by Susan Lewis
Élise looked up. François, emerging from his thoughts, was getting up and walking over to the telephone. She had missed him these past ten days, and now his vast shoulders, arrogant, almost sinister face and powerful hands were arousing her in a way she couldn’t ignore. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard, trying to prove to herself that she could – if only this once – conquer her need for him, but as he turned and casually crossed one long leg over the other, resting against the back of a chair, she found herself moving towards him.
A flicker of surprise sparked in his eyes as he saw her standing there, then he smiled as he read what was on her mind. Her heart turned over at the rare expression of tenderness on his face, and already her breath was quickening as he lifted a hand and cupped it around her delicate jaw, drawing her to him. But as his mouth closed over hers, the telephone operator chose that moment to ring back, and he pushed her away.
‘Get me Lorvoire four-five-nine,’ he said into the receiver.
Élise’s carefully schooled features betrayed nothing of what she was feeling, but the fact that he was calling his home angered her. ‘I will give you all that I am able to give,’ he had said, ‘and it will be to you, and you alone, that I shall turn for fulfilment …’
There had never been any doubt in her mind that he meant what he had said, and he had never done anything since to suggest that his intentions had changed. In fact he had gone out of his way to tell her of his marriage plans before she could hear them from anyone else, and had even gone on to explain that the Rafferty girl was his father’s choice, not his – it was a marriage of convenience. She had been moved by his unprecedented consideration for her feelings, and so convinced of his aversion to the match that she had almost pitied l’Anglaise.
That was until she had laid eyes on the bitch.
She had never asked François for a description of his intended. English women all looked the same as far as she was concerned – buck teeth, rosy cheeks and sturdy thighs. But when La Rafferty had turned out to be at least six years her junior, and so breathtakingly beautiful that all Paris was talking about her, Élise had turned sick with fear and jealousy: Louis de Lorvoire always had known what he was doing, and in the choice of bride for his son he had remained consistent.
By way of comfort, Élise would remind herself of what François had said after his first encounter with The Bitch. ‘If it wasn’t that Beavis would consider it a great insult, I should ask him to remove his daughter from Lorvoire within the week. As it is, she gives me the distinct impression she has made up her mind to marry me, and seems quite undaunted by the fact that I find her not only superficial but lamentably immature.’
Despite her jealousy, Élise had found his predicament amusing, and had laughed aloud when he’d told her how Claudine had kicked his foot into the fountain. Obviously, Claudine didn’t have what it took to handle a man like François: a subtlety and cunning to match his own, and the ability to recognize his changing moods without registering any kind of emotional reaction. Claudine Rafferty was too gauche and too flighty even to begin to understand what was necessary to negotiate the darker side of François’ nature. But reality would hit her soon enough, and providing The Bitch wasn’t some kind of masochist, it wouldn’t be too long, Élise had told herself then, before she went scuttling back to England where she belonged.
But, to Élise’s horror, within eight days of meeting the girl François had come to her and demanded that she, Élise, pay a visit to Van Cleef and Arpels to select a ring of betrothal. She had chosen the ring, as she did everything François asked of her, with taste and care, but she had resolved there and then that, if ever it was necessary, she would not hesitate to betray him and let The Bitch know her precious ring had been the choice of her husband’s mistress.
When Monique had come to see her, two weeks before the wedding, to suggest that together they might somehow arrange to be rid of Claudine, Élise’s initial response had been one of enthusiasm. But then she had remembered François’ uncanny knack of finding out the very thing you least wanted him to know – and though he might not want the marriage with Claudine himself, he could not be guaranteed to find interference from other parties – in particular his ‘whore from Toulouse’ – acceptable.
