by Susan Lewis
A light gleamed in Claudine’s eyes, and in a rustle of skirts she sat down beside Henriette. ‘Because,’ she said, taking Henriette’s fragile white hands between her own, ‘I’m going to marry him.’
She watched Henriette’s angelic face as her friend blinked several times before her mouth actually fell open. Until that moment Claudine had not intended to tell Henriette, or indeed anyone, about her arranged marriage, but as she listened to Henriette an idea had crystallized in her mind – though whether it was a good one or not, it was now too late to decide, for the words were already spoken. There would be repercussions, naturally. Her father might be angry that she had revealed her secret, Tante Céline most certainly would be; and how François and his family might view the indiscretion she had no idea. But one thing she was sure of: telling Henriette about the proposed marriage was tantamount to telling all of Paris, and once Parisian society expected the match, no one in her family would now try to dissuade her from it.
At last Henriette recovered the power of speech. ‘Claudine, you are teasing me,’ she breathed. ‘You aren’t serious, I know you’re not. But what a strange joke.’
‘It isn’t a joke, Henriette. I shall meet him for the first time on Sunday, and soon after that we shall be married.’
Henriette’s face puckered with confusion as she searched her friend’s beautiful blue eyes. ‘I don’t want to believe you, Claudine,’ she said finally. ‘Common sense tells me this can’t be true, but I have a horrible feeling that for once you aren’t teasing.’
Claudine was trying not to laugh. ‘No, Henriette,’ she said softly, ‘I’m not teasing. I am going to marry François de Lorvoire.’
Henriette started to shake her head. ‘No, Claudine,’ she said, ‘no. I can’t let you do this. I should have stopped Aimée and I feel dreadful that I didn’t, but she’s hardly my responsibility. With you it’s different. With you I am going to put my foot down. You are not to go near that man, do you hear? You are to promise me that you will never have anything to do with him.’
‘I’m afraid it’s too late,’ Claudine grinned.
‘Too late! But no, if you’ve not met him yet it can’t be too late. And if you insist on going to the rendezvous, Claudine, I shall inform your father. But how has this come about? If you don’t know him, how can you have an assignation with him on Sunday? Oh Claudine, no,’ she cried, tightening her grip on her friend’s hands, ‘you can’t do this. You don’t know him, he’s a monster. He’s wicked, he’s evil. He won’t marry you, he’ll use you, just like all the …’
‘He will marry me, Henriette.’
‘No! No! Claudine, you’re not listening to me. If it were anyone else I know you would succeed. You’re so beautiful, what man wouldn’t want to marry you? But you’ll never succeed with François de Lorvoire. He’ll never marry you, Claudine, never!’
Henriette was near to tears by now, and her hands were gripping Claudine’s so fiercely that Claudine almost winced with the pain. But as she began to explain the arrangement her father had made with the Comte de Rassey de Lorvoire and his son, the hands around hers slowly relaxed their hold.
‘But he swore he would never marry,’ Henriette breathed, hardly able to take it all in. ‘What has happened to change his mind?’
Claudine shrugged, unable to enlighten her friend – except to say that she believed the Comte, who had saved her father’s life during the Battle of Verdun, probably wanted to ensure that the name of de Rassey de Lorvoire would continue. Henriette immediately pointed out that François had a younger brother, Lucien – and this was something that rather confused Claudine too, since the de Lorvoire line could obviously be continued by Lucien, and Lucien’s children. But as she had no explanation to offer on that score, Claudine simply hugged her friend and said, ‘What does it matter why he has changed his mind? He has, and so we will be married. As I said, it is all arranged.’
Henriette suddenly drew her hands away, and the expression that came over her face saddened Claudine. ‘I don’t know you any more, Claudine,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand you. You have the pick of men in London and Paris, New York too, yet you are allowing yourself to be given away in marriage to a man who … Oh no, I can’t bear to think of it. Do you need me to tell you that marriage is not an adventure? It isn’t one of your games, Claudine. You and the Lorvoires are Catholics: once you are married to François not all the money in the world, not even your father, will be able to rescue you.’
