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      ‘Oh, Fern, you don’t have a drink,’ Venice commented, all mock hostessly concern.

      ‘Fern’s driving,’ Nick announced before Fern herself could say anything. ‘And besides, she has no head for alcohol.’

      Fern was uncomfortably aware of the briefly appraising look Jennifer Bowers was giving them from the other side of the room; a look which said quite plainly what the MP thought of Nick’s attitude towards her.

      Hurt and humiliated, Fern could feel her colour rising as the anger and pain built up inside her, coupled with the knowledge that there was no way she could express what she was feeling; that even when they were back at home and on their own she would not be able to explain to Nick how his behaviour hurt her.

      And that was surely her fault and not his, the result of her early upbringing and the loving but old-fashioned parents who had taught her with gentle insistence that little girls, especially nice, well-behaved little girls, did not behave aggressively, did not argue with others, did not express views which contradicted those of others, and always went out of their way to make life easier for others. Being polite and helpful, her parents had called it.

      And since Nick insisted that he loved her, she must surely be the one at fault in feeling this frightening dislocation from life; this subversive awareness that she did not love him in return even though she knew she ought to.

      In the distance she heard the doorbell ring, shifting her focus back from her introspective thoughts of the past and into the present.

      ‘Ah, here are our final couple. They haven’t been together for very long. I expect that’s why they’re late. They probably stopped on the way for…’ Venice gave a small expressive shrug as she went to welcome them.

      Fern turned away, smiling at Roberta as she came over to her and announced, ‘I almost forgot… I wanted to have a word with you about the charity auction we’re organising. You’re still on to help sort out the jumble stuff, by the way?’

      Fern was just about to answer when the drawing-room doors opened and Venice swept in, ushering the last arrivals inside.

      Fern looked towards the doors automatically and then froze, paralysed with shock, her whole body going numb as she stared at the couple who had just walked in; or, rather, at the man who had just walked in.

      Adam. She could feel the sound of his name pounding inside her skull, a silent, anguished protest of torment and pain that affected every single nerve-ending of her body; the sensation of her fear that it would be stronger than her self-control making her feel as physically sick as though she had actually let that silent private sound of torment become a physical nerve-jarring reality, revealing to everyone around her exactly what she was feeling… what she had been feeling for so long that suppressing those feelings had drained her energies to the point where there was simply nothing left over for anything else.

      In those seconds of agonised confusion and fear it was as humiliating and terrifying as though she had been standing naked in front of them all… worse, in fact; but then she felt Nick’s hand on the small of her back, heard the surprised chagrin and envy in his voice as he commented disbelievingly to her, ‘Where the hell did Adam find her?’

      And hard on the heels of the grateful realisation that somehow fate had been kind to her and that she had not betrayed her feelings came the sickening awareness, not just of the youth and prettiness of the girl who was with Adam, but also the way she stood uncertainly close to his side, and the way he moved closer, protectively towards her, smiling encouragingly down at her.

      Fern could literally feel the knife-twist of jealousy and pain spearing inside her, the hot agony of longing and guilt that rose up so that she felt almost as though she was drowning in her own anguish.

      ‘Fern…’

      She heard Adam say her name… saw him coming towards her.

      ‘Adam.’

      Was that really her voice? It sounded so cool, so contained, so totally the opposite of all that she was feeling.

      No one would ever guess, watching the wary way they greeted one another, that Adam was her brother-in-law, she recognised bleakly, or rather her stepbrother-in-law. There was after all no blood relationship between Nick and Adam; Nick’s mother had married Adam’s father when Nick had been in his early teens and Adam almost a young adult, and physically of course they could not have been more dissimilar.

      Where Nick was all dapper blond elegance, Adam was…

      She found she was having to swallow hard past the obstruction which had somehow lodged in her throat as her mind, her thoughts, her emotions, obviously resentful of the constrictions she had placed upon them, rebelled and relayed to her not the actual reality of Adam as he now stood before her, tall, distinguished in the formal evening clothes which subtly emphasised the essential maleness of him, his dark, normally slightly unruly thick hair firmly brushed—and newly cut—his eyes a calm, sober grey; but Adam as she had once seen him, his skin damp with sweat, tiny beads of it lodging in the hollow at the base of his throat, the scent of it, of him, filling her nostrils with a musky and body-trembling awareness of his masculinity, his eyes, so calm and steady now, burning with a molten silver heat, making her tremble, unleashing within her needs, desires, feelings she had never known she could possess.

      For all his workouts at the gym, for all the obvious pride and self-satisfaction Nick took in his body and his sexuality, he had never, could never… She swallowed hard, forcing herself to ignore the taunting images filling her memory and to concentrate instead on the girl standing so shyly at Adam’s side.

      She couldn’t have been a day over nineteen, Fern reflected, unable to stop herself from responding to the shy, hesitant smile she was giving her.

      Enviably tall, with pretty dark hair, she had eyes which still held the doe-like innocence of extreme youth, her mouth its vulnerability and uncertainty.

      The last time she had seen her, Fern remembered wryly, she had had a brace across those now perfect little white teeth and she had been wearing her school uniform.

      ‘Fern, you remember Lily James, don’t you?’ Adam queried, gently bringing the younger girl forward.

      ‘Yes… yes, of course I do. How are you, Lily? How are your parents?’

      She sounded as though she was old enough to be Lily’s grandmother, Fern recognised ruefully, but there was not even a decade between them.

      It was totally contrary to Fern’s own nature to be unkind to anyone, much less an obviously shy young girl like this, even if… when…

      Even when what? Fern asked herself bitterly as she smiled warmly at the younger girl, gently trying to put her at her ease.

      Even if Adam loved her…

      Her heart seemed to jolt right up into her throat, its already nervous beating becoming a frantic distressed hammering.

      The palms of her hands were damp with sweat, her nails curling painfully into their softness as she fought to suppress the cry of agony she could feel building in her throat.

      What was wrong with her? She had always known that one day Adam would fall in love… that someone would eventually cause him to abandon the bachelor state which Nick had always claimed he would never voluntarily give up.

      ‘If you really want my stepbrother,’ he had told Fern once before they were married, ‘then the only way you’re likely to get him is by tricking him into getting you pregnant. Very keen on being seen to do the right thing, is our Adam. Do you want him, Fern?’ he had added slyly.

      ‘Adam is just a friend,’ she had responded tautly. After all, no nice, decent girl ever admitted even to herself that she could possibly want a man who did not want her… or at least that was the message she had picked up from her mother’s carefully protective teachings.

      And she had believed it. And still believed it?

      She could feel

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