by Sara Craven
She showered quickly and dressed in a well-cut russet skirt and a matching blouse. She was still very pale, and there were deep shadows under her eyes, but she made no attempt to disguise them with cosmetics. She looked, she supposed, shrugging, like any other girl on the morning after her wedding night—except that most brides probably looked radiant as well as exhausted.
It was a very long morning. Philippa soon discovered that her new environment ran like clockwork, needing no interference from her. In fact she was sure that any attempt to involve herself in Madame Giscard’s superbly efficient régime would be strongly resented.
She wandered restlessly about the apartment, unable to settle. In spite of the stunning views over Paris from every window which she hadn’t been conscious of the previous night, she still found it characterless, and wondered if she would ever feel at ease there.
But she couldn’t spend the rest of her life looking at views. She would have to find some way of occupying herself—even if only to stop herself from thinking.
As lunchtime approached, she found herself becoming more and more on edge. The eventual sound of Alain’s voice in the hall sent her scuttling to one of the sofas in the salon. She tucked her legs beneath her, pretending to leaf through a current affairs magazine, and hoping she looked composed and relaxed.
She heard him come into the room, and sat staring down at the picture spread on her lap until the photographs danced crazily in front of her.
‘Bonjour.’ As Alain broke the silence, she was forced to look up. She returned his greeting, annoyed to hear her own voice falter slightly.
‘How was your morning?’ He came to sit beside her on the satin-covered sofa, close, but not touching.
‘Fine—and yours?’ Was this how they were going to play it, she wondered hysterically, with meaningless social chit-chat?
‘Busy.’ He paused. ‘May I offer you an aperitif?’
‘Just some Perrier water—if there is some.’
‘There can be whatever you wish,’ he said politely.
Philippa sat clutching the glass he’d handed her. He had poured himself a large whisky, she noted before resuming his seat beside her, still at the same careful distance.
After a silence, he said, ‘About last night …’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘I think we must.’ His contradiction was courteous but implacable. ‘My behaviour was quite unforgivable, after all. I can only offer you my profound regrets.’
His expression was as cool as his voice. Stealing a glance at him under her lashes, Philippa saw a faint mark on his cheek where one of her nails must have caught him.
She said stonily. ‘It really doesn’t matter. I—I married you, so I suppose I should have expected—something of the sort.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You said you wanted a child. Well, perhaps it’s happened—and you’ll be able to—to leave me alone in future.’
Alain said curtly, ‘I doubt, ma femme, whether matters generally arrange themselves quite so conveniently. However, let us hope you are right.’ He swallowed the remainder of his whisky and sat for a moment, staring at the empty tumbler.
His face was expressionless, but Philippa was suddenly and frighteningly aware of an anger in him which transcended anything she had experienced the previous night—a violence that was almost tangible. She had the crazy feeling that at any moment, the delicate piece of crystal in his hand was going to shatter against the fireplace in a million glittering shards.
She made a little sound, and her hand lifted involuntarily to grab his arm. He glanced at her, and as swiftly and completely as if a wire had snapped, she felt the tension between them subside.
Alain set the tumbler down on a side table and rose to his feet. He gave her a smile which did not reach his eyes. ‘Shall we go in to lunch now?’
Wordlessly she nodded, and together they left the salon and crossed the hall to the imposing dining-room, just as Madame Giscard was bringing in the soup.
The meal proceeded largely in silence. Philippa kept stealing covert glances at Alain across the flowers reflected in the sheen of the polished table. She had found to her cost last night how ruthless he could be. Now she had learned he had a temper too. She wondered what other discoveries the ensuing weeks, months—even years would unfold, and shivered inwardly.
‘You haven’t been eating,’ Alain said brusquely, startling her. ‘Is there something wrong with the food?’
‘Oh, no,’ she stammered. ‘It’s wonderful. I think I’m still rather tired …’ She stopped abruptly, feeling the colour sweep into her face, and expecting some sardonic rejoinder.
