LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a village in Derbyshire, England. Most winters they get cut off by snow! Both enjoy traveling, and previously joined forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spending a year going round the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

Marriage on Trial
Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

GUESSING that the occasion would be a glittering one, Elizabeth, unable to compete, had chosen simplicity: a midnight-blue cocktail dress, silk-clad legs, plain suede court shoes, and her long, sable-dark hair in an elegant chignon.

Her fingers were ringless, and she wore no jewellery apart from a watch on her left wrist and earrings in her neat lobes. Made of silver and mother-of-pearl, intricately curved in the shape of a mermaid, they were extremely old and very beautiful.

She was ready and waiting when the bell rang.

Slipping into her grey, fun-fur coat and picking up her squashy bag, she opened the door of her tiny mews cottage and smiled at the tall, well-built man wearing impeccable evening clothes.

Richard Beaumont bent his head and kissed her cheek. ‘You look delightful, as always.’ His voice was clear and cultured, his blond hair brushed smooth, his aristocratic face full of charm.

The November evening was dark and damp, with more than a hint of fog in the air. By the black-painted door of Cantle Cottage a yellow rose, still flowering bravely, was beaded with moisture, and in the light shed by the old-fashioned street lamps the wet cobbles gleamed like golden fish scales.

‘What time does the sale start?’ Elizabeth asked, as he helped her into the Beaumonts’ chauffeur-driven limousine.

‘Nine-thirty, after a champagne buffet. Because it’s a small, private collection of gems that are being sold, the auction itself should be over fairly quickly.’

Wealthy, and a lover of beautiful things, Richard collected precious stones as another man might collect postage stamps.

‘Will you be bidding for anything special?’ she asked, as the sleek car pulled out of the cul-de-sac hidden away in the heart of town, and turned towards Hyde Park.

His blue eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Very special. The Van Hamel diamond.’

‘Is there likely to be much competition?’

‘Though only a relatively small, select group of people have been invited, I’d be surprised if there wasn’t quite a lot.’

‘But you will get it?’

Smiling at the thought of being beaten, he answered with supreme confidence, ‘Oh, yes, I’ll get it. It’s not particularly large, but it’s flawless, and the cutting is exquisite. It would make a perfect engagement ring.’

This last was added so casually that she blinked.

‘You seem surprised.’

She had guessed that he was getting serious, but unsure of herself, of what she wanted, she hadn’t known whether to be pleased or anxious.

Neither an impetuous youth nor a man to mistime things, apparently reading her indecision, Richard had played a waiting game, asking for nothing more than her company, refusing to press her.

Until now.

They were held up by traffic signals, and in the light from the street lamps he studied her half-averted face, the sweep of dark lashes, the straight nose, the warm curve of her lips, the pure line of her jaw. ‘Surely you know I love you and want to marry you?’

Though aware that he was expecting some response to his declaration, thrown by the suddenness of it, she remained silent while her thoughts whirled.

The only son of a baronet, he was a handsome, charismatic man, polished and considerate. A brilliant brain and an unsurpassed knowledge of the world’s stock markets had made him wealthy in his own right, and well respected in business circles.

She was twenty-six. If she wasted this chance, there would be very few other men to come anywhere near him, and she wanted a real home and children while she was still young.

After a moment, his voice even, he added, ‘If the answer’s yes, I thought after the auction we might go back to my apartment?’

As well as the Beaumonts’ large Georgian house in Lombard Square, which Elizabeth knew well, Richard had a suite of rooms at a Park Lane hotel, which she didn’t know at all.

Conventional in many ways, he was making it abundantly clear that, though he’d accepted a more or less platonic relationship so far, he wasn’t prepared to keep on doing so.

It was make-your-mind-up time.

So what was she to do? It was more than five years since her life had fallen apart. She was genuinely fond of Richard, so surely it should be possible to put the past behind her and start living again? To give him the commitment he was asking for?

‘Well, my dear?’ he pressed.

She turned to look at him, her clear, dark grey eyes steady. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

With a little smile of triumph, he took her hand and squeezed it. As they moved off once more, he said, ‘I don’t see any need for a long engagement, so will you give some thought to a spring wedding…?’

