Accidental Heiress

by Nancy Robards Thompson

  The kiss started slow and soft, then ignited into ravenous greed that had her parting her lips so he could deepen the kiss, fisting her hands into the cotton of his shirt, leaning into him as if her next breath would come from him.

  For a moment, the whole world disappeared. Until he pulled her tighter, staking his claim, unspoken feelings pouring out in this wordless confession.

  He tasted like red wine, chocolate, cinnamon and something exotic. That familiar hint of yesteryear, mixed with the promise of now.

  A moment ago she was worried that he might have feelings for another woman, and now he was kissing her so thoroughly she had no doubt of his loyalty. Feelings inside her that had stirred when she’d seen him in the casino were awakening, blossoming into a passion that threatened to consume her.

  She forgot the once logical rationale for protecting her heart. Or maybe she no longer cared. The reasons began to shift and span the gap of years until it bridged the present with the past.

  Margeaux had no idea how much time had passed as they held and kissed each other. It was even better than she remembered. Because they were no longer kids, hiding out, stealing moments. This was Henri, holding her close, kissing her lips, rendering the years they’d been apart irrelevant.

  “There is so much between us we left un done.” He rested his forehead against hers, his lips a whisper away. “What are we going to do about that?”

  That was the burning question.

  She knew what she wanted in the here and now, but she still didn’t know how much of that undone past she should dredge up.

  Colbert’s funeral was larger and better attended than she’d expected. Her father’s body had lain in state in the seventeenth-century chapel on the palace grounds and was transported to the ornate St. Michel Cathedral.

  Carabineers lined the path from the palace chapel to the garden’s Gate of Honor. The soldiers in red military dress uniforms wore bronze helmets with black plumes that trembled slightly in the cool November breeze. They played trumpet fanfares and beat drums covered with black cloth.

  Colbert’s coffin was draped with the St. Michel flag. Clad in a black dress with a black veil, Margeaux held Henri’s hand as they walked behind the casket. Even though it wasn’t traditional for the Queen of St. Michel to walk in the funeral procession, Margeaux was touched when Queen Sophie, who was married to Henri’s brother Luc, reached out to her in support. Sophie, Luc and Henri’s other brother Alex and his wife, Julianne, along with Margeaux’s girlfriends and other members of the Crown Council formed the procession, escorting her to the limousines waiting to transport them to the St. Michel Cathedral where her father would be buried.

  As the Gate of Honor was symbolically closed after Colbert’s casket was carried out, Margeaux’s heart overflowed with bittersweet appreciation; her father was well respected and she was welcome in St. Michel despite her sixteen-year absence.

  The procession drove from the palace, past hundreds of somberly dressed St. Michel residents, to the ancient St. Michel Cathedral.

  The cathedral was filled to standing room, with dignitaries and heads of state from all over the world; Europe’s royals, nobles, and VIPs rounded out the cast that came to bid farewell to one of Europe’s most respected political figures. Everyone was dressed almost uniformly in black, as they waited in the cathedral for the funeral procession.

  Heads bowed as his coffin was carried up the aisle; once it reached its destination at the front a sword was placed atop.

  Opening the service, the officiating Arch bishop said, “Colbert Broussard, beloved son and servant of St. Michel, loving and loved father of Margeaux, now joins his late wife, Bernadette, to rest in death’s peaceful sleep.” The words loving and loved father sliced through the haze of Margeaux’s grief and a tear meandered down her cheek. She had a choice—she could wallow in the past and weigh herself down with things that were too late to change or she could push beyond.

  Loving and loved father.

  The words made her feel claustrophobic and for a brief spell she wrestled with the overwhelming urge to get up and run out of the church. She pulled her hand from Henri’s and scooted forward.

  Loving and loved father.

  Then Henri slid his arm along the back of the church pew, settling it on her shoulder, pulling her close. Margeaux collapsed into him. He kissed the top of her head and her mind found comfort in the memory of his kiss the night of Pascal’s reading of the will.

  So much wasted time.

  Why had she waited so long to come home? If she’d known her father would’ve been so receptive she would’ve reached out long ago. But maybe she wasn’t ready—maybe neither of them would’ve been. Their brief time together felt unfinished.

  She’d never lived up to his expectations—she’d been a disappointment to him. The stupid, wild child—the fille sauvage who was more of an embarrassment than he could handle.

  Of all the regrets, she wished she would have had the opportunity to prove to him that she wasn’t a brainless failure. In fact, she was smart enough to get by, to cover up her dyslexia—even though, at the time, she had no idea that’s what plagued her—disguising it by pretending not to care about academics. By being footloose, wild and free.

  Of course, as far as her father was concerned, the wild streak factored down to silliness, and silly girls were stupid girls, whose place it was to be quiet and not draw attention to themselves since they had nothing intelligent to offer.

  Margeaux hated this label, hated being expected to be the pretty girl who was barely seen and never heard. So she’d made sure he not only saw her but heard the noise she created.

  Her wild behavior had come from a basic desire to be loved, flaws and all.

  Her father was gone and he would never know this. They would never have the relationship she’d desperately wanted, even when she’d done everything in her power to anger him and ultimately send her away.

