The Wedding Deception. Kay Thorpe

you’ll just have to settle for common silver.’

      Jill was already at the car, looking back impatiently to where they still stood. ‘It’s going on a quarter to four!’ she called.

      ‘As your sister so rightly points out, time is marching on,’ Ross observed. ‘Shall we join her?’

      Claire turned without another word and walked to the car, nerves still quivering. Ross Laxton totally undermined what poise she possessed. He made her want to hit out at him both verbally and physically.

      Jill opened the rear door and slid inside as they approached, leaving Claire with little option but to take the front passenger seat. Ross opened the door before she could do it herself, inviting her in with a taunting sweep of his hand.

      ‘Your carriage awaits, ma’am. Don’t forget to buckle up.’

      Sinking into the soft leather luxury, she reached for the seatbelt, only to feel it snag on the ratchet as she tried to pull it across. Ross slid into his seat, and leaned across to take the belt buckle from her, easing it back into the spool. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, catch the faint scent of aftershave. The blue-clad arm brushed her breast as he drew the belt out again and clipped it home, sending a frisson down her spine.

      ‘You jerked it too hard,’ he said. ‘Inertia reels are sensitive to pressure.’

      They weren’t the only things, she thought, still feeling the tingle. There was no denying her physical responses where this man was concerned; he created mayhem with her pulse-rate every time he came near. A purely instinctive reaction, and one she could do little about, unfortunately—except to make sure that he didn’t guess how he affected her.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said tersely.

      He fired the ignition, a faint smile on his lips. Claire had a sudden feeling that he knew exactly how he affected her—the same way he probably affected every woman he came into contact with. Not that he’d find her particular response anything but amusing. His taste in women would run to the tall, blonde and sophisticated, if she was any judge at all.

      The width of the car afforded plenty of room between the seats, but she still felt too close. His hand resting lightly on the gear-lever as he waited for a gap in the traffic was nowhere near her knee, yet she found herself shifting over to the left on the pretext of settling herself more comfortably in her seat, reluctant to allow even the slightest chance of any further contact.

      ‘We’re going to be awfully late,’ said Jill from the rear, with a note of concern. ‘Scott will think I’m not coming.’

      ‘I doubt it.’ Ross pulled out rapidly into the flow, accelerating smoothly away. ‘He has the utmost faith in you.’

      ‘No more than I have in him.’ She was quiet for a moment before asking hesitantly, ‘Were you there when he told your parents about us?’

      ‘I was,’ he confirmed. ‘He needed moral support.’

      ‘But you don’t support him, do you?’ Claire cut in. ‘You made that clear enough last night.’

      He glanced in the driving-mirror before signalling for the approaching junction, slowing down to take the righthand turn with fine judgement. The road here was narrower, the low stone walls bounding it affording a panoramic view of the surrounding countryside, mellow in the afternoon sunlight.

      ‘I can hardly claim to be over the moon about it all,’ he returned, ‘but I’m not about to turn my back on him because of it.’

      ‘How did they take it?’ queried Jill.

      ‘How would you expect them to take it?’ He sounded abrupt again. ‘Oh, don’t worry. They’ll be civilised about it.’

      ‘There’s no point in being anything else, is there?’ said Claire. ‘What’s done is done.’

      ‘Well and truly,’ he agreed with irony. ‘All that’s left is to make the best of a bad job.’

      Jill was silent after that, but Claire could sense her simmering resentment. Ross wasn’t making things any easier.

      She kept a rein on her own tongue for the rest of the journey, saving herself for the coming encounter with his parents. Civilised they might be; acceptance was something else altogether. There was still a chance that, between the three of them, Scott could be persuaded to think again.

      Big and square and covered in ivy, the Laxton house lay within beautifully maintained grounds. Even more imposing than she had anticipated, Claire acknowledged as Ross brought the car to a halt in the gravelled forecourt.

      He got out and made as if to come round to the passenger side, shrugging when she disembarked herself and turning back to open the rear door for her sister, who accepted the courtesy as if accustomed to nothing else but.

      Despite everything, Claire had to smile. Jill would have little difficulty in adapting to a new lifestyle. And it would be all of that. The Laxtons moved in a different world.

      Scott came out from the house, his expression perturbed. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

      ‘Tyre blow-out,’ supplied his brother succinctly. ‘Lucky I was passing.’

      ‘The spare was flat, too,’ Claire put in before he could make any further comment. ‘It was supposed to have been repaired.’

      Scott grinned. ‘The same thing happened to me a couple of months back, only in my case I’d simply forgotten to get it done. Come on in.’

      He ushered the two of them through to a hall panelled in rich dark oak. An archway to the rear framed an oak staircase, while another to the side of it gave access to what appeared to be an inner hall. A faded, though still lovely carpet covered much of the polished wooden floor.

      The huge vase of gladioli set on a table between the two arches created instant warmth and colour. A friendly house, Claire found herself thinking; a family house with a lived-in atmosphere which she found heartening.

      Ross opened a door on the left and stood back to allow the two of them prior access. Jill hung back, reaching for Scott’s hand as if in search of Dutch courage, and giving Claire little choice but to go on ahead into the comfortably furnished sitting-room with its old stone fireplace filled with a further blaze of summer blooms.

      Knowing about the stroke, it was still something of a shock to see Mr Laxton seated in a wheelchair. His face was gaunt, his left side obviously affected still, but there was nothing vague about the glance he turned her way, although he didn’t attempt to speak. Claire felt somewhat at a loss for words herself.

      Looking every inch the lady in her cream skirt and matching silk shirt, Mrs Laxton rose from her chair. Her expression was guarded, but there were signs of strain in the fine blue eyes.