A moment later they were leaving the main road and turning into Belham Place. Belham House, where the sale was being held, was a blaze of lights.

Originally a small palace, the beautiful old building was set back behind a grey stone wall surmounted by black and gold spiked railings.

A uniformed policeman was standing by the tall, ornamental, wrought-iron gates. After a glance at Richard’s gilt-edged invitation card, he waved them through.

The chauffeur drove past an apron crowded with cars and set them down by an imposing, studded door guarded by a plain-clothes officer.

‘You needn’t wait, Smithers,’ Richard informed his driver crisply. ‘We’ll get a taxi back.’

Elizabeth gave him full marks for discretion.

Once inside the marble-floored and pillared foyer her coat was whisked away by a liveried attendant. A moment or two later they were being greeted by their silver-haired host—an impoverished earl, she learnt later—before being handed a glass of vintage champagne.

When they joined the other well-dressed guests in the chandelier-lit dining hall, Richard introduced her to several of his acquaintances, then, sotto voce, pointed out a couple of security men mingling inconspicuously with the crowd.

During an excellent buffet, where the champagne flowed freely, her companion appeared to be his usual cool, relaxed self, but she could sense a simmering excitement, a feeling of expectancy beneath the surface calm.

As nine-thirty approached, the assembled company moved through to the salesroom: a large salon, with double doors at each end. At the entrance they were each presented with a catalogue, before being shown to their seats.

A slim, sprightly man with fair, thinning hair carefully styled to hide incipient baldness, took his place on the auctioneer’s stand. He tapped with his gavel, and the sale began.

Some exceptional stones, both cut and uncut, came up but, his face impassive, Richard showed no particular interest until the last item was reached.

Clearing his throat, the auctioneer announced, ‘The final lot is a diamond of the first water, known as the Van Hamel…’

He went on to give precise details of its provenance, before suggesting, ‘May I start the ball rolling at two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?’

The bidding moved cautiously, as would-be buyers tried to judge the extent of the opposition. Richard watched and waited, his hands lying lightly in his lap, making no move.

Only when the price had reached three hundred and fifty thousand did he join the fray with a flick of his catalogue.

Two of the other bidders dropped out fairly quickly, making it a straight fight between Richard and a middle-aged, genteel-looking lady, whom earlier he’d identified as a dealer.

A ruby flashing fire whenever she raised her hand, she hung on tenaciously, and the price had been pushed up another fifty thousand before she shook her head, signalling defeat.

‘Four hundred thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer repeated for the third time, and raised his gavel.

Richard gave a murmur of satisfaction and smiled at Elizabeth, who smiled back.

But, his gaze travelling to the rear of the room, the auctioneer paused. Having lifted his brows questioningly, he nodded and announced, ‘Four hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’

A murmur of excitement rippled through the audience like a breeze through a cornfield.

Up till now, bidders had been raising the price by five or ten thousand pounds a time. The newcomer had raised it by fifty thousand in a single bid.

It was tactics, meant to be the coup de grâce, she realized dazedly.

Momentarily, Richard looked staggered, then, his blue eyes gleaming with the light of battle, he coolly topped the previous bid by the same amount.

Impassively, the auctioneer repeated the latest figure and looked across at the other contender, who responded promptly.

Elizabeth bit her lip. She’d been hoping that dramatic first bid was the only shot in the newcomer’s armoury. Clearly it wasn’t.

Raising it another fifty thousand, Richard asked in an undertone, ‘Can you see who’s bidding against me?’

She turned to peer cautiously over her shoulder, and saw a man wearing immaculate evening dress lounging nonchalantly against the far wall. He was looking away from her, but the arrogant set of that dark head, the easy stance were only too familiar.

The breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to stop. No, no, it couldn’t be Quinn. It couldn’t.

He moved slightly, giving her a clear view of his hawk-like profile.

Oh, dear God, it was! There was no mistaking that powerful, hard-boned face… She felt faint and dizzy, as if all the blood was draining from her body.

While shock kept her eyes fixed on him, he raised the bidding once more with a slight movement of his index finger.