But all he said was, ‘Then have a rest this afternoon. You have to look radiant for this evening, remember.’
She kept her voice level. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget in the circumstances.’
‘That is unfortunately true. Last night was hardly a glorious hour—for either of us.’ His smile was brief and tight-lipped. ‘I shall try and behave with more consideration in the future. Tonight, for instance, will be enough of an ordeal for you, I think, without dreading my presence in your bed when we return. You have my word you will be left in peace and privacy.’
‘Thank you,’ Philippa returned uncertainly.
‘And if you’ve finished your meal, you need not wait for me. Why not go and enjoy your siesta?’
She pushed back her chair, murmuring something incoherent in reply, and almost fled from the room.
She closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, staring at the bed, aware that she was breathing as rapidly as if she’d taken part in some marathon.
She was safe tonight, she thought, but that was the only guarantee she had. Some time, sooner or later, the door from the adjoining room would open, and she would be expected to submit to him—to allow herself to be used, for no better reason than that she’d been bought and paid for, and he wanted his money’s worth.
There were tears suddenly, thick in her throat, and stinging her eyes.
She said aloud to the emptiness in the room, ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’
And knew before even the sound of her words had died away that she no longer had a choice.
CHAPTER FOUR
PHILIPPA WAS BREATHLESS with nerves as she sat beside Alain that evening in the chauffeur-driven limousine which sped them through the Paris streets to the suburbs where Louis de Courcy lived with his family.
The house was hidden behind a high wall. Craning her neck, Philippa could see only the tops of some elaborately ugly chimneys, as they waited for the electronically operated gates to admit them.
‘My uncle has a phobia about thieves,’ Alain muttered into her ear. ‘He feels if he relaxes his vigilance even for a moment they may break in and steal his collection of tasteless porcelain, or ravish my cousin Sidonie. I think he over-estimates the desperation of such men.’
Philippa refused to laugh. With a hand that shook slightly, she smoothed a fold of the ankle-length jade green skirt she was wearing. The matching silk jersey top had a wide rounded neck and long sleeves, and she hoped it was all sufficiently formal for the evening ahead. Dressing for this unwanted dinner party had been rather like putting on a costume for a play where she was only the understudy, but expected nevertheless to go on and give a performance, knowing someone else’s lines.
The clothes fit, she thought, as the car swept up the drive between depressingly formal flower beds. The girl doesn’t.
The house itself looked square, solid and uncompromisingly dull. There were a number of other cars parked in the drive, and Alain cursed under his breath.
‘So much for the quiet family dinner!’ he said angrily. He turned to Philippa with a shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I did not intend you to be subjected to this kind of occasion quite so soon.’
Philippa lifted her chin. ‘I’ll try not to speak out of turn or use the wrong cutlery,’ she assured him shortly, and his mouth tightened.
‘That is not what I meant, and
you know it.’
The door was opened by a manservant in a white jacket, who gave them a stately greeting and told them that Monsieur and Madame were waiting in the salon with their other guests.
‘Are we the last to arrive, Gaston?’ Alain made a lastminute adjustment to his tie.
‘By no means, monsieur,’ he was assured, as Gaston conducted them along an elaborately decorated hallway.
Alain clasped Philippa’s icy fingers in his. ‘Courage, ma belle,’ he whispered as Gaston threw open the double doors of the salon and announced them.
All conversation in the room ceased abruptly. Philippa seemed suddenly to be the cynosure for a hundred pairs of eyes. She straightened her shoulders, feeling a faint blush warm her face. At second glance, she could see that the room actually held at most twenty people, one of whom was advancing to meet her.
Louis de Courcy was not tall, and was inclined to rotundity. He was slightly bald, and wore a neatly trimmed beard. His fleshy lips beamed welcome, but his smile did not reach his eyes, which were as dark as polished agate, and as hard.
