HELEN BIANCHIN

The Marriage Bed: An Ideal Marriage? / The Marriage Campaign / The Bridal Bed


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      The Marriage Bed

      An Ideal Marriage?

      The Marriage Campaign

      The Bridal Bed

      Helen Bianchin

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      HELEN BIANCHIN was born in New Zealand and travelled to Australia before marrying her Italian-born husband. After three years they moved, returned to New Zealand with their daughter, had two sons and then resettled in Australia.

      Encouraged by friends to recount anecdotes of her years as a tobacco sharefarmer’s wife living in an Italian community, Helen began setting words on paper and her first novel was published in 1975.

      Currently Helen resides in Queensland, the three children now married with children of their own. An animal lover, Helen says her two beautiful Birman cats regard her study as much theirs as hers, choosing to leap onto her desk every afternoon to sit upright between the computer monitor and keyboard as a reminder they need to be fed … like right now!

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       About the Author

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       The Marriage Campaign

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       The Bridal Bed

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       Copyright

An Ideal Marriage?

       CHAPTER ONE

      GABBI eased the car to a halt in the long line of traffic banked up behind the New South Head Road intersection adjacent to Sydney’s suburban Elizabeth Bay. A slight frown creased her forehead as she checked her watch, and her fingers tapped an impatient tattoo against the steering wheel.

      She had precisely one hour in which to shower, wash her hair, dry and style it, apply make-up, dress, and greet invited dinner guests. The loss of ten minutes caught up in heavy traffic didn’t form part of her plan.

      Her eyes slid to the manicured length of her nails, and she dwelt momentarily on the fact that time spent on their lacquered perfection had cost her her lunch. An apple at her desk mid-afternoon could hardly be termed an adequate substitute.

      The car in front began to move, and she followed its path, picking up speed, only to depress the brake pedal as the lights changed.

      Damn. At this rate it would take two, if not three attempts to clear the intersection.

      She should, she admitted silently, have left her of fice earlier in order to miss the heavy early evening traffic. Yet stubborn single-mindedness had prevented her from doing so.

      As James Stanton’s daughter, she had no need to work. Property, an extensive share portfolio and a handsome annuity placed her high on the list of Sydney’s independently wealthy young women.

      As