Until then she hadn’t considered the possibility that Richard might lose. Now she realized it was a battle of the giants.

Terrified that if she kept on looking Quinn might notice her, she dragged her gaze away and turned to the front.

Richard gave her a questioning glance.

Her mouth desert-dry, she shook her head.

Another flick of his catalogue and he was momentarily on top, the bidding running now at seven hundred thousand.

There was a slight pause, and Elizabeth felt a stir of hope. Then the auctioneer was announcing, ‘Eight hundred thousand pounds.’

A rise of one hundred thousand pounds.

The audience gasped.

Richard’s jaw tightened, and with an abrupt movement he indicated that his part in the proceedings had ended.

Elizabeth, shaken to the core, was bitterly sorry for him. She guessed that, though he would probably have given even more for the diamond, in the face of such competition he must have thought it lunacy to continue bidding.

The moment the sale was declared over, he rose, and, a hand beneath her elbow, helped her to her feet. Although he was hiding his disappointment and chagrin beneath a spurious air of calm, it was obvious he couldn’t wait to get out of the place.

Neither could she.

Quinn mustn’t see her. He mustn’t. She stifled a panicky urge to push her way through the crowd and bolt.

Richard’s hand at her waist, a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach, she started to move towards the nearest exit as fast as the slow-moving throng would allow.

A glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man brought her heart into her mouth, but a second look showed he was at least forty, with a beefy face and a paunch.

They had reached the doors when one of Richard’s acquaintances drew level. ‘Hard luck,’ he remarked sympathetically. ‘But what can you do against opposition like that?’

‘Did you see who it was?’

‘Yes, it was Quinn Durville, a multimillionaire banker from the States. I heard a whisper that he came over specially, so he must have intended to get it.’

‘I should have known,’ Richard said morosely as the other man moved away. ‘I’ve come up against Durville before…’

Elizabeth felt as though she’d been kicked in the solar plexus. She had never dreamt that the two men might have met. It was so unlikely. Yet wasn’t there an old saying ‘The most unlikely thing to happen is nearly always the thing that does happen’?

His face set, Richard was going on, ‘When it’s something he wants, the swine doesn’t give any quarter, and he won’t let anything stand in his way.’

It was the simple truth. About six weeks after she’d left him, a man who was obviously a hired detective had tracked her down and started to watch her every move.

Realizing then how utterly ruthless Quinn could be, and knowing she could never go back to him, she had been forced to run, to change her name and find a fresh place to hide.

She shuddered at the memory.

Richard felt the slight movement and, his manner cool and controlled again after that brief, betraying flash of anger, asked, ‘You don’t know Durville, do you?’

Somehow she found her voice and answered, ‘No.’

‘Is there something wrong?’ Richard sounded solicitous. ‘You’re looking distinctly pale.’

‘I’m fine, really. I expect it’s just reaction.’

Coffee was being served in the dining hall. ‘Would you like to sit down and have a cup?’ he suggested.

‘No!’ Then, more moderately, she said, ‘No, thank you.’

His relief was evident. ‘In that case I’ll get your coat.’

Though he returned quite quickly with it over his arm, to Elizabeth it seemed a long time before she’d slipped it on and they were making their way across the foyer.

They were nearing the door when a man with crisp, peat-dark hair, easily topping six feet, and looking even bigger because of the breadth of his shoulders, appeared from behind a pillar.

As if he’d been lying in wait to intercept them, he moved purposefully to block their way.

Elizabeth’s heart lurched and began to race with suffocating speed. Face to face with this man she had hoped never to see again, she tried to stay calm, to convince herself that no matter what happened he could no longer hurt her.

But she was unable to do either. She felt sick with fear and remembered pain.

Sparing her barely a glance, the newcomer held out his hand to Richard. ‘Ah, Beaumont… You put up a good fight.’ The words only just escaped being patronizing.

Hiding his antagonism, Richard shook the proffered hand and remarked, ‘I fancy this makes us even?’

‘I hardly think so,’ Quinn disagreed smoothly.

There was a brief pause. When he showed no sign of moving away, impelled by good manners, Richard began the necessary introduction.

