When the Devil Drives by Sara Craven

from the
    Northwaite valley like the ripples from a stone dropped into a pool of
    water, she thought contemptuously.
    What none of them would actually guess was the truth. Because that
    defied belief.
    Her drink arrived and she sipped it, glaring at the champagne and the
    rose. How dared he? How dared he treat this as if it were some kind of
    love tryst, a cause for celebration, instead of the vile, sordid
    assignation that it really was?
    She wished she had the guts to cause another sensation by throwing
    the whole shooting match through the nearest window and then
    marching out. But she knew that Cal Blackstone would be totally
    unamused by such behaviour, and that any retribution would be
    visited on Simon, not on herself. I can't risk that, she thought.
    She'd hoped to see Simon when he came home from work, but he'd
    eaten an early dinner and departed for the nursing home while she
    was upstairs dressing. Clearly he was still in a profound huff.
    She had left a message with Gresham that she was going to be out
    overnight, staying at a friend's, and no one was to worry, then fled to
    her car before Nanny could find her and start putting her through the
    usual inquisition. If she lied, Nanny would know at once. Yet how
    could she tell her the truth? In Nanny's book, unwed people courted in
    a respectable manner, and did not share a roof, let alone a bed, before
    the wedding ceremony, even in the nineteen nineties. Joanna's fall
    from grace would be roundly and endlessly condemned.
    She sighed inwardly. At best, she was only postponing a series of
    awkward confrontations which would become inevitable when talk
    got back to Chalfont House. She would obviously have Simon to
    explain to as well. And no doubt Fiona and her ghastly mother would
    have their say in addition.
    There was a sudden stir in the restaurant, and with a sinking heart she
    knew that Cal was on his way. Her fingers tightened achingly around
    the tumbler.
    'Darling, can you forgive me? My call from the States was delayed.'
    She looked up, saw Gregory hovering attentively at his shoulder and
    forced a poor imitation of a smile. 'It doesn't matter. I've been well
    looked after.'
    'You must be starving.' Cal sat down, signalling for menus to be
    brought. 'What would you like to eat?'
    The beautiful copperplate handwriting seemed to dance
    meaninglessly before her eyes. Her throat was closing up suddenly,
    and she was trembling all over. She put the menu down.
    'I can't go through with this,' she said hoarsely.
    'Come now, beauty, my chef isn't that bad.'
    'This is not a joke.' She pounded a desperate fist on the immaculate
    tablecloth. 'It is not funny!'
    'No,' he said. He was still smiling, but his eyes were like chips of ice.
    'It isn't. We have a bargain, Mrs Bentham, and by God you're going to
    keep your side of it. Or does Brother Simon's welfare no longer seem
    so important to you?'
    'You know it does. But there must be some other way. You—you
    can't want me like this—hating you.'
    'You spent six months of your life sleeping with a man you didn't give
    a damn about.' Cal shrugged a shoulder. 'At least hatred implies
    passion—of a sort. I prefer that to indifference.'
    'How dare you?' Joanna's violet eyes flared. 'You know nothing about
    my relationship with Martin. You're not fit to mention his name!'
    'Don't be silly,' he said wearily. 'I was at school with him. And you
    and I both know perfectly well why you married him as you did. They
    say "Marry in haste, repent at leisure", don't they? Well, you've done
    your penance, Joanna. Now you can start to live again.'
    'With you?' she threw at him bitterly.
    'With no one else,' he said. 'And you'd better believe that.'
    'If you take me, it will be rape.'
    He studied her flushed, pleading face for a long moment, his firm lips
    smiling faintly.
    'No,' he said at last, 'it won't. I promise you that, Joanna.'
    'What else can it be, when the very thought of you nauseates me?'
    'Then stop thinking,' he said.