Free Never to Love by Anne Weale Page B

Justin tapped at the door and came in.
    “I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly. “What I said last night was quite inexcusable. Do you think you could forget it?”
    It did not occur to her to pay him out by sulking. She was so relieved at the breaking of the chill silence between them that she said at once, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry I annoyed you. It was all my fault.”
    He watched her, his face still somber.
    “What a strange young thing you are,” he said. “So determined to get what you want out of life and yet so easy to hurt. Poor child, I may have done you a great disservice in giving you your material objectives.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’m not sure that I know that myself,” he said with a short laugh. “Are you ready to go? It’s nearly ten, though I daresay Leonie will be late. Punctuality is not one of her virtues. I’m meeting Jacques later.”
    “Yes, I’ve only to put my hat on. Justin ... I wish you’d tell me when I irritate you.”
    “ Why on earth do you say that ?”
    “If we’re to get on we’ll have to be honest with each other. I do want to be a ... useful wife to you.”
    His eyebrows shot up. “A very dutiful sentiment.”
    “Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious.”
    “I’m sorry.” His black eyes glinted. “The next time you jar my sensitive nerves I’ll send you a memo.”
    Then, more seriously, he said, “If I’m boorish at times you must put it down to living alone for rather longer than most men. Otherwise I think we will both be well advised to take life as it comes without checking our progress too often. That won’t always be easy, but it’s the best method.”
    As it happened Leonie arrived promptly at ten, looking very attractive in a gray hopsack suit with a turquoise blouse and turban, so Andrea had to hurry.
    “We will see you again about six o’clock,” Leonie told Justin as they prepared to leave.
    He accompanied them out to her Renault and, bending down to the window on the passenger side, said, “Take care of her, Leonie. Goodbye, little one. Have a good time.”
    Then, lifting her hand from the rim of the door, he turned it over and dropped a light kiss on the palm . As they drove off leaving him standing on the hotel steps, Leonie said, “You are fortunate, c he rie. Englishmen have very strong characters and they are kind to children and dogs, but, in my experience, they are not at all good lovers. Of course it is preferable to have a husband who is kind and considerate to one who is an expert at love but not kind. But the best of all is a kind man who is also a charming lover. I think J ustin is like that. The Spanish blood makes him more romantic than other Englishmen.”
    Andrea made a noncommittal sound and was thankful that the heavy traffic made it impossible to pursue the conversation.
    She looked back on the first shopping expedition as one of the most pleasurable experiences of her whole life. Her love of beautiful clothes was not, like that of many women, based on vanity. She had a connoisseur’s appreciation of exquisite fabrics, elegant lines and perfect workmanship.
    “Is there a better way to spend money than to make yourself beautiful for your husband?” Leonie demanded when Andrea looked guiltily at the pile of packages accumulating in the back of the Renault. “Justin is very rich. A few thousand francs will not ruin him, petite. Ah, if I had your figure I would be the most glamorous woman in Paris.”
    She patted her own trim but well-rounded hips and gave a mock sigh of despair. “You are indeed very fortunate. Your husband is handsome, gallant and wealthy. It is the perfect combination.”
    Andrea flushed, wondering how Leonie would react if I she knew the truth. They returned to the hotel laden with parcels, and by the time the men arrived the sitting room was strewn with discarded wrapping paper and drifts of pink and blue tissue. At the sight of the confusion Jacques gave an exaggerated groan and warned