When a Woman Loves

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Sandra was the kind of girl men found irresistible. Hugh Lancaster, the famous artist for whom she posed, deserted his wife and was driven to suicide. Michael Hunt, the only man she had ever loved, married her and risked ruining both their lives because of her past. And then there was Victor Bentley, the debauched playboy, whose designs on her threatened to deepen the misunderstanding and tragedy. From London to Paris, and from Paris to the exotic East, this passionate drama unfolds revealing all that a women in love can feel. A captivating love story from the 100-million-copy bestselling Queen of Romance, first published in 1955 and now available for the first time in eBook.

Release date: December 18, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

“Sandra! Dance for us. Dance for us, Sandra!”

A dozen different voices took up the cry in the crowded studio.

It was nearing midnight. One of the frequent parties given by Hugh Lancaster, the well-known artist, was at its height. The long, low, irregular room was full of people; men and women, mostly in fancy dress. A dark, electric-looking young man played a piano at one end of the studio. The windows were open, for it was a warm spring night.

Hugh Lancaster’s studio parties were always good fun.

He had money; he was an attractive man and a good painter. The walls were hung with his sketches Most of them black-and-white drawings of a girl’s head. Always the same head. Beautiful, flawless features, curling hair, a gay provocative mouth. Sketches of Sandra, Lancaster’s favourite model.

Everybody shouted for Sandra now.

“Dance for us … Sandy, darling … do!’

On a raised dais at the end of the studio stood a girl. Her frock of gold tissue moulded her figure to the waist, where the gleaming, shimmering fabric flared into folds. Lissom, seductive, with her white slender arms, her wonderfully poised head, she stood on tiptoe. She was the spirit of fun, the very essence of vitality and laughter. Sandra, the prettiest model in Chelsea. Sandra—spoiled, wilful, idolised and still charming; the most generous of them all Sandra whose heart was of gold … who was as straight as a die. And every man in her little world knew it.

Nobody knew it better than Hugh Lancaster. He was madly in love with her. He had sketched her a thousand times, and as many times had begged for her kisses. But he never got more than a light, idle caress, or a flippant, half-tender, half-mocking word. All that any man could boast from Sandra Medway.

Lancaster sat on the dais at her feet, a goblet of champagne lifted towards her.

“Your health darling!” he whispered.

She laughed down at him. She was inclined to like him, this very good-looking artist with his ardent white face and fair, sleek head and dark blue eyes that burned with admiration for her. But she wished he wouldn’t be quite so ardent.

“Darling!” he repeated, “Dance for me.”

She let one hand rest carelessly on his fair head. Hugh Lancaster caught it, carried it to his lips—lips that throbbed. Sandra bit her lip. Everyone was looking. She supposed everyone knew Hugh was wildly in love.

She began to dance. The young man at the piano played for her, a wild Russian tune that suited her mood. She was swift, light, graceful, lovely to look upon. Hugh Lancaster’s burning blue eyes never left her face. Sandra, maddeningly beautiful, the short upper lip showing a gleam of perfect teeth; her wide-set, dark eyes, exquisite hands and feet.

She danced feverishly, and when the music ended, Hugh Lancaster leapt on to the dais, seized her whirling figure, and lifted her right up in his arms.

He carried her through the studio, triumphant.

“What I have I hold!” he cried.

Everybody laughed. But Sandra did not laugh. She could feel the mad thumping of the man’s heart. It worried her. She did not want him to love her so much. She could not return his love in that way. Lancaster set her on her feet in the cooler, dimmer room next to the studio, where he had carried her, and held her close to him.

“Sandra. Oh, my darling I love you so. You’re wonderful.”

She strained back from him. Somehow he made her afraid.

She was just Sandra … an artist’s model; an orphan, whose English father was dead, whose beautiful Russian mother had succumbed to the cruelties of Communism. She shared “digs” in Chelsea with another girl. She had nothing, no one to live for but herself. And if she had secret ideals, a secret wish for a more domesticated life, for a cottage, a husband to adore, nobody knew that save Sandra.

She hid her troubles and her disappointments. She laughed her way through life. She tried to be nice to Hugh without giving him too much encouragement.

“Don’t be so serious, Hugh,” she said, her cheeks burning from the pressure of his lips. “Let’s go back to the others.”

“Not till you’ve told me you love me, Sandra.”

“I don’t know that I do.”

“I could make you love me …”

“Perhaps I don’t want to love you.”

“Don’t madden me, Sandra. Darling for heaven’s sake.”

He sought her lips again. But she grew frightened of his intensity, and pushed him away.

