The Bewildered Wife

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Copyright

“Why do you have this silly idea I’m a nanny?”

Susan asked dismally.

“It’s not silly,” Dean said at last. “I’m being perfectly rational.”

“You’re always very rational. But, in this case, you’re also being silly.”

“But I’m not! Susan, think carefully. Do you remember being my wife? Do you remember anything at all?”

“I don’t remember much of anything because my head feels pretty muddled,” she said defiantly. “But the doctor said that’s perfectly understandable. It will all come back.”

“Susan, what do you remember about our marriage, about us?”

“I remember a lot, a lot that a nanny wouldn’t remember. Intimate things. Bedroom things. You and me things. Not just nanny things. You take me upstairs to that bedroom and I’ll prove to you once and for all that I’m your wife. I’ll prove to you that I remember the most important things about being your wife…”

Dear Reader,

This July, Silhouette Romance cordially invites you to a month of marriage stories, based upon your favorite themes. There’s no need to RSVP; just pick up a book, start reading…and be swept away by romance.

The month kicks off with our Fabulous Fathers title, And Baby Makes Six, by talented author Pamela Dalton. Two single parents marry for convenience’ sake, only to be surprised to learn they’re expecting a baby of their own!

In Natalie Patrick’s Three Kids and a Cowboy, a woman agrees to stay married to her husband just until he adopts three adorable orphans, but soon finds herself longing to make the arrangement permanent. And the romance continues when a beautiful wedding consultant asks her sexy neighbor to pose as her fiancé in Just Say I Do by RITA Award-winning author Lauryn Chandler.

The reasons for weddings keep coming, with a warmly humorous story of amnesia in Vivian Leiber’s The Bewildered Wife; a new take on the runaway bride theme in Have Honeymoon, Need Husband by Robin Wells; and a green card wedding from debut author Elizabeth Harbison in A Groom for Maggie.

Here’s to your reading enjoyment!

Melissa Senate

Senior Editor

Silhouette Romance

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Bewildered Wife

Vivian Leiber

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my husband, who taught me that lightning really

does strike twice.

VIVIAN LEIBER’s

writing talent runs in the family. Her great-grandmother wrote a popular collection of Civil War-era poetry, her grandfather Fritz was an award-winning science-fiction writer and her father still writes science fiction and fantasy today. Vivian hopes that her two sons follow the family tradition, but so far the five-year-old’s ambition is to be a construction worker and own a toy store, while her other boy wants to be a truck driver.

Chapter One

“Susan, make a wish,” Chelsea begged.

Susan looked around the dining room table. Chelsea, Henry and Baby Edward’s faces were lit by excitement and by the twelve candles on a chocolate cake—Chelsea had run out of both candles and patience long before she could spear the cake with all twenty-seven.

“Come on, make a wish,” Henry demanded. He was dressed in Batman pajama bottoms, but had decided to wrap the matching top around his head like a turban. A tube that had been used to mail architectural drawings to his father was shoved into his waistband—ready to draw, to strike, at the first sign of trouble.

Susan took a deep breath.

I wish…I wish all this were mine, she thought.

And then immediately chastised herself.

It wasn’t hers, could never be hers, and it was very selfish to want it.

But it wasn’t the Radcliffe mansion, the fortyacre grounds, the luxury cars or the Radcliffe collection of late-nineteenth-century American painters she longed for. She didn’t pine for the jewels locked away in a safe behind a panel in the upstairs library. She wouldn’t even want the heavy Queen Anne furniture, the soft Aubusson rugs or the ornate silver flatware that lay dusty and tarnished in the beveled-glass cabinets of the butler’s pantry.

No, she wasn’t wishing for any of the expensive and elegant things that made the Radcliffe family one of the wealthiest in the country.

It was other things she wished for, intangible things that couldn’t be measured by an accountant or valued on a bank statement

Things that she hesitated to name, even in silence, even before her birthday cake, which glittered more brightly than gold on the dining room table.

It was out of the question that her wishes would be granted, presumptuous even to blow out the candles with these thoughts on her mind.

Out of reach for a nanny who was paid well above minimum wage but still not enough to afford even a single fork on the table before her. Out of reach for a woman who, at twenty-seven, had no husband or child or even a home to call her own.

Still, Susan took a deep breath.

There was nothing wrong with a wish, right?

She wished to call her own the three little faces glowing with pride—pride at a cake they had frosted themselves, although Susan had been the one to make the iced flowers.

To claim Chelsea, at seven, already starting to take over some of Susan’s sewing work on designing clothes for her multitude of Barbie dolls.

And Henry, at six already a gentleman. Or a knight. Or a superhero. Or just a boy with a cowlick that couldn’t be tamed and hands that looked dirty bare seconds after a scrubbing.