  This above all else wracked her with grief.

  Margeaux leaned into Henri, taking the hand that caressed her arm, clinging to him for dear life.

  Somehow, she made it through the service. Colbert would be buried beside Bernadette. A plain slab of marble beside his wife’s resting place in the cemetery had been engraved with his name. Another detail Henri had helped Margeaux arrange.

  They emerged from the church into the bright, sunny afternoon. The air was crisp and cool; the sky was clear and bright blue, incongruent with the dark, burning hole yawning in Margeaux’s heart.

  As she and Henri began the walk from the grave to the waiting limo, Henri was talking to his brother Alex about plans for the post-funeral reception. That’s when a thin, disheveled-looking man in a wrinkled suit with a necktie that was haphazardly hung about two inches below his unbuttoned collar approached Margeaux.

  “Pardon me, Ms. Broussard. May I have a word?”

  Margeaux stopped and turned to him. There was something about the fellow’s pock-marked, sunken cheeks and unpolished British accent that tweaked a memory. But she couldn’t place him.

  “Yes?” she responded, pushing back her hat’s black lace veil to get a better look at him.

  “Terribly sorry for your loss,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Who was he?

  “You’ve been away from St. Michel for a long time. Are you back for good now?”

  She didn’t quite know how to answer the question. “I have some personal matters to take care of while I’m here, but— Excuse me, but do I know you?”

  From his pocket, the man pulled a small camera and clicked photo after photo. “Rory Malone, Daily Mail.”

  Oh, no! She gasped.

  Hearing the name was a kick in the gut. This was the reporter who had been responsible for the skinny-dipping photographs of Henri and Margeaux, and the story about Colbert being such a bad father.

  Even though he looked older and harder, she’d never forget that name. The jerk was up to his old tricks. Even on this day that should have been s
acred.

  “Would you care to elaborate on these personal matters?” he said, sliding the wristband of his camera over his hand and producing a small notebook and pen from his coat pocket.

  “No, go away, please. The Crown Council public information officer can give you all the information you’ll need for a story about my father’s funeral.”

  Henri stepped between Margeaux and Malone. “Please have some respect. Leave her alone.”

  “Henri Lejardin,” said Malone. “Are you and Ms. Broussard involved again?”

  Henri rounded on the creep. “If you have one shred of decency in your hollow soul, you’ll go away and leave her alone.”

  Henri put a protective arm around Margeaux and walked her to the waiting car. Undeterred, the jerk trailed along behind.

  “Ms. Broussard, were you pregnant when you left St. Michel sixteen years ago?”

  Margeaux heard the deafening silence in the surrounding crowd as she let Henri lead her away.

  “Did you have a child with Margeaux?” Sydney feigned a scandalized surprise. She stood in the doorway of Henri’s office holding a copy of the Daily Mail open to the page where the small article was buried, smirking at the obvious absurdity of the trash.

  “Sydney, don’t.”

  It wasn’t true, and Henri refused to even joke about it.

  The impudent nature of the article—the fact that the weasel had disrespected not only Margeaux, but the entire principality of St. Michel after the funeral of one of its highest ranking dignitaries—left such a bad taste in his mouth, he hoped he never saw the little rat again. Because he couldn’t guarantee the sewer dweller would survive with a full set of teeth.

  “Come on, Henri, lighten up,” she teased. “I’m just treating it like the joke it is.”

  Henri frowned at her.

  “Well, that’s almost as inappropriate as the story,” he said. “It’s nothing to laugh about. But just for the record, Margeaux wasn’t pregnant when she left and we don’t have a child. Anything else you’d like to know?”

  Sydney had been scarce for the better part of the week surrounding Colbert’s funeral. In fact, he hadn’t seen her since the dinner at Margeaux’s house.

  He thought she was giving them room so that they could make all the arrangements for Colbert and get past the burial, but come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure if she’d been at the funeral. As an employee of the state, she would have been welcome at the service, of course. In fact, he was surprised she hadn’t been right in the thick of things given that the Queen was there. Since they’d been dating, she’d been pushing for an introduction. Because of her over-eagerness and the fact that he wasn’t certain how he felt about her, he’d held off.

  Now he was glad he’d listened to his gut.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I certainly don’t mean to be inappropriate. Do you have a moment? There’s something important we need to talk about.”

  He nodded. He had a feeling they were about to have one of those where-do-we-stand talks. Sydney was a fine woman. She deserved someone who loved her with his entire heart. He’d never been able to make that jump from dating to exclusive commitment with Sydney. Though he didn’t want to hurt her, he was still in love with Margeaux. It was time he told her.

  She closed the door, took a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. She crossed her legs primly at the ankle, rather than going for the maneuver where she crossed one leg over the other for maximum skirt-hiking affect.

  Good. This was going to be a serious conversation rather than a battle of flirtatious quips.

  “Despite the recent chaos,” she said, “the museum staff and I managed to get the catalogue printed and the show open.”

  “Yes, you and your staff did a great job. I apologize for not having commended you sooner.”

  She waved away his apology.