“Oh you can’t be so unkind,” he whispered brokenly. “The other night you kissed me and—”

“Don’t make me sorry for it,” she broke in coldly. “Now, really, I’m going back to the others.”

She was sorry for him … it was pity that made her kind. But there would have been nothing in Sandra’s heart but contempt and white-hot rage if she had known that Lancaster was a married man. Nobody knew that. He had kept it very quiet. When he rented this studio flat, six months ago, Chelsea had received him as a bachelor. Not a soul in Sandra’s circle guessed that down in Devon, in a quiet cottage, there was a trusting, charming young wife who worshipped him and contented herself with seeing him at week-ends.

It was part of Sandra’s code never to get involved with a married man. She would never have forgiven Hugh Lancaster or herself if she had been aware of Mrs. Lancaster’s existence.

She returned to the studio feeling worried about Hugh; wondering whether she would sit for him as usual tomorrow.

She walked to the door. A good-looking red-headed boy immediately sprang to her side. He was John Trent—a young painter with a growing reputation. Sandra had sat for him several times, and he had been in love with her for some time. She treated him as she treated the rest—frivolously, leading him on a little, but with a good, warm friendliness behind it all.

“Not going already, Sandra?”

“Yes John, I’m tired.”

“I’ve got my car outside. I’ll drive you back.”

“Thanks,” she said gratefully.

Sandra was due at Lancaster’s studio at ten o’clock. She had been engaged to pose for head and shoulders. She decided not to go, but an urgent message brought her to the studio against her will. Lancaster was in the silk dressing-gown in which he usually breakfasted. He looked ill and drawn, and his eyes were haggard. The moment Sandra entered the studio which he was pacing, he rushed to her side, and seized her hands.

“Oh, darling, I’ve been so unhappy!”

“Hugh—really—this can’t go on,” she began.

“Don’t!” he broke in. “Sandra, don’t hurt me any more.”

“But I haven’t hurt you. It’s wrong—it’s unjust of you to blame me if I cannot return your love!” she protested.

He looked at her with searching eyes. She was adorably pretty. Hugh Lancaster was so mad about this girl that he gave no thought to the young wife who had implicit faith in him, and worshipped him.

“Sandra, be all the more generous,” he said unsteadily, and tried to take her in his arms. “Darling, please!”

“I can’t, Hugh!”

With an effort, she wrenched herself from his grip.

“I can’t stand this,” she stammered. “I shan’t ever come again … really … it’s too much!”

She turned and ran from the studio. She was thoroughly upset, and all her colour had gone. Down one flight of stairs, leading out of the building, she almost collided with a man. It was Ivor Payne, the pianist of last night.

“Hello Sandra. You and Lancaster squabbling?”

“What business is it of yours?” Sandra flashed.

Then she stopped. She and Ivor stared at each other—Ivor startled; Sandra white to the lips. A shot rang out … echoed through the building. A revolver shot. And it came from the direction of Lancaster’s studio.

“Good heavens, what’s that?” whispered Ivor.

Sandra put her hand to her lips. Her dark eyes were full of fear. “Oh!” she said under her breath. Then, simultaneously, they turned and ran up the stairs to Lancaster’s studio.

Ivor flung open the studio door which was ajar. Lancaster lay on the floor, face downwards; a smoking revolver in the right hand, blood pouring from a wound in the head. He had shot himself. When they turned him over, they found that he was quite dead.

Sandra, white-faced, shivering, feeling violently ill, looked from the rigid body of the painter to a young horrified face.

“Suicide!”

She sank into a chair, and put her face in her hands.

“Suicide,” repeated Ivor. “Over you, I suppose.” And that was what the world said, later on that day. A terrible day which Sandra never forgot … could never forget. It was too crowded with horrors and with reproaches which she did not deserve. Suicide … because of her.

When Elsie Lancaster arrived on the scene Sandra’s cup of misery was full to overflowing. She felt bitter indignation against the dead man for not being frank with her. She would never have flirted with him … granted him one single kiss, had she known about his wife. And who would credit the truth … the truth as it was? How she had tried to end the slight affair that had existed between them; how she had tried to make Lancaster sane and sensible.

His wife did not know. His wife, hearing of Sandra, believed that she was a reckless woman who had lured her husband to his doom.

Two people understood and defended her. John Trent, and Doria Howland, the girl with whom she shared rooms. Doria, who knew Sandra better than anybody and would have starved years ago but for her kindness and generosity, was well aware that the public disapproval was undeserved.

Time softens most things, and in Chelsea art studios, where life moves rapidly, things blow over and are quickly forgotten. Within a few weeks of the in. . .