Misleading Engagement

“I suppose we’re friends now, aren’t we?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright

“I suppose we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are,” Mark said quickly, but she had a strange feeling that a wary look had come over his face. “And a very good friend you are, too,” he added.

That defined their relationship perfectly, Anne thought with amusement. She mustn’t read anything into that kiss. Well, she didn’t intend to, did she?

Marjorie Lewty was born in Cheshire, England, and grew up between there and the Isle of Man. She moved to Liverpool and married there. Now widowed, she has a son, who is an artist, and a married daughter. She has always been drawn to writing and started with magazine short stories, then serials and finally book-length romances, which are the most satisfying of all. Her hobbies include knitting, music and lying in the garden thinking of plots!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘ONE video camera, four cassettes, six batteries, one tripod, off-camera mike and stand, headphones, on-camera light...’ Anne counted each item aloud as she arranged them on the worktop in her editing suite—or what she preferred to call the pantry. It had always been the pantry, since she’d been a little girl raiding it for biscuits when she’d got home from school.

She reached down into the cupboard for her holdall and, as usual, her glasses slipped down her nose and fell onto the vinyl-tiled floor. Cursing roundly, she picked them up, examined them for damage and, when reassured, stuck them back on her straight little nose. Roll on contact lenses! She’d promised herself if this wedding job today went well and the clients paid up promptly, to get rid of the hated glasses for ever.

As she finished packing all her gear into the holdall she heard a faint plop in the hall and walked swiftly through the old-fashioned kitchen to the front door, hoping that it was a reply to her advertisement. But it was only the local paper. Picking it up, she carried it to the kitchen table and spread it out at the small ads page. She always checked carefully on her advertisement. There had once been a mistake in the phone number and she had worried about the jobs she might have lost.

She looked down the columns. Yes, here it was:

Anne Grey—videos. Weddings, parties, all social occasions captured on video to show in your own home. Top-class work guaranteed. Artistic presentation. Moderate fees.

Her phone number—correct!—followed.

Breakfast now. She made coffee and sat down to enjoy a leisurely breakfast of toast and Marmite. The wedding was timed for one o’clock and she planned to be at the church a full hour before the guests started to arrive. She had paid a preliminary visit to the church, which was situated in a village about twenty miles away from her home in a south Warwickshire spa town, to take shots of the architecture and get the vicar’s permission to set up her gear inside the church. There were a lot of roadworks going on, and it had taken her nearly an hour to drive there yesterday, but there was plenty of time before she needed to start out today.

She picked up the paper and folded it back at page six, where announcements of forthcoming weddings and social events appeared. This was Anne’s happy hunting-ground. At first she had had to nerve herself to approach possible clients direct—it had taken a good deal of courage to ring a doorbell and announce herself and practise what amounted to touting for business—but she found that most people were polite, and some even interested in her sales spiel.

She didn’t realise that they were perhaps more interested in the neat young woman herself, with her slender figure, her thick mane of pale gold hair, more often than not scraped back in a bunch at her neck, and her brilliant, dark blue eyes smiling behind glasses which seemed too large for her small face. In time she had conquered her natural diffidence and had picked up several jobs by this method. If she was going to make a success of running her own business she would have to learn to be setf-assured—she had soon found that out.

There were no weddings announced for the week to come, but on the next page she found something which interested her even more. Under the heading WEDDING OF THE WEEK appeared a piece about the wedding she was booked to video today.

The wedding of Sir William Brent’s daughter, Elizabeth, to Mr Andrew Foulkes of London will take place on Saturday June 9th at St John’s Church, Offleigh. The photograph on the left shows the happy young couple at their engagement party last December. Also in the picture is Mr Mark Rayne, who is to be the best man. Mr Rayne is a writer and has recently become engaged to Miss Trudi King, the well-known model, who is seen here with him.

There was more about the reception for two hundred guests, which would be held at Sir William’s residence, and about the bridesmaids and the names of some of the important guests, but Anne was studying the photograph.

There would be no difficulty in capturing on tape the radiant happiness of the good-looking young bridal couple. They were standing with their heads together, champagne glasses raised to each other in a toast and obviously sharing some private joke.

But the other couple held Anne’s attention. Even in the newspaper photograph it was plain that they were both stunningly attractive. The girl was sitting on a sofa in an elegant posture, her long dark hair flowing round her lovely face, and the man was leaning over her, smiling adoringly, one hand on her shoulder. He was dark too, and looked as if he would like to eat her up, Anne thought with a chuckle.

She studied the picture for several minutes before she remembered the time and looked at her watch. Goodness, she must hurry now, not waste time gazing at a picture of a gorgeous man.

In her bedroom she got out the charcoal-grey suit and dark turquoise blouse she always wore for weddings. Her tutor at college had advised her always to wear dark, inconspicuous clothes when she was working at a wedding, so that she could fade into the background.

