of the fact that she was there, his wife and available. A union like that, she thought, simply fulfilling a physical need, would be the ultimate in degradation. All she could do was keep out of his way as much as possible and avoid provoking him as she had done today when she was forced to be in his company.
    She was half-dozing through sheer emotional weariness when she heard the knock on the door. She didn't reply. It was bound to be Madame Bresson coming to persuade her to have some dinner, and if she kept quite still, Madame would, with luck, assume she was asleep and go away again. She bit her lip with irritation when she heard the door open quietly and someone enter the room. Then her body went rigid as she realised that the step she could hear approaching was certainly not Madame's. She made herself lie still, and breathe slowly and deeply, thankful that her back was turned away from the door.
    It was torture, lying there in the still room, knowing that he was standing looking down at her and waiting for him to say something. She tried to control a nervous swallow, afraid that he would guess she was only counterfeiting sleep. After what seemed an eternity, he turned away and she heard the door dose, equally softly. It was a long time before she dared turn around. She had the absurd impression that he might be still there, waiting for her to reveal the fact that she was awake and aware of his presence, but the room was empty in the evening shadows. She sat up with a little shiver. She would be more comfortable if she undressed and got under the covers. She put out her hand listlessly for her folded nightdress and paused. There was another package lying on the bed.
    Andrea was bewildered. For a moment she wondered if she had simply overlooked one of the packages Gaston had brought upstairs, but a moment's rational thought convinced her that this could not be the case and that she had unpacked all the things she had chosen in Clermont and put them away. So what was this?
    She picked it up. It was a flat parcel, and very light, tied elegantly with ribbons. Was this why Blaise had entered her room so quietly, to leave this on the bed beside her? It seemed incredible and totally out of character. But then what did she really know about his character anyway? she asked herself, recalling the bruising pressure of his mouth on hers in the gardens at Royat.
    At last she could not restrain her curiosity any further and she untied the ribbons and unfolded the paper wrappings. Her hands seemed suddenly full of filmy lace, and as she turned wonderingly towards the window, she realised with an indrawn breath