He bowed over Philippa’s hand. ‘My new niece,’ he said. ‘But what a delight! And how cruel of Alain to have kept you from us. As his only living relatives, we might have expected to attend his wedding.’ He spread pudgy hands dramatically. ‘To be informed only after the event was a blow—I will not conceal it.’
Philippa was embarrassed, but she had been primed by Alain.
‘I’m afraid my father’s poor health dictated that the ceremony be as quiet and private as possible, monsieur.’
‘So quiet, indeed, that none of my friends in London had any idea it had taken place, or was even intended,’ Louis de Courcy said, still smiling. He turned, beckoning. ‘Joséphine, allow me to present Alain’s bride to you. Sidonie, come and greet your cousin.’
Madame de Courcy, who was built on the same lines as her husband, showed no great enthusiasm for the encounter. Her plump fingers just touched Philippa’s, and then she made way for her daughter.
Philippa’s first thought was that Sidonie de Courcy was almost exactly as Alain had so unkindly described her. She had a pale, unhealthy skin, pitted with acne scars, and her hair looked coarse and without lustre. She too was overweight, and her cream dress accentuated this, fitting too snugly over her bust and hips. Her smile at Philippa barely curved the corners of her mouth, but when she turned to Alain there was a transformation.
‘You look well, mon cousin.’ Her flush was not unbecoming. ‘Clearly marriage agrees with you.’
Oh, dear, Philippa thought. She’s in love with him and hurting. I didn’t bargain for this.
Louis de Courcy cut in urbanely, ‘You must allow me, Alain, to present your bride to these few friends who have gathered to meet her. This is, after all, a great day for our family.’
And a nightmare for me, Philippa thought, as she was led round the circle. It was all very formal and correct, and she smiled politely until the corners of her mouth began to ache. Louis de Courcy performed the introductions in English. She was aware that she was being patronised, and resented it. Her French, culled from her wanderings with Gavin, was far superior to the usual schoolgirl variety. However, it gave her an advantage in that she could translate for herself the whispered comments which followed her round the circle. She understood that she was ‘very young, very English’—’un peu gauche’—and, more tellingly, with a note of real malice, ‘She will be no match for Marie-Laure, ma chère.’
Her heart lurched, but her smile didn’t falter. Marie-Laure, she thought. Presumably the woman in the scandal. Well, at least, now, she had a name to attach to that sultry voice on the telephone.
She had just completed the round of introductions when the door of the salon opened again, and Gaston ushered in the last arrivals, a man tall and distinguished-looking with grey hair and a moustache, and a much younger woman, blonde and very beautiful, the voluptuous magnificence of her figure set off by the daring chic of her expensive black dress.
‘Monsieur le Baron de Somerville-Resnais,’ Gaston announced into a sudden, profound silence. ‘Madame la Baronne de Somerville-Resnais.’
The room wasn’t just quiet, Philippa realised. It was alive with tension, and a kind of excited expectancy that was almost tangible. She had the feeling that everyone present was holding his or her breath. She looked uncertainly across at Alain, who was standing at a small distance from her. For a moment she thought he’d been turned to stone. She saw too that he was very pale except for an angry flush along his cheekbones. Her heart thudding, she began to wonder.
Louis de Courcy was hurrying forward, smiling expansively, his hands outstretched in welcome. ‘Ah, mon ami, what a pleasure that you and your charming wife could join us! This is a joyous occasion, you understand. We are celebrating the marriage of my nephew Alain to a charming young girl from England. Allow me to present her.’
Philippa was aware that Alain had come to her side. His face was impassive now, but as he took her hand in his and led her forward Philippa could feel the rage in him, dark and powerful as an electric current, communicating itself through the touch of his flesh on hers.
This woman—this Baronne was Alain’s mistress. This was Marie-Laure, she thought, nausea rising in her throat.
And Alain’s uncle had deliberately contrived this situation to embarrass them all—had invited the Baronne and her husband to come here tonight to force a confrontation, to reactivate all the gossip and rumour that their marriage had been supposed to defuse. To damage Alain all over again.
