Read Online The Velvet Glove by Mary Williams - Free Book Online Page B

stiffening of sensual desire, and dropped her hand, saying gruffly, ‘I’ll leave you to it. The night’s your own. I can bed down on my own, but I’ll be back in the early hours so there’s no gossip.’
    He turned away from her, walked stiffly to the bed and took up his silk pyjamas laid out so carefully by her own gossamer night-dress.
    Very softly behind him, he heard her saying, ‘I do love you, Jon.’
    ‘ Yes. Well – that’s all right. Don’t try to explain now. I guess we’re both tired. And words don’t help.’
    She watched him with a sense of failure as he crossed the floor to the door of the small adjoining room, opened it, and went through, with his night clothes over his arm.
    There was the sound of a key being turned, and she was alone.
    The scen t of flowers seemed everywhere – heavy, smothering and seductively sweet. Yet she knew that if he returned that evening everything would be the same. If he attempted to invade her privacy or touch her in a certain way she would scream.
    Perhaps, as he ’d said, tomorrow would be different. Oh, she did hope and pray so, because it was true what she’d said – she did love him; he was her heroic symbol of a legendary knight in shining armour and would always remain so.
    That, perhaps, was the root of the trouble.
    Her knowledge of what real life could bring had been tarnished from the very beginning.

 
     
    3
     
    During the honeymoon Jon succeeded gently and tactfully in bringing his wife to a certain a cceptance of her marital obligations. It wasn’t an easy process, but once her first initial objections were overcome she managed to assume a façade of pleasure in the dark, which did not fool him for a moment. Inwardly, he still felt thwarted with a sense of betrayal that was only diverted during the daytime by sight-seeing and touring the numerous cities and points of interest through Europe. Outwardly he managed a veneer of politeness and courtesy that completely deluded her. She enjoyed strolling by his side, white-gloved hand on his arm, through ornamental gardens, visiting galleries, and attending colourful operas and ballet, wearing the elegant outfits of her new wardrobe. She became well aware of her dainty charm, the admiring glances of other men and envy of women as they passed. This experience was exhilarating. When the time came to retire for nights at the expensive hotels where they stayed, she steeled herself for the enforced charade ahead, the interlude of acting a passion she did not feel. Had Jon been willing to caress her only, proximity would have been a comfort – because she did love him, she did, she did, she told herself frequently. But the rest – the physical intimacy was ugly, an acute pain to her.
    At intervals Jon succeeded in persuading himself that time must surely heal sexual chill. He had married her expecting a mutual flowering from their love. But in the bedroom as the days passed there was nothing natural about her until she fell asleep. Neither did it seem possibl e completely to penetrate her virginity
    The knowledge, whenever he faced it, not only humiliated but angered him. Some day, he determined, there ’d have to be a down-to-earth confrontation or solution.
    But as spring turned towards young summer dappling the forest with the pale green and gold of growing things, misted with bluebells, everything between Cassandra and Jon was the same – outwardly.
    They lived then at the Dower House on the Charnbrook estate. It had been modernized and newly decorated and furnished for their return from the Continent. Through Walter ’s generous wedding present no expense had been spared. Emily had been a little ironic when he’d made his intentions clear to her. ‘You’re treating her as though she was your own daughter,’ she once said critically. ‘Almost as well as Kate. Is that quite right, do you think? It isn’t as though we know Jon Wentworth that much – hardly at all. Only the money bags may be