Inherited by Her Enemy

by Sara Craven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SHE HAD BRACED HERSELF for Andre’s arrival, but when he walked into the room and she saw the bleakness of his expression, her heart felt wrenched.

  She said huskily, ‘I’m sorry.’

  And it was true. It was her misguided attempt to intervene in whatever was going on between Cilla and himself that had triggered this disaster. Instead, she should have closed her eyes and kept her distance.

  Because she’d known from the start—probably from the moment she saw him—the danger she was in.

  But she’d told herself that her feelings were down to dislike and resentment, too inexperienced to recognise the tug of sexual thrall for what it was. Or to realise that it was jealousy as well as anger that had taken her to him that day. And love that had brought her here.

  He said abruptly, ‘I too regret—everything.’ He shook his head. ‘I have been hoping, praying that for once Clothilde might be wrong.’

  She winced inwardly. ‘But it doesn’t change anything,’ she said quickly. ‘I shall still go back to England.’

  His mouth hardened. ‘Au contraire. Tomorrow at the party I shall announce our engagement, and we will be married as soon as the legal formalities are complete.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t—you can’t mean that.’

  ‘You forget, Virginie.’ His voice was harsh. ‘I know what my father suffered, knowing his only child was being raised in another country by another man, and the extreme it drove him to. You think I will allow that to happen to me? That I would be content to provide financial support and the occasional visit?’ He drew a sharp breath. ‘Never in this world.’

  ‘But you don’t understand...’

  ‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘It is you, ma belle, who cannot comprehend how I would feel if our child was sick or in an accident and I could not be with you at the bedside. Or the pain of not seeing that first step—hearing that first word.’

  He paused. ‘And whatever you may believe, there is still a stigma attached to a child born outside marriage. Bastard is an ugly word which some people do not hesitate to use. Almost from the moment she arrived back in Terauze, Maman had the support and protection of Papa Bertrand, but even so, she was not invulnerable.’

  He added quietly, ‘And nor was I.’

  Ginny was silent, remembering from her own youth how cruel children could be, in her case, if you did not have the trendiest clothes, or if they found your school meals were subsidised. Imagining the kind of jibes that would have been levelled at the man looking at her so steadily.

  He said, ‘But who will defend you, Virginie? Your mother? I do not think so.’

  Nor did she, all her attempts at making contact over the past weeks having totally failed, but, just the same, she lifted her chin defiantly. ‘You’re determined to think the worst of her.’

  Andre shrugged. ‘I wish you to face reality. And, in doing so, to accept the shelter of marriage for yourself and our baby. We should not forget that the child could be the future heir to Terauze.’

  But marriage is the reality I can’t bear to face, Ginny thought wildly.

  Living with you, sleeping with you, needing you. And, when you’re not with me, wondering where you are and who you’re with.

  How can I do that? How can I—when the shelter you offer will only make me more vulnerable?

  Her voice shook a little. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for this heir to be born in a marriage of love rather than convenience?’

  ‘Peut-être,’ he said. ‘In an ideal world. But we must deal with the situation as it is.’

  He walked over to the sofa and knelt, taking her hand. ‘Virginie, I beg you honour me by becoming my wife.’ He added with constraint, ‘I promise I will try to make you happy.’

  At the expense of someone else’s sorrow...

  She thought it, but did not say it. She looked at the tanned fingers enclosing her own, and nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Then I suppose—yes.’ She released her hand from his clasp. ‘I—I don’t know how to fight you any more, Andre.’

  He smiled at her and rose. ‘Vraiment? Then you will make the perfect wife, ma mie. Now I shall tell Papa Bertrand the good news.’

  ‘All of it?’ she asked apprehensively.

  He shrugged again. ‘Pourquoi pas?’ he countered. ‘If he has not guessed already.’

  He bent and, realising he intended to kiss her and unable to trust herself not to respond, she shrank back against the cushions.

  He straightened, the firm mouth twisting in derision. ‘Keep your distance by day, if you wish, chérie. But the nights will bring their own compensations.’ He walked to the door and turned. ‘For us both,’ he added softly. ‘As I am sure you remember.’

  And left her staring after him, her heart beating wildly.

  * * *

  The black taffeta, Ginny decided critically, surveying herself in the mirror, looked almost better tonight than it had done in the shop, which was gratifying when this might be the only occasion she’d be able to wear it. And her high-heeled court shoes and sheer black tights somehow made her slim legs look endless.

  It was a long time since she’d been to a big party and even longer since she’d possessed a dress quite as flattering and—well, sexy as this one, and, in spite of her very real concerns about the future, she felt a flutter of excitement inside her.

  I’ve scrubbed up pretty well, she thought, reverting to self-mockery. Tonight I might even have given Cilla a run for her money.

  She’d phoned both Rosina and her sister the previous day, telling them that she was to be married, but, again, her messages went straight to voicemail, and there had been no call-back. Yet surely they couldn’t still be in the Seychelles.

