The Price of Folly

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

An innocent indiscretion threatens a young girl's chance for happiness and love! Rich, handsome, sophisticated Alan Rivers sweeps Paula off her feet. His charming declarations of love, his fervant promises of marriage throw the pretty, inexperienced girl into a sweet delirium of unreasoning love. But when she realizes Alan's affection is as false as his promises and her own feelings are mere infatuation, Paula soon comes to her senses. But will it be soon enough to salvage a future with a man who really matters? A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1968, and available now for the first time in eBook.

Release date: August 14, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 122

Sample

Paula had run away with Alan Rivers.

It is a very big thing for a girl to do; to leave home, parents, friends for the love of a man. She will only do such a thing if she is quite certain that she is madly, desperately, sincerely in love. Paula was certain that she was all those things.

Madly, desperately, sincerely in love with Alan Rivers.

Yet when she stepped out of the train at his side, she was conscious of qualms; of a horrid, uneasy feeling in her heart. Perhaps it was because the journey from London to Paris had been long and tiring, and she felt strange and lost in a strange country; a foreign city. Perhaps because she had never realised until now how infinitely she had trusted Alan in coming with him.

Her pulses jerked, and her heart beat at a quickening rate; she stood beside him, shivering a little, as she watched him talk to a gesticulating porter, in perfect French (of which she understood and spoke very little), and then walked with him to the taxi, the porter following with her suit-case and Alan’s smart leather cabin-trunk.

The man glanced down at her as they walked. It was rather a pale, troubled face he saw, and he frowned.

“Darling,” he said, “why this silence and depression? The journey’s over and here we are in Paris—city of delights which I’m going to show to you.”

His rich, rather lazy voice had the immediate effect of cheering Paula, who looked quickly up at him, her cheeks colouring, her eyes growing soft and luminous under their thick lashes—golden-brown lashes that curled upwards like a child’s.

“I’m a bit tired, Alan,” she answered. “And—and a bit frightened.”

“Of what?” he smiled tolerantly.

“Oh—of everything,” she said under her breath. “Don’t you realise what this means to me, Alan—running away from home—with you—like this?”

“Oh, yes, of course I know,” he drawled. “But you counted the cost before you left, and you told me nothing mattered so long as you and I were together.”

“I meant that, and still feel it,” she said gravely. “But perhaps I shall feel better—more secure in my happiness when we are married.”

He did not answer, but turned from her and gave a curt order to the driver of the taxi.

“4, Rue Delcourt—off the Rue de Rivoli—” Then to Paula “Jump in, darling.”

In the shelter of the taxi, Paula put out her hands to him, with the pathetic gesture of a child who wants comforting.

“Oh, Alan—” she whispered.

Alan Rivers—at heart a most selfish, calculating man—had the gift of being able to make love to women with the perfection and finish of an artist. He could deceive anybody—let alone a girl as young, as trustful, as romantic as Paula. He was bored with her tremors of fear and had no patience with conscience-stricken fools. Possibly he had no conscience himself. But he took her hands, raised each in turn to his lips—then put an arm about her, hugging her close to his side.

“Such a poor, scared little darling,” he murmured. “There, kiss me, and tell me you love me.”

Her arms went around his neck. She clung to him, sobbing a little.

“I love you—I adore you, Alan.”

“I adore you, darling,” came his passionate reply. His lips sought hers, crushed them in a long kiss. For a few moments Paula rested, her head thrown back on his shoulder, her eyes closed. She was wonderfully pretty. Her beauty was like wine to him, and had made him lose his head—a very little—when he had first met her, two months ago, in Wilcombe, the dull little village that nestled among the Sussex Downs, within ten miles of Brighton.

Alan Rivers was a philanderer; rich enough to satisfy most of his whims and with no family ties to hinder him, he had been spending a week-end at Brighton. He had driven in his car through Wilcombe on the Sunday morning, and had run over a cocker spaniel belonging to Paula’s father. He had stopped to apologise and offer remuneration, and incidentally made himself so popular by his charming manners and personality, that he had stayed at Wilcombe Dean—Paula’s home—to lunch. From that moment onward he had wanted Paula—become infatuated with her fresh beauty and innocence. She was one of a large family: old Mr. Broughton was a struggling nurseryman, and Paula divided her time between helping mother with the younger children, and her father with his greenhouses.