And, of course, Baby Edward, who was two and a half and not really a baby anymore. But Henry and Chelsea kept raising the age limit on the word baby, like a reverse limbo bar. He’d be Baby Edward when he was fifteen.

Baby Edward stared at the cake and Susan knew exactly what he’d wish for.

Toys.

She reached out to touch his soft cheek and her attention was caught by the wedding band on her left hand. All that she had left of her own family, it looked like—but wasn’t—a symbol of marital status. Instead, it was a reminder of her mother, left to her when she was just a child.

The ring brought to her mind the final, most secret, most selfish, most impossible wish that skittered across her mind as a wild mosaic of images: a vision of white, of tulle, of roses and real wedding rings, and passionate kisses on a bed covered with silk. It was what her parents had had, and their parents before them. It was what Susan wanted for herself.

She shook her head at her own silliness in wishing for…him. Wishing for him to hers.

And so, Susan having grown up to be realistic, maybe even a little too pragmatic, decided to wish only this: that this private moment at one end of the Radcliffe dining room table would last just a little longer.

“What are you going to wish for?” Chelsea asked.

“She won’t get it if she tells,” Henry said knowingly.

“Toys?” Baby Edward asked.

Susan smiled and kissed him on his forehead, inhaling his sweet baby smell. She touched the macaroni necklace that she wore—Chelsea’s present. Henry and Baby Edward had drawn pictures that she had already folded carefully into her wallet for safekeeping.

Stretching out her moment…

“I won’t tell you what I wish for,” Susan said. “But, Baby Edward, you’ll always have toys.”

She took a deep breath, holding it long enough for the kids to take theirs. And then she blew. And they blew. Very hard, but still the candles fluttered as delicately as the wings of doves.

The dining room was thrown into complete black for a brief moment until Henry switched on the chandelier to its blazing glory.

It was amazing how quickly you forgot that the dining room was the size of a basketball court, Susan thought as she looked around the Louis-the-Fifteenth-inspired room.

“You’ll get your wish!” Chelsea exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You got all the candles. You’ll definitely get your wish.”

“I already have,” Susan replied.

Baby Edward reached out to steal a taste of icing, but Susan firmly pushed his hand away.

“Now how about we let Baby Edward have the piece with the red icing flower?” she asked.

She had placed the three flowers on the cake with extreme care, knowing that the pieces must be cut with precision. Baby Edward liked red things—fire trucks, valentines and red icing flowers. Chelsea liked yellow—the sun, lemonade and the yellow flowers. And Henry liked purple, the color of royalty, and Susan carefully cut the cake so each child got their favorite colored flower.

The cake had turned out pretty good on such short notice. Their father, Dean Radcliffe, had said only this morning he was coming home for the small family party to celebrate Susan’s birthday.

Chelsea had invited him as the children sat planning Susan’s party at the breakfast table.

“I’ll be here with a cake and a special present for the birthday girl,” he had promised.

“In time for dinner?” Henry had challenged.

Susan had felt a red, hot blush sweep over her, but luckily Dean Radcliffe didn’t choose this moment to actually notice her.

He merely smiled at Henry.

“In time for dinner,” he repeated.

Susan had made hot dogs and chips—but had put a steak in the refrigerator to thaw in case he did live up to his promise. She also made him a baked potato and salad, fixed a martini extradry, and got out the Harry Connick, Jr. CDs he liked. For an hour, Connick’s soft and sultry jazz and the smell of home cooking had filled the house.

Then, around six, she had admitted to herself that he might, just might, not come home early. If she were truly honest with herself, she would know it was a billion to one shot that he would even remember his nanny’s birthday.

Much less return from work with the promised cake, present, and on time.

She had started baking the cake while the children ate their dinner—feeding them their hot dogs was a hard concession to reality. But she knew she felt the disappointment in his not coming more acutely than the children. They scarcely missed the successive nights he didn’t come home until they were already in bed.

Dean Radcliffe shouldn’t be expected to come home early for his nanny’s birthday. Susan sat back in her chair and shook her head at her own naive and heartfelt anticipation.

She had even worn her best blouse to top her usual sturdy jeans. She had hand-washed the blouse and mended the wrist where the seam was frayed. She had sewn the blouse years earlier from a piece of fine gold brocade she had found on sale at a junk store. She had thought at the time the color would set off her pale blond hair nicely.

But now Susan didn’t think even a gold blouse could make her hair look all that good. It was damp with sweat from the oven’s heat, held back by a scrunchie and dotted with icing. Even the prized blouse had some speckles of purple, yellow and red food dye.

She didn’t feel like eating. Pushing her plate away, she took a couple of dog biscuits from her jeans pocket.

“I didn’t forget you, Wiley,” she said, holding them out to the eighty-pound German shepherd, who had awakened at the telltale sound of Susan rubbing those treats together.