But as the day of the wedding drew closer, Élise had begun to wonder if she had done the right thing in sending Monique away; their interference might have been welcome after all – for François was now almost beside himself with rage that the girl refused to pull out. ‘She behaves as though I am in love with her and refusing to believe it!’ he stormed. ‘What must I do to prove that I find her the most tedious woman it has ever been my misfortune to meet? God knows, I don’t want to be married at all – I don’t want a woman meddling in my affairs or wheedling for my attention – but if I must marry, why in hell did my father have to pick someone who is nothing more than a wilful, over-indulged child? I can’t understand why my parents are so ridiculously smitten with her. She’s a fool. She’s even fooled herself into thinking she’s in love with me.’
Élise was surprised. ‘You’ve mentioned nothing about this before. Do you really think she’s falling in love with you?’
‘It isn’t what I think, it’s what she thinks. Well, there’s only one way to make her see how ridiculous she is …’
That had been two days before the wedding. Then had come Claudine’s flight from the honeymoon suite – François had no idea Élise knew about that – followed by an early return from Biarritz. Clearly, François had achieved what he had set out to do and knowing him as she did, Élise shuddered at the thought of the methods he would have employed.
And yet, no matter what had passed between Claudine and François over the past ten days, Élise was still wary. It was a perverse truth that François’ unsightliness and his disdain only added to the power of his attraction. Claudine had certainly been strongly attracted before the wedding, even if she wasn’t now; who was to say that marriage might not revive the attraction – or even that François might not come to be attracted to Claudine? That was what frightened Élise more than anything else, for if she lost François she lost everything. As his mistress, she, the daughter of a Toulouse forgeron, was a member of polite society; she received invitations to the opera and the theatre, she was included on the guest lists for charity balls and excursions to the races at Longchamp. She would never, of course, be invited into the homes of the people she mixed with, but for now at least, it was enough that the men came to her apartment to meet François, and that her skills as a hostess were properly recognized. Often the men came when François was away, but there was never anything furtive or unseemly in their visits, they came simply because they enjoyed her company; the bachelors among them might walk with her in the Tuileries Gardens or take her for coffee to a pavement café in Montmartre. Élise took great pleasure in her popularity, for she had no close friends of her own. Since knowing François she had had no need of them – he gave her everything.
But what really mattered to Élise more than anything else – more than the friends François brought her, the clothes, the jewels, the success – were the hours they spent alone together, when the mere touch of his fingers could inflame her with such desire that she felt without him she might die. No man had ever done to her the things that François de Lorvoire did, and no man had made such demands of her. She had thought she knew all there was to know about the art of making love, but he had shown her ecstasy and she dreaded above all else to lose it. To lose it to Claudine … For if François were ever to make love to Claudine the way he did to her, it would mean only one thing, that he had fallen in love with his wife …
Élise, turning these uncomfortable thoughts over in her mind, had wandered from the drawing-room into the bedroom and now stood staring absently down at the bed. She was so deep in thought that she didn’t realize François had followed her until she heard the door close behind him.
She turned, and when she saw him standing there, his
dark, unshaven face looking meaner than ever, her eyes began to shine with hunger. ‘What happened to the telephone call?’ she murmured.
‘It can wait,’ he answered, starting towards her.
‘You mean, you aren’t eager to speak to your wife?’
He laughed, and reached behind her to pull the clip from her hair. ‘As a matter of fact, I was calling my mother. Lucien is leaving Spain and returning to his regiment.’
‘Oh?’ She turned her head to kiss his hand as his fingers raked gently through her hair. Now wasn’t the time to pursue the implications of Lucien’s decision, so she only said, ‘You’ve seen Lucien since the wedding?’
‘I have,’ he confirmed, using his free hand to unfasten his collar. He smiled. ‘So you see, there was no need for you to be jealous that I was calling Lorvoire.’
She laughed softly. ‘You know me too well.’ And putting her arms around his neck, she tilted her face to his.
The touch of his lips was light, but it was enough to send an electrifying thrill through her body. She pressed herself against the hardness of his thighs, but he removed her arms from his neck and went to lie on the bed. It was her cue to undress.