Alan remained in Brighton solely for the purpose of motoring daily to Wilcombe and paying court to Paula. She had soon fallen violently in love with him. But he was not a marrying man, and the first person to discover this was a well-to-do cousin of Paula’s who lived in London. This woman had come to Wilcombe; heard of Paula’s affair with the handsome, wealthy Mr. Rivers, and warned her and her parents against him. She knew his name—he had a bad reputation—had been twice in the divorce-courts—was notorious for his affairs with pretty women—etc., etc. This resulted in Paula’s first quarrel with her parents. She refused to believe a word against Alan. But Mr. Broughton was a man of rigorous habits and morals, and forbade her to see him again.

It was just what Alan wanted. Paula became unhappy, sick of arguments and fights, and all the more determined to go on seeing the man who had taught her such rapture and held out the promise of an existence that might be paradise itself.

She agreed to elope with him.

“Come with me to Paris, and I’ll marry you the moment we get there,” he had pleaded.

So Paula had burnt her boats and come; she had regretted the pain she would bring to her parents, but she hated her father for his rudeness to Alan, and his belief in the things her cousin had told him. Alan had denied them and Paula believed in, and staunchly defended, him.

After all, she was going to be Alan’s wife. Not for an instant did she doubt his intention to marry her.

Now, in the taxi, snuggling up to him, she felt less afraid.

He smiled at her, lazily ruffled her hair, and told himself how perfect she would look in the chic Parisian clothes he would buy for her. Slim, small, with delicate features and a pale smooth skin that very easily flushed, she was, as he had often told her, like one of the roses her father grew. She had thick bronze hair, naturally curly, and large sparkling eyes.

Alan’s pulses quickened as he looked at her.

“You’re lovely,” he whispered. “You don’t regret coming with me, do you Paula?”

“No, no,” she said. “I adore you, Alan.”

“I’ll be good to you,” he said thickly, and he meant it. But his ideas of “goodness” were not hers.

“Alan, are you sure we can be married at night, in Paris?” she asked in a dreamy voice.

“Oh, yes,” he said easily. “Don’t worry about that. And listen, darling, I’m going to slip this on your finger now, and you can call yourself Mrs. Rivers when we get to my flat, otherwise it’ll look strange if I take you there late at night and you are still Miss Broughton.”

She drew away from his arms and sat upright, her cheeks hot, her eyes dark with excitement.

“Yes, I understand, Alan. And then—”

“I’ll ring up the registrar, and he’ll come straight round and marry us—I’ve got the licence,” he said.

Lies flowed from Alan Rivers’ mouth. He lied to suit his own ends, regardless of wrecking lives, or breaking hearts. His was that cold, ruthless nature which knows passion, but not love. Paula was a simple, innocent girl brought up in a Sussex village; knowing little of life or the habits and customs of a foreign country. He told her they could be married at any hour of the night in Paris, and she believed him.

She felt thrilled when he slid a slim, platinum circle on her marriage-finger, missed it, and joked with her.

“There you are, Mrs. Rivers!”

“Oh, Alan!” she said, laughing, starry-eyed. “It will be wonderful to be your wife.”

She imagined she quite understood his motive in bringing her to Paris for their marriage. Alan had motored her from Wilcombe to Dover in time to catch the afternoon boat. It was just as simple to get married in Paris as to pause en route—in face, more simple; he had said the registrar would come round to his flat to perform the ceremony. She was so excited, so happy. She did not pause to question the fact that he had the licence; or that an English licence would not be valid in France.

It was thrilling to think Alan possessed a flat in Paris as well as in London. They reached the Rue Delcourt and stopped before a huge white block of flats. Paula stood on the pavement, eagerly looking about her. How lovely Paris seemed on this mild, fragrant night of April. The Rue de Rivoli gleamed with lights, and from the distance came the mellow bells of Notre Dame. All so wonderful—so different—so different from sleepy, tiny Wilcombe.

Yet just a tinge of conscience pricked Paula as she was whirled up in the lift to Alan’s flat. She had been naughty to elope with him behind her parents’ back. But she was sure they would forgive her, when she wrote and told them she was Alan’s wife.

She forgot home and all connected with it once more, however, when she was in Alan’s flat. It was artistic, expensively appointed, and full of interest, for her, since it was to be her future home. And Henri, the Frenchman who managed it, was so nice; had bowed and scraped before her, called her “Madame”—fully accepted her as his master’s wife.

Now she was being taken over the flat by Alan, who had given coat and hat to Henri, and made her take off hers.

After she had inspected the expensively furnished drawing-room, they passed into the bedroom. It was luxuriously appointed, like the rest of the flat. Everything a woman could desire. Paula held her breath in admiration; gave Alan a swift, interrogating look.

“Why, it is all prepared for a woman!” she exclaimed. “Did you …?”

“I wired to Henri a week ago and he prepared it for. . .