‘You are assuming that I will want to be “rescued”,’ Claudine replied with a smile.
‘I’m not assuming, I know. For heaven’s sake, Claudine, I told you, the man is … You must have heard about Hortense de Bourchain. How can you even contemplate this marriage, knowing what he did to her?’
‘Ah, yes, Hortense,’ Claudine said – but at that moment, to her unutterable frustration, Claude de la Chevasse arrived to whisk his fiancée into the next waltz.
And now, here she was on a train taking her through the Loire Valley to a new life that was beginning to conjure up such fantastic images in her mind, she was beginning to question her own sanity. Even so, she knew that nothing, simply nothing, was going to stop her from meeting François de Lorvoire now. And knowing Henriette as she did, the news of her arranged marriage would be all over Paris by now, so that not even Tante Céline would try to talk her out of it – the scandal if the marriage didn’t go ahead would be too much for her to bear. And as for the sudden bouts of nervousness she was experiencing? Well, that was because François was, indisputably, an experienced lover, whereas she … But she would talk to Tante Céline about that, at the earliest possible opportunity.
Élise Pascale’s blouse was hanging from her shoulders, the top of her silk camisole was hooked beneath her breasts. She looked down at the big dark hands as they caressed her abundant milky white flesh, then sucked in her breath as his fingers closed around her painfully aroused nipples. Her head fell back against the wall and his lips crushed hers, parting them to make way for his tongue.
They were standing on the landing outside her apartment; the key was in her right hand, and with her left she was stroking him through his trousers. For a moment he stood back to look at her, then, as a door slammed somewhere downstairs, he slowly lowered his mouth to her breasts, holding her about the waist as he sucked. Her hand tightened around him, and as he bit harder she started to moan. Then his hands were lifting her skirt, pushing it up to her waist, and she heard him chuckle quietly as he saw she was wearing no knickers. There was both tenderness and savagery in his touch, and an almost sadistic pleasure in the way he was teasing her. She had never in her life experienced anything to match the eroticism of François de Lorvoire’s love-making.
As he stood straight, she looked up into his face and saw that he was laughing. He could sense her mounting frustration, he knew only too well how he affected her, but she simply let him look at her, knowing that he would take her when he was ready.
Five minutes later they were lying naked on her bed. For a long time he lay still as she kissed and caressed him, then finally he pushed her onto her back and stood up. As she watched him, every pulse in her body throbbing, he walked to the foot of the bed, took her ankles in his hands and dragged her to the edge. Then he hooked her feet around the two posts, caught her hips between his hands and lifted her to meet him. She could feel the tip of his penis brushing against her, and almost choking on the intensity of her longing, she looked down as slowly he eased himself into her.
Within minutes she was writhing, gasping, sobbing as he pounded his body against hers; his fingers dug into her buttocks, then caught her breasts and pulled hard on her nipples. He watched her face, waiting until she had lost all sense of everything beyond what he was doing to her. Then, knowing his own control was about to break, he quickly pulled her up and pressed his lips brutally over hers.
Her legs gripped his waist, her nails clawed his shoulders, then she was crying out his name, and he was shoo
ting his semen into her with rapid, excruciating strokes.
When it was over he lay down on the bed beside her, and she snuggled against him, resting her head on his chest and curling a leg over his. He didn’t speak for a long time, and she knew that his thoughts had long since moved from the confines of that room. If she was lucky, though, they would make love again before he left.
And probably they would have, had she not made the grave mistake of telling him something she had overheard when she had dropped in at the Hungarian Embassy ball in the early hours of that morning.
An ominous silence followed her words. Then he asked her to repeat them.
‘It would appear,’ she said, smiling to cover her unease, ‘that l’Anglaise has seen fit to reveal the secret of your forthcoming nuptials. All of Paris is talking about it.’