For a while, as she peeled the clothes from the rounded curves of her body, Élise kept her eyes lowered, not wanting him to see her expression … If François had seen Lucien in the past ten days, it could only mean that he had left Claudine in Biarritz with the maid. And if he was telephoning his mother, it must mean that he had come straight to Paris – to her – leaving Claudine to return to Lorvoire alone.
Élise’s sense of triumph was intoxicating. It was highly probable, she thought, that Claudine was afraid of François by now, something which in itself would disgust him. She laughed quietly to herself. There seemed little chance now that this marriage would work – and she, Élise Pascale, was going to do everything in her power to see that it didn’t. For no matter how often François told her he would never marry her, she knew that in the end he would. And that would set her apart from all the great courtesans of France. Not for her the humiliation of being cast aside in preference for another: one day she was going to be the Comtesse de Rassey de Lorvoire. And though The Bitch presented an enormous obstacle, Élise Pascale would overcome it – by whatever means she felt compelled to employ.
– 9 –
STILL IN HER dressing-gown and slippers, Claudine was sitting on the sofa in her and François’ suite at the Lorvoire château, listening in mounting disbelief to what her sister-in-law was saying. Monique had welcomed her home the night before with astonishing warmth, and then said she would come to her apartment first thing in the morning because she had something of the utmost importance to tell her: but not even in her wildest imaginings had Claudine guessed what it was.
‘… that’s why I’ve been so longing for you to come home,’ Monique gushed, tightening her grip on Claudine’s hands. ‘I know that’s selfish of me when you were on your honeymoon, but you just don’t know how wonderful it is to have a sister at last, someone I can confide in. I hope you think of me in the same way. And you know Freddy so well! It’ll help him, having you here, a familiar face, and he’s so incredibly fond of you. I confess I was a little jealous at first, but now … Oh Claudine, I’m so happy. Are you surprised? No, don’t deny it, of course you are. Everyone will be when we tell them, but what does the difference in our ages matter when we love each other? There are twelve years between you and François, and no one said a thing about that, did they?’
‘Not about that, no,’ Claudine murmured. Then forcing a smile, she said, ‘Have you set a date for the wedding yet?’
‘No, not yet. Perhaps it’s a little soon after yours to be thinking about it this year. I’ve always been rather keen to have a Spring wedding, what do you think? Spring next year?’
‘I think it sounds ideal,’ Claudine answered, not knowing what else she could say.
‘I’ll put it to Freddy later, I’m sure he’ll agree. He dotes on me, Claudine, it’s quite touching to see.’
‘And what about you? Do you dote on him?’
Monique gave a squeal of laughter. ‘Of course! How can anyone not dote on Freddy? He’s so romantic. He writes me poems all the time. If you promise not to tell, I’ll show you – they’re so passionate I could almost blush when I read them.’
‘How much longer is he staying at Montvisse?’ Claudine asked. ‘I mean, isn’t Tante Céline returning to Paris soon?’
‘Oh, haven’t you heard? But of course you haven’t, how could you? Céline has decided to stay on at Montvisse indefinitely, and she’s told Freddy he’s welcome to stay for as long as he likes. Naturally, I’ve invited him to Lorvoire, but he says it might be a little difficult for him to be under the same roof as me all the time. Isn’t he naughty, thinking things like that?’
Claudine couldn’t help being glad that at that moment there was a knock on the door and Louis appeared. ‘All right to come in?’
‘Of course,’ Claudine smiled, standing up and holding out her arms. ‘How are you? And how’s Solange?’
‘I couldn’t be better,’ he said, embracing her. ‘And Solange is fine too. Last time I saw her she was doing something drastic to her maid’s hair!’
Laughing, Claudine led him to the sofa. ‘I’m sorry I was too tired to join you all for dinner last night,’ she said.