‘Elizabeth, may I present Mr Quinn Durville…?’

A kind of despairing pride kept her head high while she looked into that lean, autocratic face, with its high-bridged nose and chiselled mouth, and waited for Quinn to say they knew each other very well.

Feeling the tension already crackling between the two men, she was well aware that Richard would find the news unwelcome, to say the least.

It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she’d confessed to knowing Quinn when he’d asked her… But, by denying it, she had effectively involved herself in a deception.

‘Durville, my fiancée, Miss Cavendish.’

Quinn took her hand and said a perfunctory, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Cavendish.’ His glance was cool and impersonal and, to her amazement, the greeting held nothing but conventional courtesy.

She drew a deep, unsteady breath, hardly daring to believe he hadn’t recognized her.

Of course he wouldn’t know the name Cavendish, and, having been christened Josian Elizabeth, she had been known from childhood as Jo…

Added to that she had altered a great deal in the time they’d been apart. Then, her fine bones had been smudged beneath a layer of puppy fat, her thick, silky eyebrows unshaped, her hair short and curly.

But perhaps the biggest change lay in her manner. Gone was the curvaceous, casually dressed girl, with a smiling mouth and laughing eyes, who had been as naïve and friendly as a Labrador puppy.

In her place was a slender, elegantly dressed woman, poised and sophisticated, her grey eyes guarded, her mouth vulnerable.

Oh, yes, she’d altered. Enough, it seemed, to save the stress and trauma that would surely have followed if Quinn had identified her.

As his warm clasp closed around her cold fingers, she felt her legs start to tremble and every nerve-ending in her body tighten in response to his touch.

He had always possessed a potent physical attraction that had been able to draw her like a magnet and hold her even against her will.

Panic-stricken, she reminded herself that she was a mature woman now, no longer young and susceptible, and no longer on her own. She had Richard. If the need arose, he would be a rock she could cling to.

Though surely it wouldn’t arise? Judging by Quinn’s distant civility, he’d forgotten her entirely, so she was safe, thank God.

Or was she? Could he be playing some deep dark game? Well, if he was, she had little option but to go along with it.

Somehow, she managed a husky, ‘How do you do?’ before withdrawing her hand.

‘Have you been engaged long, Miss Cavendish?’

The question startled her, and as she gaped at him stupidly Quinn added, ‘Only I notice you’re not wearing a ring.’

Turning to a thin-lipped Richard, he smiled a shade tauntingly. ‘It made me wonder if perhaps you had a special reason for wanting the Van Hamel diamond?’

Quinn had always had a brain as sharp as a razor, she thought with reluctant admiration.

Pointedly ignoring the question, Richard said curtly, ‘Will you excuse us?’ He took Elizabeth’s elbow. ‘If we don’t get moving we’ll have a job to find a taxi.’

Continuing to block their way, Quinn enquired, ‘Where are you heading?’

‘Park Lane.’ Obviously Richard was finding it an effort to remain civil.

‘As it happens, I’m going that way myself…’

Sensing what was to come, and desperate to get away, she froze.

‘I have a car, so I’ll be happy to drop you.’

Tension making her hold her breath, she glanced at Richard’s face, and was cheered to see that he was about to refuse.

Before he could speak, however, Quinn went on urbanely, ‘If you’re still interested in owning the Van Hamel, maybe we could talk about it on the way?’

By her side, Elizabeth felt Richard tense. He badly wanted the diamond. Would he be willing to sink his pride and negotiate?

But why should Quinn be disposed to?

If it was true that he’d come over from the States specially to get the Van Hamel, why should he be prepared to part with it to a rival?

There was something disturbing about the offer, something that put her in mind of, “‘Will you walk into my parlour?” said the spider to the fly…’

She repressed a shiver, and with every ounce of her concentration willed Richard to reject it.

But, after an endless few seconds, to her consternation, he agreed, ‘Very well.’

Her stomach churning, she moved to rejoin the straggle of people still discussing the evening’s events.

As they headed for the main exit, she noticed two women pause in their conversation to glance covertly at Quinn. Without being conventionally handsome, he had the kind of tough, dynamic good looks that attracted and held the attention of most females.

