“You’ve left, now. Often that’s what it takes to truly miss someone.” Hugh took a long pull at his cider. “I confess, I thought you’d be a pool of tears.”
She thought about it.
“Somewhere along the way, I became confident. I think it was running House Massot. After I fired Gregoire Lazard. I had been settling into my old ways . . . being a little woman, relying on the big strong man. When I found out he was cheating on me—tricking me—I had no more excuses.”
Hugh nodded.
“It was all down to me. And the strange thing was, not only could I handle it, I was bloody good at it.”
“You certainly were,” he said, admiringly.
“If it hadn’t been for Katherine poisoning my son, right now his inheritance would be secure.”
They ate for a minute or so in companionable silence.
“I know that Tom will come back to me. When he understands things a bit better than he does now. He’s been pampered and babied all his life. In fact, if I’m honest, much of it was my own fault.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Can’t I? I believe I can—I must. I was the parent at home with Tom. I was the wife who did everything Pierre asked me to. It’s almost as if, when he married me at nineteen, I froze myself in aspic—preserved myself as exactly that nervous teenager. Why didn’t I challenge Pierre? Why did I raise Tom according to his methods? He wasn’t even there. I should have gone to court, got hold of House Massot long before last year.”
“Sophie.” Hugh shook his head. “You’re rewriting history. You’ve changed—you can’t judge your past actions by the person you are today.”
She seemed unconvinced.
“Well,” she said, and those beautiful dark eyes stared into the crackling fire. “Never again, Hugh. I’m going to do what I think is right, and I won’t be asking anybody’s approval. Not Katherine, not the memory of Pierre, not even Tom. I’m capable. The deba cle with Massot has taught me that, at least.”
“Which is valuable.” Hugh forked up a piece of the braised rabbit; it was sensational, melting into the herbs and broth. Sophie’s speech had given him an idea. But this was not the time for it.
Right now was not about business.
As if she’d read his thoughts, Sophie changed the subject.
“It’s a wonderful pub.”
“I come about once a week.” He added, “And it used to be daily.”
“When your wife died.”
“That’s right,” he said, unembarrassed. “That was my first stage of grief. Anything to get unconscious. They threw me out a couple of times. But I’ve made up for it since.”
Well, this was new, he registered; he was discussing this with another person—with a woman—and it didn’t feel awkward, even slightly.
Sophie said wistfully, “That’s true love.”
“Oh yes,” Hugh agreed.
“I think you’re lucky to have had it,” she said, “because I never did.”
They finished the meal, Sophie appearing to savour every bite. And as he looked at her relaxing, Hugh surrendered; it was definite—he was in love.
Afterwards, he drove her home. Outside Kilcarrick, the road forked to the left, and Hugh spun the wheel slightly to turn into the castle’s two-mile-long drive. It wound through the forest, and the thick trees closed over them, the autumn sunlight streaming through the leaves.
The trees gave way to an open wildflower meadow, and Sophie started, then clapped her hands.
“What’s that for?” Hugh asked, amused.
She sighed with pleasure. “Oh, it’s so beautiful!”
His castle loomed in front of them, and Hugh was overjoyed to see it. Despite his years of neglect, his only occasional visits, when Mayberry allowed him a paltry week off for Christmas, it still seemed warm, almost glowing. The grey stone glowed softly in the setting autumn sun; the huge oaks with their golden leaves that were dotted around his small park were beautiful; the castle was small, rugged, hunkered into the landscape and doggedly prepared to repel all comers. In the past, men had died trying to take her. Today, the most protection it need provide would be against the odd impudent journalist.
“It’s rough,” he said. “But hard and reliable. I like the place. Still, it’s nothing like the château.”
“You’ve never been to the château.”
“True. But I’ve seen pictures. It’s a baroque masterpiece, smooth and ornate.This is much less ornamented—and much less luxurious.”
Sophie laughed. “Maybe castles are like dogs,” she said. “Adapting to their owners?”
He grinned back. “Maybe.”
Hugh parked the car on the gravel and stepped out; Sophie waited for him to open her door. Her hand was light in his as he helped her out of the car and took her little case.
