His Rags-to-Riches Bride. Susan Stephens

      The night was warm, but Laine shivered as she stood with him at the main door. ‘That was so horrible.’

      ‘It could have been worse, believe me.’ His tone was wry.

      ‘I don’t know how.’ There was a touch of desolation in her own voice. ‘Dan—I could go on doing the housework here. Mother might appreciate it, and I really don’t mind.’

      ‘But I do. I want your hands beautifully soft for our honeymoon.’ He grinned teasingly as her face warmed, then bent his head and kissed her swiftly and sensuously on the mouth. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he told her, and went.

      Laine couldn’t face going back into the drawing room, so she went upstairs to get ready for bed—although she seriously doubted whether sleep would be an option.

      She was just about to switch off her lamp when the door opened and her mother came in.

      ‘Well, you’re certainly a dark horse. Feed him some sob story, did you?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Or is there another reason for this hasty wedding? He hasn’t got you pregnant, by some mischance?’

      Laine’s face flamed. ‘You know that’s not true.’

      Angela shrugged. ‘I can’t think of any other reason for him to bother with you. Although I suppose young flesh will always have its appeal—even to a sophisticate like Daniel Flynn. But marriage?’ She laughed harshly. ‘Never in this world, my dear.’

      Laine sat up very straight, her throat so dry it hurt. ‘It doesn’t occur to you that he might be in love with me?’

      ‘No, frankly, it doesn’t. Is that what he’s told you?’

      ‘Of course.’ Surreptitiously Laine crossed her fingers under the covers. Because she suddenly realised that Dan had never mentioned the word ‘love’. Not when he’d proposed. Not in the cab-ride back to Abbotsbrook. Not while they were saying goodnight.

      Not once.

      And after Angela had finally left, and she was alone, it was a thought that came back to haunt her over and over again throughout the long night.