The children savored their cake for several minutes—Baby Edward eating only the icing and Chelsea making a hash of the fluffy insides—and then Henry asked the question he asked every night

“Are you going to tell the story of the Eastman bears?”

“Only if Chelsea gets her pj’s on and all of you brush your teeth.”

Instant and complete obedience.

In ten minutes, Henry found his favorite pillow and spread out across the bottom of his elder sister’s bed. Chelsea, in her Barbie doll nightgown, pulled the covers up to her neck. Susan sat at the head of the bed, Baby Edward on her lap. Lit by the golden hall light, the bedroom seemed a gateway into a wonderful paradise.

A paradise littered with discarded towels, children’s clothes, toys and well-worn shoes.

A paradise guarded by Wiley.

A paradise ruled by bears.

Several times, Susan looked up to see the children’s collection of Eastman teddy bears aligned on the dresser top. And she continued the tale she had told the night before, which was really just a continuation of the story of the night before that.

In fact, the story she had created about the Eastman bears extended as far back as any of the Radcliffe children could remember—though, in fact, Susan had only started working for the family the year before. A year after their mother’s death.

Baby Edward’s head drooped to Susan’s shoulder. Henry squirmed, rolled around and finally found the perfect position. Chelsea closed her eyes.

I wish this were mine, Susan thought, letting herself be selfish for just one final second. And then she realized that she had already gotten her wish. They were here.

Maybe Dean Radcliffe wasn’t with them, but her crush on him was so excruciating that he’d just make her nervous.

No, in a life already beat down with reality’s harshness, Susan had a way of seeing the perfection in her day.

“And then Sister Bear walked all the way to the magic castle,” she continued, finding her place in the story.

Dean Radcliffe tossed his keys on the hallway console and leafed through the pile of envelopes. Junk mail, requests for money, invitations to flashy charitable events Nicole would have loved. Why couldn’t people just send money to help out their favorite charity—instead of requiring a black-tie event in return?

He pushed the mail to one side and walked through the darkened living room, carrying a cake box and a dozen roses.

Nicole was still in this house, though she had been dead for almost two years. He wondered if her death was what fueled his insatiable desire for work—never wanting to face the moment in the day when there as nothing left…but to come home. He raked his fingers through his blue-black hair and strode through the marbled hallway.

He paused as he reached the dining room. The crystal chandelier cast a faint golden glow on the remnants of a party—paper plates, noisemakers, half-eaten pieces of cake.

He shuddered.

Late again.

He really hadn’t wanted to be.

Susan seemed like a nice nanny—in fact, she was the only person who would stay.

So he should make an effort.

Had wanted to make an effort.

Had made an effort.

He had spent a good two or three minutes with his secretary, Mrs. Witherspoon, telling her he wanted a cake, a dozen roses and a present from the jewelers. And Mrs. Witherspoon, who had worked for him since he graduated college and had worked for his father before him since the Jurassic Age, had taken care of everything with her usual pursed-mouthed efficiency.

He put the cake box down at the head of the table and pulled the small blue velvet jewelry box from the inside pocket of his charcoal gray suit jacket. He opened the box and studied the simple, silverlinked bracelet with three charms—two were silhouettes with Henry and Edward engraved in bold, block letters and one silhouette had pigtails and was engraved with Chelsea’s name.

Simple. Nice. Festive.

But nothing a young woman could get the wrong idea about. A decidedly perfect nanny gift. Mrs. Witherspoon had done an excellent job.

Too bad he had missed the little party, but surely Susan couldn’t expect that he would leave the strategic planning meeting for the Eastman Toy Company takeover just for her birthday!

No woman could expect that of him, especially not a sensible nanny like Susan.

Chapter Two

“And then Brother Bear came up with a great idea,” Susan said. “He thought if they took a kitchen towel and made it into a sail, they could get across the big sherbet lake…”

“Daddy’s home,” Henry whispered.

“Daddy’s home?” Chelsea hissed.

“Daddy?” Baby Edward asked groggily, opening one eye and then closing it. He snuggled farther into Susan’s warm, soft bosom.

Wiley looked up from his sleep, arching one eyebrow in an imitation of alertness.

Dean Radcliffe climbed up the last landing up to the children’s wing and appeared at the doorway, a tall shadow backlit by the hall light.

“Oh, Daddy,” Henry said, poised between happiness and uncertainty about his father’s mood.

“You missed Susan’s birthday,” Chelsea said accusingly.

“Now, Chelsea,” Susan warned.

As Dean stood in the doorway, all Susan’s sensible thoughts about him being out of reach flew out the window.

She loved him—and could kick herself for loving him.

And he, she reminded herself sternly, barely noticed her. His mind, as always, was on his work.