Outside the fog had thickened. On the apron, car doors slammed and engines purred into life as they accompanied Quinn to a silver-grey Mercedes parked nearby.

He produced a key and opened the doors. Before Elizabeth could form any kind of protest she found herself being helped into the front passenger seat, while Richard, looking anything but pleased, was forced to climb into the back alone.

A moment later Quinn had slid behind the wheel and was querying, ‘Quite comfortable, Miss Cavendish?’

In the light from the dashboard his green eyes met and held hers. Just for an instant she fancied both his question and his glance held derision, as if he was well aware of how very uncomfortable she was. But then it was gone, leaving just a polite enquiry from a stranger.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered flatly.

Their headlights like searching antennae in the foggy air, they joined a stream of vehicles following each other through the gates and into Belham Place.

Beyond the quiet square the streets were busy, and as they negotiated the Friday-night traffic Quinn asked, ‘What do you do for a living, Miss Cavendish? Or perhaps you don’t need to actually work?’

Disliking both the question and the way it had been phrased, she hesitated before responding stiffly, ‘I’m Lady Beaumont’s secretary.’

‘Really? Well, if the position is a live-in one—’

‘It isn’t,’ Richard broke in brusquely. Then, with barely masked annoyance, he said, ‘You indicated that you were prepared to talk about the diamond?’

‘Ah, yes, the diamond…’ Quinn mimicked the other man’s cut-glass accent. ‘For a stone of its size it aroused a fair bit of interest.’

‘I heard you came over specially for the sale?’ Apparently Richard also had doubts.

‘Did you?’ Quinn, it seemed, was giving nothing away. Slipping neatly between a bus and a taxi, he added conversationally, ‘In the event, I almost missed it. Due to some last-minute technical fault, our landing was delayed. I only just managed to change, pick up a hire car, and get to Belham House in time.’

If only he hadn’t, Elizabeth thought with a sigh.

Sounding distinctly sour, Richard remarked, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t bid by phone.’

A slight smile tugging at his lips, Quinn responded trenchantly, ‘Bidding by phone tends to be rather tame, don’t you think? I get more of a buzz from actually being there. Especially when there’s some action.

‘I must admit I was expecting rather more excitement in regard to some of the earlier lots…’

Elizabeth knew well that Quinn wasn’t a man for small talk, and, staring straight ahead, listening to his low-pitched, slightly husky voice analyzing the sale, she wondered what he was up to.

It was a little while before it dawned on her that rather than actually getting down to discussing the diamond he was employing delaying tactics.

But why?

When they reached Park Lane, with a glance in the rear-view mirror at his back-seat passenger, he broke off what he was saying to enquire, ‘The Linchbeck, isn’t it?’

Without waiting for an answer, he turned into the fore-court and drew to a stop outside the entrance to the quiet, exclusive hotel.

Aware that just by knowing the exact address Quinn had gained a subtle advantage, Elizabeth bit her lip as he came round to open her door.

Richard climbed out, and, his face expressing his annoyance, asked shortly, ‘Perhaps we could make an appointment to talk about the Van Hamel? Would any particular time and place suit you?’

‘There’s no time like the present,’ Quinn suggested, his voice bland.

Elizabeth felt sure that in the circumstances, and after the evening’s debacle, Richard would choose to wait until he’d fully regained his cool.

But to her surprise he agreed. ‘Then perhaps you’ll join us in the bar for a drink?’

‘Your suite would be preferable,’ Quinn said smoothly. ‘Rather more private.’

So there was the answer to her question, Elizabeth thought uneasily. For some reason of his own, Quinn wanted to see the other man’s apartment.

Convinced now that Richard was being manipulated, she found herself praying that he would tell his tormentor to go to the devil.

But before he could speak the doorman said a cheerful, ‘Nasty evening,’ and held open the heavy glass door.

Richard nodded abruptly and, his jaw tight, led the way inside and across the luxuriously carpeted foyer to the lift.

Elizabeth was five foot seven, fairly tall for a woman, but sandwiched between two men who both easily topped six feet she felt dwarfed, loomed over.