Still he didn’t move, but as she reached up to pull his face round to hers, he swung his legs to the floor. She started to protest, to ask where he was going, but one glimpse of his expression was enough to tell her that she would be wise to keep silent.
– 2 –
CÉLINE DU VERDON stretched her long legs across the window seat, allowing her pastel cotton dress to fall open almost to mid-thigh. Her dark blonde hair was loose, falling in natural waves around her shoulders, and her delicately lined face was for once free of make-up. The tall windows beside her were open, and she inhaled deeply the rich, earthy aroma that seeped up from the rain-spattered lawns. Now the sun was shining again, scorching the gardens with an intensity unusual in early June. At the end of the wide, sloping lawns the doves were poking their faces warily out of the dovecote, and somewhere out of sight she could hear the gardeners beginning work again.
She was sitting in the spacious airy drawing-room she had favoured since her arrival at the Château de Montvisse. With its faded oriental rugs, matching pair of japanned sofas, three giltwood armchairs and secretaire-cabinet behind the door, it was a pleasant change from the over-furnished salons and parlours of Paris. Of course, she was a Parisienne at heart, and nothing would ever change that, but though it hurt her to admit it, the strain of being one of the city’s great society hostesses was becoming a little too much – Céline du Verdon was getting older. With the exception of her brother-in-law, Beavis Rafferty, there wasn’t a soul in the world who now knew her true age. Even she became confused on the rare occasions when she put herself to the task of remembering, something she did only when Beavis was around, for he took much delight in reminding her that she was exactly the same age as he was, to the day: fifty-one. Younger sisters were such mischief-makers, Céline thought. It really had been too tiresome of Antoinette to inform her husband of this inconsequential fact. Dear Antoinette, how she missed her – how they all missed her. But there was always darling Claudine, who was so like her mother that seeing her gave almost as much pain as it did pleasure.
Glancing at the ormolu clock, the sole occupant of the mantleshelf, Céline gave a gentle sigh, slipped off her shoes and curled her feet under her like a schoolgirl. It was approaching four in the afternoon. The humidity outside was unendurable but, protected by the old stone walls of the château, the rooms inside were wonderfully cool and still … And then there was a curt knock on the door, before it swung open.
‘Yes, Brigitte?’ Céline sighed, closing her eyes. She and her maid had been together for so many years that she could sense Brigitte’s presence as accurately as she could her moods.
‘Madame,’ Brigitte said stiffly, ‘your guests will arrive very soon now.’
‘Yes?’ Céline answered, drawing out the word and knowing full well what was on Brigitte’s mind.
‘I implore you, madame, to make yourself presentable.’
‘What do you mean, Brigitte?’
Brigitte’s small frame pumped up with outrage. ‘It is not fitting for a lady such as yourself to be without stockings, madame. And that dress, pah! You look like a lady who sells pegs on the side of the streets.’
‘Brigitte, I adore you. And I adore you most of all when you are angry with me.’
‘Madame, I am very angry. You are mocking me, and now all the servants are laughing at me because I cannot dress you correctly. Why do you have to hurt me like this?’
Céline felt a flutter of sympathy, and was just beginning to resign herself to going upstairs to change into the smart afternoon suit dear Coco had created for her when the sound of a car on the gravel drive told her it was too late. Beavis and Claudine had arrived. She had to struggle to hold back the laughter as she saw the stricken expression on Brigitte’s face.
‘Come here, Brigitte,’ she said, as she unwound her legs and pulled herself gracefully to her feet.
Obediently Brigitte crossed the room, her rubber soles squeaking, her starched uniform rustling, and allowed Céline to fold her into an embrace. The overwhelming love she felt for her mistress swamped her pride and brought tears into her eyes.
‘Now,’ Céline said, releasing her, ‘come with me to greet Claudine. You know how you have been longing to see her. So let’s forget my appearance, because it really isn’t important.’
‘Oh, madame, how can you say such a thing?’ Brigitte gasped, but Céline was already sweeping out of the room.