As she pulled off her jeans and top she looked down with a pang at the ring on her left hand with its tiny cluster of diamonds and thought fleetingly that it would be nice if it were she who was dressing in a white bridal dress with a veil and bouquet. But there wasn’t any chance of that.

When Keith had ended their engagement at Christmas, when she’d had to back out of going to a party with him because her father hadn’t been well enough to be left, she had tried to pull off her ring but had found it was stuck tight. She had caught her hand in a car door a few weeks previously and the swelling that remained had still been enough to make it impossible to remove the ring.

As she had pulled at it fruitlessly Keith had said casually, ‘Oh, don’t bother with it. Keep the ring—it isn’t worth much.’ And that had hurt almost as much as his constant grumbling that it wasn’t any fun for him, being engaged to a girl who spent all her time running round after a demanding invalid.

‘You’re too soft-hearted,’ Keith had told her. ‘You can’t say no, that’s your trouble. You need to toughen up, Anne. People take advantage of you.’

‘But Daddy’s ill. He needs me,’ she had said unhappily.

‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t.’ He had probably decided that it suited him best to be brutal. ‘I’ve had enough. I’m off tomorrow on a trip abroad. You won’t be hearing from me again.’

The wound was still raw, when she allowed herself to think of it. She had loved Keith and had thought he loved her, and if Daddy had not been a darling she might have felt bitter about men.

But now Daddy had gone too, leaving her quite alone, and she had had to put grieving aside and concentrate on how she was going to manage. She simply must make a success of the video business. She’d hate to have to go back to office work again. But she really must have Keith’s ring removed, she vowed as she pulled on black tights and low-heeled sandals.

Anne finished dressing and, having reassured herself that nobody would mistake her for one of the wedding guests, she went back to the editing suite for her holdall. Taking a last look round the tidy little room, her eyes softened. She always remembered how Daddy had fitted up this room for her and bought all the equipment. That had been a short time before he had retired from his position as music master at the local primary school. She had already taken a course in computing and word processing but had been keen on trying her luck at video work, and Daddy had thought it was a good idea.

‘You can’t have too much training,’ he had told her. ‘I want to be sure that you can keep yourself in comfort when I’m no longer here to look after you.’ His eyes had softened in a way she could never forget as he’d added, ‘You shouldn’t have chosen middle-aged parents, you know.’ And she’d known he had been thinking of her mother, who had died only a week or two after she was born.

‘But I’ve got Keith,’ she had said. She and Keith had got engaged at about that time.

Daddy had stuck to his opinion. ‘You never know what may happen,’ he’d said, and how right he had been! It had only been weeks later that he’d had a stroke and she had given up her first secretarial job to look after him. He had died a month ago.

Suddenly the neatly stacked shelves in the editing suite blurred before her eyes and she got out a handkerchief and blew her nose hard. She mustn’t let herself dwell on the past. She had a job to do. She locked the front door and went to get her small car out of the parking space at the back of the house.

Offleigh was a very small village with a very large church, which looked its best on a sunny morning like this.

Anne turned into the lane beside the church and backed her car carefully into the parking space allotted to her yesterday by the vicar when she had explained to him that she needed to leave immediately after the end of the service, so that she would be at the reception in time to catch the guests arriving and being greeted by the bride and groom and their parents.

She had found the vicar delightfully helpful. He had taken her. on a tour of the church and told her a little of its history. It dated from Norman times, although it had been extensively added to later. He had helped her to decide where she could set up her camera to get the best view during the service and had told her how to get to the vestry where the signing of the register would take place. He had also assured her that she would have no difficulty in following the service, that it was to be traditional even down to the organ music. Anne had been truly grateful to him for being so interesting and so helpful, and wished that all vicars could be as nice as this one.

Getting out of her car now, she stood and gazed with pleasure at the old church. It looked very beautiful on this June morning, the sunlight, shining between the branches of a tall chestnut tree, making dappled patches of silver on the ancient stones. The shape of the square tower stood out bravely against the flat blue sky as it must have done for centuries past, although Anne could see quite clearly the places where the stone had been patched over and over again—as the vicar had pointed out to her yesterday. Small birds—swallows? House-martins? —wheeled round the tower, diving to a place beneath the eaves where they evidently had a nest. She stood watching them, enjoying the quietness and peace of the morning.

Suddenly the peace was broken as a large green car turned the comer of the lane, swished round and backed into the parking space next to her own. The powerful engine throbbed for a moment and then was silent. A car door opened and slammed again. Anne lugged her heavy holdall out of the back seat of her car and put it down on the grass verge while she felt inside the door to press the lock.

A man’s voice from just behind her said curtly, ‘How long do you propose to stay here?’

