A church! What on earth had made Linus choose a church when he knew that the whole marriage was only makeshift? About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT Copyright
A church! What on earth had made Linus choose a church when he knew that the whole marriage was only makeshift?
As soon as Red was able to get Linus alone, she said, “Surely a registrar’s office would have been the right place for us? And we could have got it over and done with so much more quickly.”
“I don’t think I fancy getting married in some dusty office.”
“But it isn’t for real!” she exclaimed.
Linus gave an exasperated sigh. “If you want to convince people that you mean something, even if you don’t, then you have to make it look good. Appearances are all, Red. You ought, as an actress, to know that....”
SALLY WENTWORTH was born and raised in Hert ford shire, England, where she still lives, and started writing after attending an evening class course. She is married and has one son. There is always a novel on the bedside table, but she also does craft work, plays bridge and is the president of a National Trust group. They go to the ballet and theater regularly and to open-air concerts in the summer. Sometimes she doesn’t know how she finds the time to write!
Look out for THE CUILTY WIFE by Sally Wentworth in August (#1902). When a wife keeps secrets from her husband, the result is a stormy marriage!
Marriage By Arrangement
Sally Wentworth
CHAPTER ONE
‘WHAT the hell is it?’
The man who finally opened the door to Red McGee’s continuous ring looked extremely angry. He was tall and wore only a bathrobe belted round his waist. He also looked as if he had a monumental hangover. Under dark, dishevelled hair his eyes were puffy and bleary, and he hadn’t shaved for so long that his beard looked like overgrown designer stubble. Maybe it was designer stubble, but Red didn’t think so. This guy looked as if he had been on some bender.
She hesitated, not having expected a man to come to the door, and checked that she’d got the right house number before saying, ‘G’day. Is this Mrs St Aubyn’s place?’
‘Yes. But what-?’
‘I’ve called to see her.’ Red made to step into the house but the man barred her way.
‘What for?’ be demanded brusquely.
Red grew indignant. ‘I’ll tell that to her.’
‘No, you won’t.’
She put her hands on her slim hips. ‘And why not?’
‘Because she’s in bed; that’s why not.’
Red went to glance at her watch, then remembered that she’d pawned it. But it must be almost noon. ‘At this time of the day?’ she said in surprise.
‘So?’ The man pushed his hair back off his forehead and surveyed her belligerently.
Red blinked, wondering if his bleary-eyed state wasn’t, after all, due to drink but to a long, passionate night and morning. But that wouldn’t explain the beard. Unless...
Red’s mind boggled. He was, she supposed, in his thirties, and might have been called good-looking if he hadn’t been so unkempt, but if he was the type that this Mrs St Aubyn, the voice coach she’d been recommended to, wanted to spend half the day in bed with, then who was she to judge? So Red shrugged and said, ‘I came about voice-training lessons.’
‘She doesn’t give lessons at the weekend. Phone on Monday.’
The man yawned without putting his hand over his mouth and swayed a little, his eyes beginning to close. He went to shut the door but Red stuck her foot in the way. ‘Look, I’m in a hurry. I’d like to book some lessons so that I can start Monday.’
‘I told you, she isn’t available.’
‘So can’t you look in her appointments book? Can’t I come in and leave a note so that she can phone me back? Is it so impossible to get anything fixed around here?’ Her voice had risen and her accent grown stronger in annoyed frustration at having to deal with this moron.
‘Come back on Monday.’
‘No, I want to get it fixed up now.’
The man gave something close to a snarl. ‘Look, I’ll spell it out to you so that even someone as woollen-headed as you can understand. She—is—not—available. Call—on—Monday.’
He pronounced each word slowly, as if he were speaking to an idiot, making Red seethe with anger, the temper that went with her thick mane of red hair starting to rise. ‘Don’t you call me a sheep just because I come from Australia,’ she retorted, her accent now as broad as it had ever been.
‘I wasn’t implying that. I just meant that you were thick and stupid.’
‘Why, you pommy bas—’
The door swung wide as it was pulled from the man’s hand by a woman wearing a delicate silk negligée.
‘What on earth is going on?’ the woman demanded.
It had to be Mrs St Aubyn; her voice was well modulated even though she was frowning in annoyance. She was older than Red had expected—very slim and well preserved, but definitely in her late forties at least. And definitely older than the man, which must make him some kind of toy boy.
Red shot him a look of contempt. ‘I came for some voice lessons,’ she explained.
‘Well,