  Patrons, the Crown Council and the general public deemed the show a success. In fact, it was a welcome bright spot to offset the loss of Colbert Broussard. Henri had considered delaying the opening, but the Council had unanimously agreed Colbert would want the show to go on.

  So it did: a memoriam to him.

  “Well, there is one way that you can make it up to me if you feel that badly.” She arched her left brow, and Henri opened his mouth to turn the conversation away from the road he was sure she was going to digress.

  But Sydney held up her hand. “No, wait, please, Henri. This isn’t easy for me to do. So, let me finish.”

  She swallowed and he could see her throat work as she did.

  “I’ve been offered another job—in Dallas, Texas, of all places—and I’d like to be released from my duties immediately.”

  It was the last thing Henri expected her to say.

  She must have seen it in his face because she said, “At this point the show can run itself. My assistant is well versed in the day-to-day operations. And you have Margeaux. Please, Henri, let me go.”

  Chapter Five

  The downtown square was abuzz with people. Margeaux, Pepper, A.J and Caroline had to sidestep shoppers juggling multiple bags, merchants sweeping their entryways, and artists painting at easels set up in the middle of the walkway.

  As Caroline snapped a photo of a cat perched on the bakery’s windowsill, she nearly tripped over a dog trolling for attention in front of the butcher shop.

  St. Michel used to be a winter retreat for Britain’s elite and famous. Now, the big season was summer. So, even though the square was well populated, at least they could enjoy it without the traffic jams and other hassles of summer tourism.

  “Mmm…do you smell that?” A.J. said.

  Margeaux drew in a deep breath and was treated to the tantalizing aroma of chocolate mixed with a hint of cinnamon, vanilla and…something magical. The scent was so tempting it made her mouth water.

  If she remembered right, Maya’s Chocolate was just around the corner. It was the shop where Sydney had purchased the delicious chocolate she’d brought to dinner that night she came over. Maya’s was a legend and after sampling her wares, the girls couldn’t wait to go and purchase some to take home.

  Pepper inhaled greedily.

  “I can almost taste that chocolate. It has to be close by.”

  Her friends were leaving the next day, so Margeaux had decided they needed a day of shopping and sightseeing. Plus, she owed Pepper big. After her friend learned that Sydney was interested in moving to Dallas, Pepper saw an opportunity to relocate Margeaux’s competition and called her daddy and told him she had a friend who needed a job. He said any friend of Pepper’s would be an asset to Texron, his billion-dollar corporation in Dallas, Texas, and hired her sight unseen. On one hand, it was good to know that Sydney was out of the picture—at least in St. Michel, and because Sydney had been so grateful for the job, she was sure to be Pepper’s new best friend in Dallas.

  On one hand, Margeaux was grateful, but on the other, she didn’t want to have to remove women from Henri’s life in order to be his number one. In fact, she didn’t want to be his number one if there was a number two. But right now, Sydney was the least of her worries. She still had to tell Henri the truth—that she had been pregnant before her father sent her off to boarding school. Not even her father had known. So, she had no idea how that tabloid reporter, Rory Malone, had.

  The thought of that vile man made her shudder. Henri hadn’t said a word about Malone’s story. He hadn’t asked if it were true. Therefore, she had to believe he’d written it off as tabloid trash.

  Now, she had to decide whether to tell him the truth or to leave it alone. Right now, she was leaning toward letting everything be. She’d always imagined that they would have had a son.

  Yes, a boy, because she was living proof that daughters were too much trouble. Or at least she’d been. The boy would be about fifteen now. Every once in a while, she’d spy a tall teenage boy with dark curly hair and imagine for a fleeting moment that he was their son.

  Of course, the fanta
sy ended as soon as the boy walked by. It was the most bittersweet way to torture herself, because she hadn’t known if the baby was a boy or a girl.

  She never would know.

  She picked up the pace and led her friends around a tight corner that led them to a street that was more of an ancient alleyway than a road built for anything other than pedestrian traffic.

  “Here it is,” Pepper said, pointing upward toward a sign.

  They gathered around a window that was adorned with white lace curtains and was brimming with tins and boxes tied with colorful ribbon. Pyramids of chocolate were arranged on several glass-dome-covered stands. Chocolate-dipped fruit, bonbons, truffles and petit fours were set out in bountiful array on doily-covered trays.

  It was a feast for the eyes that tempted Margeaux to press her nose against the glass. It was just like she remembered.

  Maybe it was the allure of decadence, or perhaps just the promise of what they’d tasted the other night, but they were drawn to the shop like starving men were pulled to a buffet.

  As Caroline held open the glass shop door and they filed in, a wind chime sounded. The sumptuous scent of chocolate tantalized their senses.

  “Bonjour!” a lilting voice rang out.

  “Bonjour,” they answered in unison.

  “You’ll have to be our interpreter,” A.J. whispered. “Can you handle it?”

  “No problem.” Margeaux had been amazed by how many people in St. Michel spoke English now. It was a good thing because her French was rusty from not enough practice. In fact, even Henri had commented on how little of her accent remained after sixteen years.

  During the time she thought she’d never return to her home, Margeaux had purposely tried to lose all traces of her accent. Even during the time she spent in Europe, she’d tried to make herself as American as possible.