Read Brittle Bondage for Free Online Page B

rain had lessened in ferocity, and the more noisy part of the storm had passed on. Her limbs ached as if weighted with lead, her skin smarted, and her jaws had gone tight and painful. But she had got here first.
    She collected a dressing-gown from her bedroom, fled into the bathroom and peeled off her clothes. Rubbing down and drying her hair speeded her circulation, and the numbness faded, leaving her glowing and warm. Now that it was behind her, she felt pleased with her victory over the storm.
    She dressed in cream linen, dabbed perfume over the springing chestnut waves and disposed of her wet things. As she came along to the lounge a sudden shaft of gold light cut across from the half-open door. The fireworks were over, thank the stars.
    Blake came in smiling. “Some squall, wasn’t it? I’d have been earlier, but the horse took fright and I had to humour the poor beast.”
    “Did you get wet?”
    “A little. I left my mac outside.”
    “Would you like some tea?”
    “Too late.” He sank down beside her on the chesterfield. “Reading again? What is it?”
    “The novel you bought me the other day.” She flicked it shut and pushed it into the crevice between two cushions. Her fingers stayed tight over the binding, as if gripping on to a supply of courage. “Blake, Margery Clarke drove me into Ellisburg this morning.”
    “Did she? Good thing it wasn’t this afternoon.” He was looking her way, the smile still playing at his lips. “You’ve washed your hair. It sticks out and smells sweet. You’re getting a fine golden tan, Venetia. With your colouring you ought to freckle, but you haven’t a single one. In fact, you’re growing really beautiful.”
    This rare softness in him was not lightly to be wrecked. “How gratifying,” she said. “For that you shall have a drink. Whisky-and-soda? No, let me get it. Pouring whisky always makes me feel dashing.”
    As she poured his customary proportions she felt his eyes upon her in the old companionable grin. She placed the glass on the table he had hooked near, and bowed, anticipating his thanks. Instead he leaned forward.
    “Where did you get those scratches on your legs? Have you been walking among thorns?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “You must be more careful, Venetia. Some thorns are poisonous. In any case, you don’t want to spoil your legs.”
    “You fuss over me too much.”
    “Most women like being fussed. It tones up the vanity. You could do with a little more confidence and conceit, my child.”
    “Self-confidence grows when others have confidence in you. I was never unsure of myself with my father.”
    His glance had sharpened, but his tone was non-committal. “There’s a whole universe of difference between a father and a husband. Fathers make no demands, but a husband is making them all the time. Have you ever thought about a husband’s rights, Venetia?”
    Carefully, because the question was seemingly only an abstract one, she answered, “They’re more or less unlimited, aren’t they?”
    “Unlimited, but used with discretion.”
    He took a pull at his drink, then paused, listening. As he got to his feet, Fumana knocked and came in. A cold hand gripped Venetia’s heart, for in one hand the boy held her wide-brimmed straw hat, and in the other a note which he extended to Blake.
    She jumped up, said, “Thank you, Fumana,” in a dismissive voice, and twirled the hat.
    Blake unfolded the sheet of notepaper, read a line or two, stared at her, and went on reading. By the time he crumpled the note his whole bearing had gone steely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were out in the storm?”
    “I did start to tell you, Blake ...”
    “I didn’t notice it. How far did you struggle from that car?”
    “We were nearly at the Lawnside turn when the storm broke. That was all.”
    “More than two miles! Why the blazes hadn’t you the sense to stay with Margery? You expect me to have confidence in you, and you behave like a child of seven, and