A church official, perhaps? But why did he have to speak so peremptorily? She turned to confront him. He was obviously not a church official. He must be a guest. He was wearing formal attire—morning suit of striped trousers and a long coat, slightly shaped to the waist—and there was a pink carnation in his buttonhole. He was very tall and very dark, and he wore a hard, angry expression.

She played for time while she thought how to deal with him without making any unpleasantness. ‘Er—what did you say?’

He clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘I asked how long you proposed to stay here,’ he repeated.

Then she realised suddenly who he was—he was the best man. Mark something. She recognised him from the photograph, in which he had been smiling down adoringly at the gorgeous model. His face was hard and unsmiling now. Anne reminded herself that the best man was responsible for getting the guests into their cars after the ceremony, so perhaps that could excuse his abrupt approach. He might even be feeling nervous about his role in the wedding.

She looked up at him and said mildly, ‘I propose to stay until the end of the ceremony. Why do you ask?’

She saw the angry light in his dark eyes. ‘Well, you can’t leave that thing here,’ he said, with a contemptuous gesture towards her white Metro which, although lovingly polished and regularly serviced, was beginning to show its age.

She began to feel very annoyed. ‘I certainly have no intention of moving. it,’ she said coldly.

He passed a glance over her, standing very straight in her off-the-peg grey suit, and took a deep breath. ‘Now, look here, my girl,’ he said, and his tone was more insulting than impatient, ‘if you’ve come early to get a good spot to gawp at a wedding it doesn’t concern me, but you must certainly remove your car to another place—much further away.’

Anne locked the door of the Metro very slowly and deliberately. She turned back to him. ‘And what will you do if I refuse? Send for the police with lifting gear? I doubt if you’ll find any in this village.’ The dark blue eyes that could so easily sparkle with laughter were as cold as ice.

He made a furious noise in his throat. ‘This is ridiculous. I shall see the vicar and have your car removed.’

‘You do that,’ she said. ‘Tell him Miss Anne Grey has parked her car in a place you don’t approve of. I’m sure he’ll help you. He is most courteous,’ she added pointedly.

She picked up her holdall and stalked away from him towards the church gates. She held her head high, but as she hurried up the side-aisle she was annoyed to find that her knees were shaking and she glanced over her shoulder in case he was behind her.

As she reached the place between the pillar of the chancel arch and the back row of the choir stalls and put down her holdall, she told herself that she mustn’t let that abominable man get under her skin. She should be proud of herself. He had been extremely rude and she had stood up to him ... but there had been something in that hard dark face which had sent a tremor of fear to the pit of her stomach.

She peeped round the pillar and saw that he had come into the church and was talking to the vicar beside the vestry door. She could hear the rumble of the deep voice and the vicar’s soft-spoken replies but couldn’t make out a word. After a time the best man nodded and seemed to be thanking the vicar before he turned and walked out of the church.

Anne breathed more easily. That was that and she must put the rather horrid little episode right out of her mind. She would need all her concentration when the wedding began.

She spared a few moments to look round the church again with deep pleasure, enjoying the scent of the flowers which filled every corner and the way the sun cast coloured patches on the rows of pews as it shone through the big south window. A heavenly place for a wedding, she thought as she started on her work.

The next half-hour was spent in setting up the tripod and camera and checking that she would get the best shots of the bride and groom from here as they took their vows. Yes, she decided at last, it would be perfect. She needed particularly to focus on the bride’s face when she made her responses. Next there was the off-camera mike to be installed where it would pick up the words of the service, as close as possible to the spot where the vicar would stand but without being obtrusive. This was always a headache, but at last it was done and the wires taped to the floor carefully.

The church bells had been chiming for some time, and she glanced at her watch. The guests would be arriving soon. Unhitching the camera from its tripod, she carried it out to the front of the church where a crowd was already collecting on both sides of the path to the entrance. Of course everyone in the neighbourhood would be there to see the squire’s daughter arriving for her wedding.

There was also a TV team from the local station. She knew the cameraman, Bob Riley, from her college days, and exchanged a few words with him. He was decent enough to make sure she had a good place beside him to film the guests arriving and the bride with her father.

‘How’s business, Anne?’ enquired Bob. ‘I’m going freelance shortly. I’m tired of the local stuff—I want to branch out a bit. Roger French is coming in with me as producer-director, and we’ll probably pick up a few more of the guys and gals’ He chuckled. ‘Wish me luck. Oh, here’s the first contingent. Off we go, Anne.’

He lifted his camera to his eye and Anne, after removing her glasses and sticking them into her pocket, followed suit. She couldn’t cope with the glasses while she had her eye glued to the camera.