The Baron was drawing himself up in outrage, his face glacial. He said, ‘My dear de Courcy, this is a family occasion on which Marie-Laure and I should not intrude. Permit us to withdraw and leave you to your—celebration.’
Which of course was exactly what Louis de Courcy wanted, Philippa realised in a flash. He had engineered it so that the Baron would leave in a jealous huff, causing a whole new scandal, giving him a whole new range of ammunition to fire at that crucial board meeting.
She walked forward, smiling, holding out her hand. She said in perfect French, ‘Oh, please don’t go, monsieur. I’m having such a wonderful party, and it would spoil it if you—if anyone left. I would feel it was all my fault.’ She let her voice become girlishly excited. ‘Besides, there’s going to be champagne! Surely you’ll stay and drink to my happiness?’
The Baron paused, his narrowed gaze flickering between Philippa and Alain. At last he said, ‘Who could resist such a charming invitation, madame? We will stay, naturally, and drink to your—health. Come, Marie-Laure.’ He drew his wife’s arm possessively through his and led her away.
As the Baronne passed, Philippa was aware of a drift of some exotic, musky scent, and the sweep of a pair of deeply lashed violet eyes, assessing and dismissing her in one comprehensive glance. Marie-Laure de Somerville-Resnais shared, it seemed, the consensus of opinion that between Philippa and herself it would be no contest.
A shaft of anger scored through Philippa, mixed with another emotion less easy to define. Presumably Alain had discussed his marriage with his mistress, told her the terms on which it was based. But that did not mean she merited the other woman’s contempt, she told herself roundly. Who was Marie-Laure to judge—to criticise? On what terms had she herself married the Baron, who looked old enough to be her father?
It was a relief when Gaston announced dinner. It was a long and tedious meal. Philippa, on edge, supposed the food was good, but tasted little of it. She wanted to talk to Alain—to warn him that their sham marriage hadn’t fooled anyone for a moment—but he was at the other end of the table.
‘Do tell us, my dear,’ Joséphine de Courcy leaned forward, her eyes unwinking as pebbles. ‘You and dear Alain—such a romance—and so quick too! Quite fascinating. And the question we all wish to ask is—how did you meet?’
Philippa, grimly aware that she was once more the centre of attention, forced a light smile. ‘Was it really quick? I feel as if I�
�ve known Alain forever. We met through my father, actually. He’s Gavin Roscoe, the landscape painter, and Alain bought one of his pictures—The Bridge at Montascaux.’
There was an astonished silence. Philippa stole a look at Alain, whose whole attention appeared to be centred on the peach he was cutting into quarters.
‘So you are an artist’s daughter,’ Louis de Courcy said jovially at last. ‘Perhaps you will introduce a note of much-needed culture into our crude commercial world.’ He laughed heartily, and was echoed by an uneasy ripple of amusement round the table. ‘Do you share your father’s interest in painting, ma chère?’
‘His interest, perhaps, but little of his talent, although I was actually at art school when Alain and I decided to marry,’ Philippa returned composedly. ‘In fact,’ she added with sudden inspiration, ‘I plan to continue my studies here in Paris with—Zak Gordano.’
‘I am impressed,’ Louis de Courcy said slowly. ‘Monsieur Gordano has a formidable reputation as a teacher.’
Philippa shrugged. ‘Then I hope I can persuade him to take me as a pupil.’
‘I do not think you need concern yourself on that score,’ Sidonie said rudely. ‘As Madame de Courcy, you will find all doors open to you.’
‘Not Zak’s,’ Philippa told her coolly. ‘Painting is what matters to him, not social standing.’ Although the fact that he’s a friend of my father’s might help, she added silently, as she leaned back in her chair.
‘Your wife, nephew, is clearly a woman of talent,’ remarked Louis.
‘Each day I spend with her brings some new and delightful surprise,’ Alain said smoothly.
Philippa shot him a glance under her lashes. His face revealed little, but she felt that delight was hardly his predominant emotion at her impulsive announcement.