The door opened and Mrs. O’Connor came out to greet them. Hugh made the introduction, Sophie smiled at her kindly.
“Nice to meet you, madam.”
Sophie shook her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mrs. O’Connor.”
“And I you, ma’am.” They were both lying, Hugh thought, and he liked them all the more for it; it showed such innate good manners to try to put others at their ease.
“Is everything ready, Mrs. O’C?” he asked.
“It is, Mr. Montfort, just as you asked. And there’s a nice fire in the drawing room and the sitting room. Shall I show Mrs. Massot to her room?”
Hugh nodded. “And then I’ll take her round the place, and perhaps we’ll have some tea, if that can be arranged.”
“Course it can, sir. Come this way, madam,” Mrs. O’Connor said, and she scooped up Sophie’s case and ushered her forward busily. Sophie raised a brow, but Hugh winked at her; he wanted her to feel comfortable, and uncrowded; he preferred a woman show her to her room.
He walked inside the hall; his old Wellingtons were still there, stashed in the boot room, and on the grey stone walls, the pictures of his ancestors hung over a jar of some slightly faded chrysanthemums, but that was because Mrs. O’Connor was thrifty. It was familiar and welcoming. Hugh made his way to the drawing room; it had a fine view of the copse of oak trees down by the stream that bisected his grounds, a good fishing spot, with trout in the deeper places. There was indeed a fire blazing against the slight chill outside, and he settled in his old burgundy leather armchair and waited.
Sophie came down ten minutes later, after Roberts, his ancient butler, had brought out the tea. She was wearing a beautiful dress of raspberry silk with three-quarter sleeves, adorned with a whimsical Massot brooch: a strawberry, glittering in clusters of ruby and pink tourmaline, with grass green leaves of tsavorite garnet; he loved it. Her feet were now encased in supple black leather heels, Christian Louboutin, he thought, and she had a plain gold cuff around her left wrist. Her beautiful hair was loose around her shoulders, and she had freshened her makeup with a tiny hint of bronzer on the cheeks; she looked warm, like the fire.
“That looks wonderful.” She indicated the tea tray.
“Doesn’t it? I think they pushed the boat out. But then, I did call ahead.”
“Shall I pour?”
He nodded. “Black, no sugar.”
Sophie added a little milk to her cup and one spoonful of sugar. Hugh watched every gesture, drinking it in—the curve of her wrist, the gold glinting on it, the graceful arch of her back.
“I wasn’t hungry, but I am now,” she said.
The tray was groaning. There was the traditional tiered platter of small pastries, a substantial plate of fruitcake, some hot crumbly homemade scones with rich golden clotted cream, jam from the wild strawberries on the estate, and thin-cut sandwiches—slices of roast beef and horseradish, smoked salmon on brown bread, and Mrs. O’Connor’s favourite chicken with rocket and mustard.
Hugh took a scone; Sophie took several sandwiches, handed him his tea, and unapologetically demolished them. He loved her for it; this was incredible—she had no awkwardn
ess, none at all. She seemed as natural in his home as the ivy curling around the battlements, and she made him comfortable—
Well, perhaps that was the wrong word. The line of her neck, the gentle swell of her breasts under the dress, the trim waist, the cool eyes—he found her homely, but breathtakingly excitable. He cast around for something to say. This was really very unusual. It was always women who were nervous near him, and not the other way around.
“Lapsang—my favourite,” she said.
“Almost the only tea worth drinking. But Sophie, I forgot, I was to give you the tour before tea.”
“It’s better like this. I need the caffeine.” She smiled up at him with those luminous eyes. “And besides, you don’t want my stomach rumbling. Your hall might echo, or something.”
“Right.”
“Besides, we’ve got plenty of time,” she said, wryly. “It’s not like either of us has an office to go to anymore.”
He nodded. She was just so beautiful, and her eyes were laughing, and her mouth was just slightly open. There was a tiny crumb on one corner of it, like a beauty spot. He reached out to brush it away with his thumb.