‘Oh, I quite understand, ma chère. It was a long journey, and with the weather being so dismal in Biarritz … But as you can see, it’s no better here. It hasn’t stopped raining for three days.’
‘Claudine!’ a voice suddenly sang out. ‘Where are you, chérie?’ And then Solange bustled in, a scarf tied around her hair, her dressing-gown misbuttoned, and her hands behind her back. As soon as she saw her mother-in-law’s intent, childlike face Claudine felt a lump rise in her throat, and she moved quickly to take her in her arms.
‘No! Wait!’ Solange cried. ‘I have something here for you.’ And with a flourish she pulled a huge bunch of flowers from behind her back. ‘Welcome home!’
‘Oh Solange!’ Before Claudine could stop them, tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Solange,’ she said again, as she took the flowers and put an arm about her shoulders. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Not half as much as she’s missed you,’ Louis remarked. ‘Monique had to take her to Paris at the weekend before she drove me insane.’
‘Don’t talk about me as if I weren’t here,’ Solange retorted haughtily. ‘And I won’t remind you how many times you telephoned me while I was there, because I lost count. However, suffice it to say you were going insane without me.’
Looking at them, Claudine suddenly found herself wondering how two such wonderful people could have fathered a son like François. Quickly, before the tears came, she said, ‘I’ll take the flowers in to Magaly,’ and giving Solange another kiss, she vanished into her bedroom.
Her maid was in the bathroom, rearranging the Lalique bottles on a shelf. ‘Can you see to these, Magaly?’
‘Of course, madame.’ Magaly gave her a searching look, but with a small shake of her head Claudine disappeared into her dressing-room. She wouldn’t cry any more, and she wouldn’t talk about him any more either.
From a dressing-table drawer she took a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. Magaly knew everything of course. How could she not when she had spent those ten horrific days in Biarritz with them? But she wouldn’t think about that now, she would never think about it again. The tears she had shed every time François left her bed had changed nothing then, and tears would change nothing now. What she needed to do now was to settle down to her new life at the château and the fact that she was his wife, she told herself forcefully, was not to be allowed to affect things in any way. What passed between them at night took half an hour or less, and providing she kept out of his way the rest of the time, her life and her emotions were her own to govern.
‘Oh, Maman, do we have to?’ Monique was grumbling as Claudine walked back into the sitti
ng-room.
‘Have to what?’ Claudine asked brightly.
‘Maman has arranged for us to visit the de Voisins at Montbazon this afternoon,’ Monique answered. ‘Couldn’t we telephone and explain that Claudine has arrived, so we can’t make it today?’
‘But they will want to see Claudine too!’ Solange cried.
‘I should imagine,’ Louis interrupted, ‘that Claudine is eager to visit her aunt – alone,’ he added forcefully, seeing his wife’s eyes light up at the prospect of a visit to Céline. ‘So I think it a very good idea that you take your mother to Montbazon, Monique, then tonight we shall have dinner here and invite Céline and Freddy to join us. How does that sound?’
‘Dinner!’ Solange shrieked, leaping to her feet. ‘We are having dinner here? Then I must go and talk to Arlette.’
‘Why doesn’t Claudine have a word with the cook?’ Louis suggested.
‘Claudine! But she’s a guest!’
Louis shook his head, and Solange blinked. Then her hands flew to her face and she gave a cry of joyous comprehension. ‘And you, chérie,’ Louis continued, smiling, ‘can go and rescue poor Tilde from those new-fangled curlers you’ve bound her up in.’
‘Oh, Tilde! I’d quite forgotten about her!’ Solange gasped. She started from the room, then turned back. ‘Oh, Claudine,’ she said, ‘I have a message for you from François. He telephoned last night, after you had gone to bed. He says he will return in time for dinner this evening.’ She frowned. ‘Or did he say Lucien would be here for dinner? I forget.’
‘François is coming this evening,’ Louis said, taking off his spectacles and wiping them with his handkerchief. ‘Lucien will be here next week.’