His only concession to the lateness of the hour was that his burgundy silk tie was pulled a bare inch away from the white Oxford shirt collar. His suit was severely, but most expensively, cut. His eyelids were sooty but, though he had left the house at six that morning, his emerald eyes were as piercing and quick as if he had just awakened.

He raked his fingers through his hair in a gesture that Susan recognized as meaning his head ached.

It should—his days were long, his work was grueling and he came home every day to children who reminded him of the wife he lost. With their blond hair, their freckles, their blue eyes so much like the wife who had died so tragically, so prematurely.

Susan was sure he must have loved his wife very much and mourned her deeply.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Radcliffe,” Susan said, easing off of Chelsea’s bed while managing to hold Baby Edward in a comfortable sleeping position. “Children, give your father a kiss good-night. Then to bed. Henry, pick up your pillow—”

“No, it’s all right. I’m interrupting,” Dean said, raising his hand. “But I do want to talk to you in the study when you’ve put the children to bed.”

Chelsea and Henry fell back onto the comforter in a mixture of relief and disappointment.

“Goody gum drops, we get to finish the story,” Henry said.

“Daddy, I really do want to give you a goodnight kiss,” Chelsea said.

But Dean Radcliffe was already halfway down the hall to his study, followed by the ponderously slow but very loyal Wiley.

Ten minutes later, she went downstairs to the study with a tray piled high with two hot dogs, chips and the salad she had made earlier in the evening.

The steak was burnt beyond recognition and the baked potato shriveled like a piece of wadded-up paper. The martini pitcher was already washed, dried and put away in the bar armoire. Besides, she didn’t want to remind him of the promise he had made—and broken.

“Susan, please sit down,” Dean said as she came into the room. He looked at her with the wary but gracious expectancy he no doubt gave to all business associates, secretaries and clerks. “How kind of you to bring me dinner. I could have made something for myself.”

“Actually, I just made a little more of what I made the kids,” Susan said, conceding nothing about her hopes and dreams and efforts. She put the tray down on the only corner of the desk not covered with papers, and sat on the edge of one of the leather wing chairs opposite him. “You didn’t eat yet?”

“No, I guess I didn’t,” he said. “I was too busy working out the details on the Eastman Toy deal. There’s a lot of money riding on it.”

He reached for a hot dog.

“How is it you always guess correctly the nights I don’t have a business dinner and the ones when I’m able to come home in time for dinner?”

“Just intuition, I guess,” she said. She didn’t add that appearing at nine o’clock was hardly coming home in time for dinner.

She slipped Wiley a dog biscuit from her jeans pocket.

“I’m sorry about your birthday,” he said stiffly, clearly not very practiced in apologies.

“It’s all right,” Susan said, shrugging.

“I wanted to talk to you about the children,” Dean continued, showing his relief that she was understanding, that she knew her place in the household. “Tell me about how they’re doing.”

Susan swallowed the dryness in her mouth. She wondered if she was turning red—she did that when she was nervous. It was always this way with him, being around him. He made her excited and anxious and delighted all at the same time.

It was a crush. Just a stupid crush.

A crush she had rationalized and dissected and fought against so long and finally surrendered to so that it was now just a part of her personality, like her soft spot for children, weakness for chocolate and love of Audrey Hepburn movies.

Having a crush meant that whenever he was near, she noticed everything about him. Whether he was tired, whether he was sad. If he needed a haircut, if he was happy about some business deal.

She even noticed that he didn’t notice her.

So she could have her dry mouth, could shake with the jitters, could feel her excitement, her face could have a bright crimson blush—and she never had to worry that he would embarrass her by even suspecting that he was the object of her adoration.

All he wanted was an update on the kids. All she wanted was the chance to be near him.

“Baby Edward pointed to the picture of a brachiosaurus in a book this morning and he could sort of say the name of it,” she reported. “And Chelsea won the second-grade calla tournament today. She’s very proud of her—”

“What’s calla?”

“It’s a board game. Uses numbers and counting. The second graders have been playing it.”

“Strategy?”

“Yes, it uses strategy. Sort of like checkers.”

“Good. Chelsea’s got a good head for scoping out the competition.”

Actually, Susan just thought Chelsea was a bright, sweet little girl who had played a lot of calla games with her friends.

“Henry’s teacher told me when I picked him up that he’s doing much better with sounding out blends. And he got invited to Michael’s house for a play date this afternoon.”

“Excellent. He must begin making those vital connections.”

“You mean friendships?”

“Yes, of course, friendships.”

As Susan continued the update of domestic events, she was amazed again at how, even as busy, as distant as he was, Dean Radcliffe knew every detail of his children’s life. He puzzled over Henry’s phonics problems, asked about whether Chelsea’s best friend, Martina, had recovered from chicken pox and reminded Susan that all three were due for their six-month dental visit.