a part of it, that’s all,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s much more than that.’
‘What, exactly?’ He leant forward as he spoke, and even at this crucial moment her senses leapt at the dark, virile power that radiated out from him.
‘This apartment, for one thing.’ She waved her hand to encompass the beautiful room. ‘We were going to look for a house together once we came back from our honeymoon; you know that. I’ve never wanted to live in the middle of London and you promised me we’d find a family house on the outskirts somewhere, something that was really ours. But it’s always “tomorrow” or “next week”.’
‘This is ours,’ he said quickly, a note of surprise in his voice.
‘No, it isn’t,’ she said steadily. ‘It never has been. It’s yours, just yours.’ With Liliana’s spectre forever popping up like the evil genie.
‘Okay, we’ll look next week if you—’ He stopped abruptly as her wide azure eyes forced him to hear what he was saying. He ran a hand through his short black crop of hair in an impatient gesture as he rose irritably, walking across to the cocktail cabinet and pouring himself another stiff brandy. ‘Marianne, I’m up to my eyes in this new development, but why don’t you start looking and narrow it down to just two or three for us to look at together?’ he said evenly as he turned to face her again. ‘And if we both like something enough I promise you we’ll take it, okay? I accept we should have moved sooner.’
‘You do?’ She stared at him, hope springing up in her heart. ‘And you promise we’ll move?’
‘I promise.’ And then he smiled his rare, sexy smile as he added, ‘I even promise you can have the last say; you’re going to be there more than me so that’s only fair.’
She should have challenged him on that—their home was to be a new beginning, just as important to him as it was to her, besides which when she started working for her degree and went on to a career it was likely she wouldn’t be at home any more than Zeke—but with him smiling at her like that after the trauma of the last minutes, when she had thought the altercation was going to turn into an argument of momentous proportions, all she felt was overwhelming relief.
She rose to her feet, flying across the room and into his arms as she said excitedly, ‘Tomorrow! First thing tomorrow I’ll start looking! Oh, Zeke!’
And then, as he gathered her into him, his passionate kisses taking them both into a blaze of hungry sexuality where the only thing that mattered was the satiation their lovemaking would bring, nothing else seemed important.
Later, once they had showered and gone to bed—only to love some more before settling down to sleep, entwined in each other’s arms—Marianne lay awake for some time after Zeke’s steady breathing told her he was asleep. A real home of their own would be a new beginning, and she would make it work, she told herself determinedly; she would. She couldn’t live without Zeke, she didn’t want to live without him, and he had met her halfway over this. That was a portent that they’d be happy…wasn’t it?
It took Marianne six weeks of looking, as far away as Reading on the one hand and Watford and Chelmsford on the other, but eventually, in the third week of a bitterly cold November, she came across the house which immediately knocked all the others off her list.
Ironically, considering she had had particulars from umpteen estate agents, it was her father who had put her on to the place. She and Zeke had spent the previous Sunday with him, and when she had mentioned they were looking for a family house—preferably on the outskirts of London somewhere, but with modern motorways distance wasn’t too much of a problem—Josh Kirby had nodded thoughtfully.
‘Funnily enough I might know of somewhere to suit you,’ he’d said quietly as he’d carved the enormous Sunday joint. ‘Old Wilf Bedlows—you remember him, Annie, came to your wedding?—is retiring early; only chatted to him on the phone the other week. He was the only wealthy one among us at medical school; his parents were consultants, so I understand, and as their only son he inherited the family home when they died. Rather than sell it he moved his family in because it was such a beautiful place. Anyway, the kids are grown up and his wife suffers with bad arthritis so they’re leaving England for warmer climates. Portugal, I think, or it might have been Spain.’
‘And they want to sell their house?’ Marianne had asked somewhat wearily. She felt as though she had been rushing from one end of the country to the other for decades, and Zeke hadn’t been very sympathetic when she’d had a grumble the night before. Still, at least they weren’t arguing—they didn’t see each other enough for that since she’d been house-hunting!
‘That’s the idea, although Wilf’s reluctant to put it on the open market, I think. He was born there and I think he’s loath to sell to just anyone. He’s very attached to the old place.’
‘I’m not just anyone.’ She’d suddenly had a good feeling about this.
‘No, you’re not,’ her father had agreed with warm smile. ‘I’ll give Wilf a ring after lunch, if you like, and Zeke can talk to him.’
‘I’ll talk to him,’ Marianne had said firmly. ‘I’m the one in charge of the house-hunting.’
‘Right.’ Her father had raised his eyebrows at Zeke, who had shrugged amiably, and then both men had shared an indulgent, male bonding type of smile. Marianne hadn’t minded; she was determined to find a house and then start on the next phase of her life, and if it could be done pleasantly all well and good. The iron fist in a velvet glove approach had its uses.
Wilf Bedlows’ Victorian white-washed house overlooked a leafy common on the London side of Hertfordshire, and when Marianne arrived to look at the property on a frosty November morning the weak sun was making the frost glitter like diamond dust on the bare trees and frozen grass.
She sat for some time in the warm, comfortable BMW Zeke had bought for her when they had first got married, just looking at the large sprawling house from her vantage point on the quiet country road running parallel with the common. She loved it already.
Wilf and his wife made her very welcome, and their passion for their home was plain from the beginning, each room reflecting the love and enthusiasm they had poured into the property.
When Marianne entered the large, sloping-roofed porch an immediate feeling of peace and tranquillity surrounded her; the two white Lloyd Loom chairs and small cane table suggested the porch would be a delightful suntrap in the summer.
The hall was impressive: mellow tones of ancient oak dominated the vast space, the staircase, doors and wooden floor all reminiscent of another era. And so it continued all through her tour of the house.
Each of the five bedrooms had its own en suite bathroom, the master bedroom overlooking the two acres of ground at the back of the property which were set with informal flowerbeds, flowering bushes and mature trees. Elegant lawns meandered down to the site of a small, exquisitely restored little chapel, surrounded by a bower of roses which Wilf’s wife assured her made a sweet-smelling retreat in the summer months.
The large drawing room, family sitting room, dining room and breakfast room were all enchanting, and the big kitchen—complete with bunches of dried flowers and baskets hanging from the walls and ceiling, which gave the red-tiled surroundings a distinctly Mediterranean feel—had a gallery above it which had been enclosed to make a large, sun-filled study.
It was a family house—warm, vibrant, alive and welcoming—and
