Modern Romance Collection: March 2018 Books 5 - 8. Robyn DonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
It seemed easier than contesting his assertion. All she wanted—desperately—was for him to be out of here, finally to be able to collapse in a state of mental and emotional exhaustion, her body aching and spent.
She sheared her mind away—no, don’t think, not now. Not ever...
* * *
But it was impossible not to think, not to feel, for the rest of the day, and when Anatole returned late in the afternoon—as he’d told her he would—so they could drive over to collect Nicky from the Barcourts, she felt a leap of unbearable emotion as her eyes went to his. And his to hers.
For a moment, as their eyes met, she felt as if she had been transported back in time and was poised to do what she had once done so automatically and spontaneously—run into his arms that would open to her and fold her to him.
Then his eyes were veiled and the moment passed. As he helped her into the car he made some pleasantry about the weather, to which she replied in kind. They chatted in a desultory way during the short journey, and Christine told herself she was thankful.
And she was even more thankful that as they arrived there was a melee to greet them: Elizabeth Barcourt’s grandchildren, their mother and their grandmother, all chattering to them madly.
As for Nicky—he was only too eager to regale them both with the delights of his day.
‘I rode a pony! Can I have a pony—can I? Can I?’ he pleaded, half to Anatole, half to Christine.
A spike drove into her heart as she saw the way her son addressed them both. As if he accepted her and Anatole as a unit. She tensed, and it was noticed by Elizabeth Barcourt, who drew her a little aside as Anatole crouched down to Nicky’s level to get the full account of the joys of his day and the thrill of riding a pony for the first time.
‘My dear, I’m glad Anatole is able to spend time with you—the more the better.’ She cast a look at Christine, and then at Nicky. ‘He’s a natural with him! One might almost think—’
She broke off, as if conscious she had said too much, then stepped away, quietening her noisy grandchildren and telling them it was time for Nicky to head home.
As they finally set off Nicky’s chatter was all of ponies and puppies and the fun he’d had with the other children.
‘I’m going to paint a picture of a pony and a puppy,’ he announced as they arrived, and then belied his intention by giving a huge yawn, indicating how little actual sleep his exciting sleepover had involved.
‘Bath first,’ said Christine, and then hesitated.
What she wanted to do was tell Anatole it was time for him to leave, to go away, to leave her alone with her son. But her hesitation was fatal.
‘Definitely bath time,’ Anatole said, adding with a grin, ‘I’ll race you upstairs!’
With a cry of excitement Nicky set off up the wide staircase and Anatole followed—as did Christine, much more slowly, her face set.
OK, so the two of them would bath Nicky, and see him to bed and then she’d tell Anatole it was time he left. That was her intention—her absolute resolve. Because no way was he going to spend the night here again.
And not in my bed!
Her face flushed with colour, her features contorting.
He’s got to go—he’s just got to.
Close to an hour later, with Nicky tucked up in bed and falling asleep instantly, she walked back downstairs with Anatole. She paused at the foot and turned to him.
‘Are you staying at the White Hart tonight or heading straight back to London?’ Her voice was doggedly bright, refusing to acknowledge there was any other possibility.
He looked at her. His gaze was half lidded, as if he knew why she was saying what she was.
‘Once,’ he said, ‘you were not so rejecting of me.’
The expression in his eyes, the open caress in his voice, brought colour to stain her cheekbones, and her fingers clenched at her sides.
‘Once,’ she replied, ‘I was a different person.’
He gave a swift shake of his head, negating her denial. ‘You’re still that person—whether you call yourself Tia or Christine, you’re still her. And last night showed me that. It showed you that! So why deny it? Why even try to deny it? Why try to deny that our marriage would work?’
And now the caress was back in his voice, almost tangible on her skin, which was suddenly flushing with heat.
‘Last night showed how alive that flame that was always between us still is. From the moment you saw me, Tia, you wanted me—and I wanted you. I wanted you then and I want you now. And it is the same for you. It blazes from you, your desire for me.’
He reached a hand towards her, long lashes sweeping down over his eyes, a half-smile pulling at his mouth.
‘Don’t deny it, Tia,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t deny the truth of what we have. We burn for each other.’ His voice dropped to a sensual husk.
She took a jerky step backwards—an instinctive gesture of self-protection against what he wanted. He didn’t like it that she did so, and he stilled. She lifted her chin. Looked straight at him. She must tell him what she needed to say. What he needed to hear.
Her eyes met his unflinchingly, with a bare, stark expression in them. ‘I know that, Anatole! Dear God, of course I know it! How could I not?’
She shook her head, as if acknowledging a truth she could not deny. Then her eyes reached his, hung on to his, trying to make him hear, understand.
‘It was always like that—right from the first. And, yes, it’s still there. Last night did prove it, just as you say. But, Anatole, listen—listen to me. I can’t let myself be blinded by passion! And nor can you! A marriage can’t be built on passion alone, and nor can it be based on just wanting to make a family for Nicky. You have to see that!’
There was a tremor in her voice, intensity in her face—but in his there was only blank rejection of her rejection of him.
‘All my life,’ he said slowly, ‘women have wanted to marry me. You included, or so I supposed way back then. And yet now, when I want to marry, the woman I want to marry is turning me down.’ He gave a laugh. There was no humour in it. ‘Maybe that’s some kind of cosmic karma—I don’t know.’
He pressed his lips together, as if to control his words, his emotions. Emotions that were streaming through him in a way he had never known before. A kind of disbelief. Even dismay.
His eyes rested on her. ‘So, what can a marriage be built on? Tell me what else there needs to be.’
She looked at him, and there was a deep sadness in her voice as she answered. ‘Oh, Anatole, the fact that you have to ask tells me how impossible marriage would be between us.’
‘Then tell me!’ he ground out.
She shut her eyes for a moment, shaking her head before she opened them again. She looked at him, her features twisting. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘But...’ She paused, as if profoundly reluctant to speak, yet she did so. ‘You would know it—’
She broke off, turned away, walked unevenly towards the front door to open it for him to leave. Marriage between them was as impossible now as it had been when she’d thought she lived in fairyland.
Emotion was pressing upon her—unbearable, agonising—but she would not yield to it. Opening the door, she turned back to him. He hadn’t moved. He was just looking at her.
Determinedly, she met his gaze. ‘Anatole—please—’ She indicated the open doorway.
He walked towards it, pausing beside her. ‘We’d make a good couple,’ he said. ‘We’d have each other and Nicky. Maybe a