Forever by Margaret Pemberton Page B

fearlessness and daring.
    Despite the soft warmth of the night, she shivered in her lace-trimmed nightdress. She had been destined to marry Beau and now she was going to marry Bradley. She could barely remember Bradley’s face. It was Beau’s image that burned in her brain. She could see the narrow eyes set slanting above high cheekbones, the mouth quirking in a mocking smile as if he were only feet away from her.
    â€˜Oh my love,’ she whispered as the moon rode high in the sky. ‘Why did you leave me? Why? Why?’
    Leo settled himself into Charles’s leather wing chair and shook open a copy of the morning paper, thankful for his bachelorhood and his consequent lack of worries. The guest list for the party was on a side table, names scored through viciously in red ink. Though Charles had not told him when they’d met at breakfast, Leo knew that Charles had spent most of the night hours going over and over it, searching for the guest who bore an uncanny resemblance to the dead Beauregard Clay.
    â€˜Good morning, Cousin Leo. Has Daddy gone?’
    Leo peered over the top of the centre page. ‘About fifteen minutes ago, Gussie.’ He frowned. Unless he was very much mistaken, Gussie’s slender shoulders appeared to be relaxed, and it seemed to him that her lemon dress and matching hair ribbon were not the sort of clothes someone who was distressed might wear. It seemed that Charles had been overreacting to Gussie’s behaviour the previous evening.
    â€˜Going somewhere special?’ he asked with a smile.
    â€˜I’m having lunch with Bradley. There’s a house at Baton Rouge he wants us to have a look at.’
    â€˜That young man certainly doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet, does he?’
    Gussie gave a small smile. ‘No. Would you like some more coffee, Cousin Leo?’
    â€˜I wouldn’t say no. I’ve lived in Vancouver so long, I’ve forgotten how good real chicory coffee tastes.’
    Gussie rang for Allie and then sat on the sofa, staring towards the far corner of the room where the screen had stood the night before. She had made up her eyes and her lips were glossed, but her face was pale, her eyes pensive.
    â€˜I thought perhaps Bradley would be tempted by the North,’ Leo said, injecting a note of briskness into his voice in an effort to dispel her sombre quietness. ‘New York or Washington, for instance.’
    Allie came in with the coffee and Gussie poured.
    â€˜No. Bradley is a Southerner through and through. He wants to stay here and build up a law practice.’
    Leo’s eyebrows rose. ‘I thought Bradley was all set to take over the family’s banking fortunes?’
    With an effort, Gussie tore her eyes away from the corner of the room. ‘He wants to make it on his own first. That’s why he wants to buy a place instead of renting one or living at St Michel or with his parents.’
    Leo sipped at his coffee. ‘As I remember it, the Hampton home would house an army. It must be one of the biggest plantation houses left in the district.’ He shook his head, thinking of his neat service flat in Vancouver. ‘Why people still want to live on in those great white mausoleums, I can’t imagine.’
    Gussie trembled so violently that her coffee spilled into the saucer. Mausoleums. She had never visited the Clay mausoleum. She had never paid her respects. She set the cup and saucer down unsteadily. Perhaps she should go. Perhaps she should make an excuse to Bradley and go today. She heard the Thunderbird sweep to a halt outside St Michel’s entrance with a screech of tyres.
    â€˜Have a nice day,’ Leo said, returning to his paper.
    â€˜Yes …’ It was too late now. She could already hear Bradley’s voice greeting the butler. She would go tomorrow: or the day after.
    â€˜Hello, princess,’ Bradley said, taking her in his arms and kissing her full on the