Twenty minutes later Anne’s arms were aching, but the arrival of the elegant guests had duly been recorded. The bride’s mother arrived next, with an older woman, and a minute or two later the six little bridesmaids, pink-cheeked and cherubic in frilly voile dresses of hyacinth-blue, were decanted from three cars and shepherded by mothers and aunts into the porch, to a chorus of, ‘Ah! Aren’t they sweet?’ from the crowd.

One of the six was taller than the rest. She was, no doubt, the chief bridesmaid. It would be the best man’s job to look after her, and Anne hoped for the little girl’s sake that he could smile as well as scowl.

There was a lull in the proceedings now as they waited for the bride and her father. Anne balanced her camera on her shoulder and shook her tired arms one by one. Then, only about five minutes late, a beribboned Rolls-Royce glided up to the gate and the bride was helped out carefully by her father. More murmurs of admiration came from the crowd, and a ripple of applause.

Anne, concentrating on getting the best angles, could see only that Elizabeth Brent was a dream in cream satin and lace as she walked slowly up the path on her father’s arm.

With a hasty goodbye to Bob, who wouldn’t be working inside the church, Anne hurried round to the south door and back to her station beside the pillar, avoiding the porch where the procession would be forming.

Fixing the camera back on its tripod and checking that the monitor screen was properly connected to the camera, she was able to draw a deep breath and prepare herself for the next stage of the service. The bells had ceased and the organist was playing a Bach prelude. The bridegroom had taken his place at the chancel steps, the best man standing beside him, and Anne focused on them to check her position.

The profile of the best man came into view and she couldn’t resist zooming in on it for a moment. In the zoom lens his profile looked serious but no longer grim. She gave him full marks for that. If he hadn’t made the effort to look cheerful to back up his friend on this nervy occasion he wouldn’t have been human.

Suddenly, to her horror, he turned his head. She saw him full-face now, and it was as if they were staring into each other’s eyes from only inches apart. She felt again that odd jolt in her stomach. It wasn’t really like that, of course; he couldn’t see her face, several yards away and hidden behind the camera. He had probably heard a sound from somewhere behind her and had moved his head to see where it had come from.

It was only a couple of seconds before she turned the camera away, retracting the zoom lens, but in those seconds she had registered every single detail of the hard, handsome face—the dark hair, curling slightly at the temples, the furrows in the wide brow, the long, curving lashes over night-dark eyes, the small lines round the long, sensitive mouth, even the pores of his skin where he had shaved earlier. She saw something else in that momentary Cash—he was not angry or bad-tempered. He was deeply unhappy.

The realisation was a shock. Anne’s hands were trembling as they gripped the handle of the tripod. Pull yourself together, you idiot, she told herself. You’re supposed to be a professional, and professionals don’t allow their minds to wander.

The bride’s mother came alone up the aisle and quietly slipped into the second pew, then the choir of boys and girls filed in, followed by the vicar, who, after a short pause before the altar, took his place beneath the chancel arch. The bridegroom and best man were standing before him to one side. The organ music faded away into silence and a hush of expectation fell over the congregation.

The solemnity of the moment got through to Anne, and her hands were damp as they adjusted the camera. Then the first notes of the ‘Bridal March’ sounded and the bridal procession appeared from the porch and began the slow walk up the aisle, the bride on her father’s arm, followed by her bridesmaids. From then on it was total concentration for Anne. Not a moment of the service must be lost.

She worked with confidence, missing nothing, through the singing of the hymns, the prayers, the address by the vicar, the exchanging of rings, and the move to the vestry to catch the signing of the register. She dashed back again to change the cassette before she made her way down the church to be in place when the couple came down the aisle together. Hastily she slipped the cassette out of the camera, dropping it into her holdall, and put a new one in.

She’d better be on the safe side and change the battery too, although she didn’t think that the old one was exhausted. It was dark in her comer of the church, and she had to fiddle with inserting the new battery. She was feeling quite unbearably hot. She just couldn’t go out into the sunshine again without removing her jacket. She pulled it off hastily and tossed it down just as the organ began triumphantly to fill the church with the strains of the well-loved Mendelssohn ‘Wedding March’.

Gripping her camera, she hurried down the side-aisle to a spot from where she could record the progress of the bride and bridegroom, smiling happily, down the nave, with the bridesmaids following behind.

Outside in the churchyard the photographer had arrived, and was soon busily organising people into groups. After taking a few casual shots, Anne left him to it and hurried back up the side-aisle to reclaim her holdall.

She packed her camera and tripod away and then picked up her jacket—or rather she tried to pick it up. It seemed to have got stuck somehow in the end choir stall. Her glasses were in the pocket and without them it was difficult to see what had happened. Anne pulled at it and swished it from side to side, trying to unhook it. Finally, with a tearing sound as the lining was released, the jacket was free. She clicked her tongue as she saw a long rip. up the lining, but that could wait to be examined when she got home. She pushed on her glasses, zipped up her holdall and left the church by the south door.