He leaned down to plant a rough, hard kiss on her mouth….
Lucia was lost as soon as he touched her. When, finally, he let her go, the world had changed and would never be the same again. Trembling, breathless, dizzy, amazed, Lucia stayed where she was while Grey stepped back a pace.
“I didn’t intend it to happen,” he said, his voice thick.
She could think of nothing to say. All she wanted was to be back in his arms.
“You said you wanted some tea,” he reminded her. He moved away.
Lucia was astonished he could function normally. She still felt like someone in shock. Surely it couldn’t be his intention to behave as if nothing had happened?
“Grey….” she began huskily, what she wanted to say eluding her but knowing something must be said. They couldn’t possibly go back to the way they had been before.
“Yes?”
She braced herself. “Why did you do it?”
Dear Reader,
This story is special. It marks the forty-fifth anniversary of the publication of Winter is Past, my first romance—way back in 1955.
In the 1950s I was in my twenties, a newspaper reporter. My first seven books were written in my spare time. Then, with my thirtieth birthday on the horizon, I gave up staff journalism to start a family. The heroine of A Call for Nurse Templar was a midwife, and the story was inspired by my experience of having a baby at home rather than in hospital as is more usual today. After that I became a full-time writer. But, until 1978 when my son set off on the first of his many adventures, I adapted my working hours to suit the equally important responsibilities of being a wife and mother.
Most of my stories had exotic backgrounds. Although I still love to travel, nowadays some of my most exciting journeys take place in cyberspace. At six o’clock every morning I log on to the Internet, picking up e-mails from colleagues around the world and looking for Web sites to do with my favorite relaxation—reading.
Over the years I’ve had letters from readers in Africa, America, Australia, India and all parts of Europe. Lately, however, instead of these heartwarming letters being delivered by the postman, they are starting to pop into the mailbox on my computer.
If, when you finish this story, you have any comments, I shall enjoy hearing from you.
Worthy of Marriage
Anne Weale
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
ON THE morning of her release, Lucia Graham felt a mixture of exhilaration and dread.
She had been longing for freedom since the day she was sentenced to a year’s imprisonment. As matters turned out she had not served the full term ‘inside’. She was being allowed an early release.
But she knew that the world she was returning to would not be the world she had left. Now she had a prison record, and little chance of supporting herself in any congenial way. Who would want to employ a convicted criminal?
After she had changed into her own clothes—they smelt musty after so long in storage—she was taken to the office of the prison’s deputy governor.
‘You are bound to feel apprehensive, Graham,’ said the older woman. ‘Try to put the past behind you and make a completely fresh start. Easier said than done, I know, but fortunately there is someone who wants to help you rebuild your life.’
‘Who?’ Lucia asked bewilderedly.
‘You will find that out shortly. A car is waiting outside. Goodbye and good luck.’
The deputy governor shook hands, making it clear she did not intend to explain her statement.
When, shortly afterwards, Lucia stepped through the wicket, an opening in one of the prison’s massive double doors, she expected the car waiting for her to be a small saloon of the kind run by social workers. She couldn’t think of anyone else who would want to help her.
There was only one car in the parking bay in front of the prison. It was an imposingly large and new-looking black limousine. As she stared at it, a uniformed driver got out and came towards her.
‘Miss Lucia Graham?’
‘Yes.’
‘This way, please, miss.’
He led her towards the limousine and opened the rear offside passenger door, holding it for her as if she were someone respectable, not a jailbird.
About an hour later, after passing through a pretty village in an area that seemed to have escaped the urban development of much of southern England, the car entered the grounds of a large old house partially covered with Virginia creeper. Near the house the drive forked, one way leading round to the back of the building, the other opening into a large oval of gravel. Slowly, in order not to splatter the gravel on the surrounding lawn, the chauffeur drove in a half circle, bringing the car to a standstill a few yards from the front door.
About five minutes earlier, Lucia had seen him make a brief call on a mobile telephone. Evidently he had been notifying someone in the house of their arrival. As he opened the door for her, the front door opened and a woman appeared.
Stepping out of the car, Lucia thought at first that the stranger was in her late forties or early fifties. She was wearing a white shirt and blue denim skirt. A braided