She tensed, instantly—but not with fear, not with rejection. Hugh felt the softness of her face under his calloused hands, the thud, thud of her heart—and he leaned forward, and kissed her.
Hugh brushed his lips lightly over hers; Sophie sat there, un-moving at first, then offered her mouth to him, just slightly, a little gift—he put his hand behind her head, before he knew what he was doing, and seized her, pulled her to him, sharply; her mouth parted, open, and his tongue trailed across the top of her lips, teasing . . .
She moaned; he slipped his arm lower, around her nothing of a waist, sending the tray of pastries crashing to the stone floor; they slid off the chairs, he was lying next to her on the flagstone floor, on the edge of his Moroccan carpet; everything was alight in his mind, the fire, her dress, the warm blood he felt pulsing between his hands, her belly and breasts as she arced into him . . .
“No,” she said. “No . . . ,” and pushed him back, panting. Flushed. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay,” Hugh said.
Damn it. He wanted her. He was aroused beyond measure and horribly frustrated. But he cursed himself. The woman had only just stepped through his front door, he had servants in the kitchen, and he was practically ripping her clothes off?
“It was too soon. I’m sorry. We have plenty of time.” With a herculean effort, he pulled away from her and took her hands in his; they trembled, and he felt the dampness of the adrenaline on her palms. “You’re not going to run away, now, are you?”
Sophie was blushing; he saw the mottling on her skin; yes! Hugh thought, with fierce exultation. She’s frustrated. She wants this too.
“Of course not,” Sophie said. “I just—got carried away.” She smiled, embarrassed. “Technically, it’s only our second date.”
“Right.” He winked at her, and she laughed.
Chapter 40
It didn’t matter how hard he tried, Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
You would never know it, of course, from the way his grandmother acted; their return to the Château des Étoiles had been picture-perfect. Katherine, insisting that Tom’s return should be as his father would have wanted it, engineered a grand pageant. The staff were all lined up outside the front steps, forming a long line towards the house; and as Tom stepped out of the limo, offering his hand to Judy, they had each greeted them as they passed by: “sir” and “Madame,” little bob curtsies from the women, the men inclining their heads. It was as though he were literally royal.
Tom couldn’t get the scene out of his mind. As he gazed out of his bedroom towards the lake—his bedroom, once his mother and father’s room—the unpleasant memory returned. Instead of feeling grand, he had felt foolish; behind the obsequious words, Tom knew, there was contempt, pity—even loathing, in the case of his mother’s former driver. He hadn’t told Grandmother. Katherine would have insisted on having the man dismissed at once, and Tom had no interest, none, in further scandal.
And Grandmother had positively glowed. Possessed with inexhaustible energy and what Tom felt was inappropriate joy, she’d shown him around his childhood home; the portraits of both his parents still hung in the entrance hall, but beyond that, it was transformed—all traces of his mother’s presence removed with lightning speed. The clothes and shoes in her dressing room, vanished; his own suits hung there now. Her modern books, gone from the library; her gardening gloves from the rear lobby. Katherine had even put new plants in the conservatory. His mother’s occasional private bedroom, the one she hadn’t shared with Papa, had been assigned to Judy, with the comfortable styling of a guest chamber.
Grandmother had made it clear that regardless of their relationship, she, and not Judy, was the chatelaine.
And Tom found that was the one aspect of his homecoming he felt comfortable with. Grandmother had wasted no time; the week after they moved in, she threw a little soirée, with a hundred and fifty people Tom had not seen since the affair in his Paris apartment. Celeste and Margot de Fortuny, and their father, the marquis; Georges Tatin, without his pregnant wife; many other forgettable types, all swilling the best champagne from his cellars and practically kissing his ring. There were some handpicked gossip columnists, known for their obsequiousness regarding the rich and famous, and the party got the write-up it deserved: much was made of Tom’s new independence, the mastery of the estate and company, and pleasant remarks on Katherine’s impressive gown of severe gunmetal satin and her stupendous necklace of brilliants.