Outside, in the small octagonal entrance hall, Pierre, who had been waiting all afternoon for the arrival of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Rafferty, leapt up from the conversation seat where he had been dozing and threw the front doors wide.
‘Tante Céline!’ Claudine cried, stepping from the car as her aunt’s tall figure emerged from the darkness of the doorway.
‘Ma chérie,’ Céline laughed, as her niece embraced her. ‘How are you? Let me look at you. Oh, but you’re so beautiful you are dazzling my eyes. And that hat. Where did you get it chérie, it is simply divine. And your hair, so much hair, so wild and such a colour. How can I have forgotten such a colour?’ She sighed wistfully as she tousled the coppery black curls. ‘Oh Claudine, it has been too long since I have seen you. But you are here now.’ And she hugged her again.
‘Do I get one of those?’ Beavis’ deep voice demanded.
Céline looked up, and as her eyes softened into a smile meant only for him, she passed her niece into Brigitte’s more formal embrace and turned to her brother-in-law.
‘What a pleasure,’ she purred. ‘How happy I am to see you both.’ Her body trembled with the memory of the last time Beavis had held her in his arms. Sensing that he too was remembering, she allowed her hips to brush gently against his before slipping out of his arms. It was a pity that there would be no love-making on this visit, but they had discussed it during his most recent trip to Paris and had come to the conclusion that neither of them wanted to run the risk of Claudine finding out. She might not understand, might even think they had been conducting a liaison while her mother was still alive – though Beavis had loved Antoinette far too much ever to be unfaithful, and Céline, while not quite so circumspect where other lovers were concerned, would never have done anything to hurt her sister.
‘You are breathtaking, Céline,’ Beavis told her, his grey eyes twinkling mischievously as he held her at arms’ length and looked at her. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen you quite so … quite so … No, I am lost for words, but the countryside evidently agrees with you. You look like a teenager when you must be …’
‘I’ll have Jean bring us some champagne,’ Céline cut in quickly. ‘I do so love champagne at this time of day, don’t you, chérie?’ she said, slipping an arm around Claudine’s shoulders.
‘I love champagne at any time of the day, Tante Céline,’ Claudine informed her, ‘and so do you. Oh Papa!’ she cried, suddenly, ‘we’ve left Tante Céline’s gifts in the car,’ and she tripped lightly back down the steps to where Pierre was trying to balance the brightly-coloured packages one on top of the other.
‘Gifts? For me?’ Céline sighed, wondering how her niece managed to look so cool in such heat. ‘Ah, how like her mother she is. Everyone must have
a gift for every occasion. Beavis, you must be impoverished by now with such extravagance in your family.’
But for once Beavis’ attention was not on his daughter. ‘If you insist on looking so desirable, Céline,’ he said, ‘this pact of ours is not going to be easy to keep.’ He spoke in English, so that Brigitte and the other servants who had collected in the hall to welcome them wouldn’t understand.
‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea anyway,’ Céline murmured, aware of the warmth that was spreading through her body. ‘But for now we shall content ourselves with a glass of champagne, before I show you around this funny little château I’ve taken for the summer. I have put you in the west tower, mon cher, where I thought you might be less tempted to bumble about in the night trying to find me.’
‘How very thoughtful of you. But the kind of temptation you exercise, Céline, makes light work of the darkest corridors and stairways. And by the way, I resent the suggestion that I might bumble.’
They passed an extremely pleasant hour sipping Roederer and extolling the virtues of Chinon, the medieval town which lay along the banks of the River Vienne, five kilometers from Montvisse. Their chauffeur, Claudine told Céline, had given her and Beavis a guided tour along the quai and through the narrow cobbled streets, where the houses built for the servants of Charles VII at the beginning of the fifteenth century were not only still standing, but still lived in.
‘And the château!’ Claudine cried. ‘How can the French have allowed such a tragedy? It sits there at the top of the hill, right above the town – a ruin! Even so, it’s enchanting, Tante Céline – we must visit it before you return to Paris. Do you think we’ll be allowed inside? They say Joan of Arc was there once …’