When they left the lift at the top floor, she took care to keep Richard between herself and Quinn until they reached the apartment.

The sitting room, with its plum-coloured curtains and carpet, its leather suite and sporting prints, was handsome, comfortable, and undoubtedly masculine.

After slipping her coat from her shoulders and hanging it in a recessed cupboard, Richard moved towards a small but well-stocked bar. ‘What would you like to drink, darling?’

She half shook her head. ‘I’d prefer a coffee later, thank you.’

Motioning his unwelcome guest to take a seat, Richard picked up the whisky decanter and queried, ‘Durville?’

‘I’m driving, so I’ll stick with coffee.’

Clearly in need of a drink, Richard poured himself a stiff whisky and swallowed a mouthful.

As he turned towards the kitchen, Quinn asked casually, ‘Mind if I take a look around? At one time I had a service flat in the Brenton Building, but I gave it up…’

Recalling her own brief stay there, Elizabeth shuddered. What should have been the happiest night of her life had turned into a nightmare.

‘Now I’m considering having a pied-à-terre here, for the times I’m in London,’ Quinn was going on, ‘rather than staying at hotels.’

His interest open, undisguised, with cool effrontery he began to prowl, peering first into a small study and then into a good-sized bedroom and bathroom.

Tense and ill at ease, Elizabeth perched on the edge of a chair and watched him warily. Oh, why had he come back into her life just when she was about to make a new commitment?

She had found it impossible to forget him, but she had almost succeeded in leaving the past behind, in convincing herself he no longer mattered.

But the past had suddenly caught up with her, and he did matter. Even though she feared and resented his presence, just the sight of him took her breath away and left her full of the bitter-sweet longing he had always effortlessly aroused in her.

Glancing in her direction, Quinn met her eyes.

Terrified of what he might read in them, she looked hurriedly away. It seemed he had blotted out both her and the past, and the last thing she wanted to do was remind him.

He came and sat down opposite, his ease mocking her lack of it. After a thoughtful scrutiny, one dark brow raised, he observed, ‘I take it you don’t live here, Miss Cavendish?’

Wanting to consolidate her position as Richard’s fiancée, she was loath to admit it. ‘What makes you think that?’ She strove to sound dismissive, even slightly amused.

‘There are no signs of female occupancy, and if you had lived here I’m fairly sure you would have made the coffee.’

‘A male chauvinist, I see,’ she said sweetly.

‘Not at all.’

‘But you consider a woman’s place is in the kitchen?’

His smile mocking, he said, ‘I can think of a better place for a woman to be.’

Her colour rising, she looked anywhere but at him.

‘So where do you live, Miss Cavendish?’

Her impulse was to say sharply that it was none of his business. Common sense warning that overreacting might make him suspicious, she stayed purposely vague. ‘At the moment I’m living in a small cottage.’

‘A mews cottage?’ It was as though he could read her mind.

‘Yes.’

‘In the West End?’

Whatever his motives for wanting to know, it was clear that he wasn’t going to be put off.

‘Hawks Lane,’ she said, hoping against hope that he hadn’t the faintest idea where that was. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she added coldly, ‘I’ll see if Richard needs any help.’

At that precise moment their host reappeared, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee.

When they had each been handed a cup, a slightly belligerent look on his face, Richard swallowed the rest of his whisky and, still standing, turned to the other man. ‘I was hoping to have an early night, so if we can discuss the diamond without further delay?’

‘Of course,’ Quinn agreed, his tone equable.

A moment or two passed in silence.

When it became obvious that the ball was in his court, a touch of angry colour appearing along his cheekbones, Richard suggested shortly, ‘Perhaps you’ll be good enough to name your price?’

‘Before I do, I’d like to know why you’re so keen to have that particular stone.’

There was another taut silence before, clearly at the end of his patience, Richard admitted, ‘You were right earlier. I was hoping to have it set into an engagement ring. If that puts the price up—’

‘Just the opposite,’ Quinn broke in. ‘In fact I’ll let you have it for the exact amount I’m paying for it.’

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Marriage On Trial

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