Judy, of course, hadn’t been able to compete. Surely few women would, and indeed Tom admitted to himself, as he watched a heron rise from the sparkling waters of the lake, victoriously carting off a perch—Mother knew better than to use koi—Judy had not been in any sense disastrous. She was subdued and didn’t say much more than “good evening,” and “I’m sure Tom is delighted to see you.” There was no attempt to present herself as the hostess. And her dress was—well, suitable: navy velvet, with a sapphire pendant he had presented her with.
In fact, he’d been giving her a lot of jewellery lately. It saved having to talk.
Because something felt wrong. Like that dress. Certainly presentable, but uninspired. And Judy’s whole presence in this house. Tom sensed that she held herself very carefully. Was that what he wanted in a girlfriend?
She was . . . uneasy.
Perhaps with good cause. This was the first time he’d really given himself permission to think things through. Tom hated to admit he’d made a mistake, but it was becoming clearer that he had to do something. Judy Dean was intelligent and charismatic and interesting. But she wasn’t inspiring feeling in him. And as good as she was in bed, he felt a little exhausted; the hardness of her body, at first so sexy, was now slightly repellent. He wanted softness in a woman. Judy’s steel core reminded him, in unpleasant ways, of his grandmother.
It’s a joke, Tom thought. I’m meant to be the big man around here, but I still think of my mother. Grandmother is chivvying me along like a hen being hurried back into the henhouse at night. And I’m stuck here in the countryside with a woman that I don’t really want, presiding at my family table.
He was due downstairs for dinner shortly; Judy had told the cook she wanted roast pheasant with chestnut sauce and candied walnuts, one of his favourite dishes; there would be mashed potatoes, peas, and a glass of good claret. All very pleasant—but how much more pleasant, Tom thought, if he didn’t have to eat it with Judy.
Right now she was at the office. Thank God; he would be better able to think without her here.
Well. His grounds did look inviting, bathed in the warm light of sunset. Tom decided to go for a walk; he wanted to clear his head.
“You’re looking around, my dear.” Katherine reached across to Judy and patted her on the knee. “You mustn’t stare, you know; it’s not done to look imp
ressed.”
“I wasn’t—”
But it was no good.The rheumy blue eyes were still sharp with that cynical gaze. Judy knew she’d been caught out. She flushed; how she loathed Pierre’s mother! Oh, it had been a convenient alliance, but the bitch never passed up an opportunity to show that she was still queen bee.
“It is a very beautiful house,” she muttered.
“All true estates have a dower house.” Katherine smoothed her long skirt, vintage Chanel tweed, paired with the matching jacket tailored to her still-slim form; she wore a cream silk shirt by Givenchy and a necklace of pearls the size of marbles, their lustre soft against the wrinkles of her skin. “This is, I believe, one of the better ones in France,” she added complacently. “And my dear Pierre had a great hand in choosing the decor,” she added.
Her claw of a hand gestured at the antique Chinese wallpaper, the curtains of pale orange dress silk fringed with cloth of gold, the cream-and-cornflower tones of the priceless Persian rug that underlay her Louis XIV chairs and Chippendale sideboard.
“He always had such great taste,” Judy forced herself to say.
Katherine looked at her. “Has, Judy, has.”
“Let’s hope so.” She took refuge in her coffee. Bitch! Why did Katherine always twist the knife, talking about Pierre? And throwing parties, to show that Judy was not the hostess. It was as though she was trying to rub in the nasty feeling that Judy couldn’t smother for too much longer—that this little adventure was Pierre, part two.
Judy was in the house with Tom—but not his wife. She was at the parties—but not the hostess. She got gifts of jewels—but no engagement ring. . . .
Judy perceived quite clearly what Katherine was saying, in her roundabout, spidery way; I’m family—you’re not.
Katherine smiled thinly at her, to show she knew what Judy was thinking.Very well, I’ll grasp the nettle, Judy told herself.
“And do you get used to it—all this luxury?” she asked. She lifted her head, brazenly drinking in the antiques, the architecture, the liveried servants; the butler hovering nearby with the silver Georgian coffeepot, and Katherine speaking as though he weren’t even there. Two could play that game.
Sparkles Page 39