  It’s as if I’ve ceased to exist for them, she acknowledged with a faint sigh as she went downstairs.

  The table in the centre of the hall was now laden with food and lit by candelabra. In a corner, a group of local musicians were quietly tuning up, and two girls from the village, resplendent in brief dark skirts with crisp white shirts and aprons were waiting to serve drinks.

  Gaston, checking that all was ready, gave her his warm, shy smile and told her that the Baron and Monsieur Andre were in the salon.

  The door was ajar and as Ginny paused to smooth her skirt and take a deep breath, she heard the Baron say, ‘You expect me to be pleased? To accept this girl as your wife, when I hoped that for you, mon fils, it would be a very different marriage.’

  And Andre’s reply, ‘Papa, it is the best I can hope for. And I have only myself to blame.’

  For one numb, stricken moment, Ginny stood motionless. Her overwhelming temptation was to retreat to her room, pack her things and disappear into the night.

  But that would be the coward’s way out, as well as disrupting an important night for the Château Terauze, when Andre went in search of her, as he undoubtedly would.

  Besides, she told herself, she already knew and accepted how things were and it would be sheer hypocrisy to pretend otherwise and throw any kind of wobbly, so she pushed the door wide and walked in, her head held high and her smile firmly pinned in place.

  They both turned to look at her, but the Baron was the first to speak. ‘Ravissante,’ he declared, forcing a smile. ‘Is that not so, Andre?’

  There was the briefest silence, and she saw Andre’s mouth twist almost wryly. He said quietly, ‘Tu as raison, mon père. You are—very lovely, Virginie.’

  She murmured an awkward word of thanks and turned away, feeling the colour rise in her face.

  After all, she thought, what else could he say?

  It was marginally easier when people began to arrive, and all she had to do was stand between Andre and his father, smiling and saying ‘Bonsoir,’ as one introduction succeeded another in quick succession.r />
  I hope I don’t have to answer questions later on who I’ve met tonight, she thought, as the faces began to merge into a blur.

  When the last guests had arrived, she managed to detach herself from Andre, enmeshed in a discussion with other vignerons, and find a quiet corner in which to draw breath.

  But, almost at once, she found herself accosted by Monique Chaloux in dark green brocade.

  ‘One would hardly recognise you, mademoiselle. What a difference expensive clothes can make.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ginny returned coolly. ‘I can’t afford such pleasures.’

  Mademoiselle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yet you are wearing a Louise Vernier tonight. A present from Monsieur Andre, perhaps, to pay you for whatever services you have provided, before he sends you on your way?’ She tittered. ‘He has been generous, so you cannot be as dull as you seem in bed.’

  ‘How dare you?’ Ginny said, her voice shaking. ‘I paid for this dress myself.’

  ‘You have two thousand euros to squander? Permit me to doubt it.’

  ‘Two thousand?’ Ginny stared at her. ‘You’re being ridiculous. It cost less than two hundred.’

  ‘No,’ Monique said cuttingly. ‘If you believe that, you are the fool, mademoiselle. But Monsieur Andre will soon tire of you, so enjoy your good fortune while you may.’

  She moved away, leaving Ginny trembling from a mix of emotions in which anger predominated.

  When Andre appeared at her side, she said furiously, ‘Did you really pay for this dress?’

  His brows lifted. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I wondered why notre chère Monique had sought you out. How good of her to tell you.’

  ‘Then it’s true.’ She took a deep breath. ‘How could I have been stupid enough to think I could afford even a handkerchief in that shop?’ She glared up at him. ‘For two pins, I’d take the dress off and throw it at you.’

  ‘Then it is fortunate I do not have two pins,’ he returned, the faint amusement in his voice doing nothing to placate her. ‘At least not at this moment because we have an announcement to make.’ He took her hand and led her through the laughter and talk of the party to the little rostrum built to accommodate the band.

  ‘Messieurs et mesdames.’ At the sound of his voice a hush fell on the room. ‘You joined us tonight to remember the anniversary of the Baron Emile, but I have another cause to celebrate. To my great joy, Mademoiselle Mason—Virginie—has consented to be my wife. I present—the future Baronne de Terauze.’

  There was a concerted gasp, then applause rang out as the Baron stepped forward, beaming, and proffered a flat velvet case. Inside, shimmering with crimson fire, lay the ruby necklace from the portrait in the salon, and the guests clapped and cheered as Andre fastened the jewels round Ginny’s throat, before bending to kiss her hand and her lips.

  She stood in the curve of his arm, forcing herself to smile in response to all this goodwill. As she and Andre stepped down from the rostrum, they were immediately surrounded by well-wishers offering handshakes and embraces, with one exception. Over the heads of the crowd, Ginny saw Monique standing by the wall, her face a mask of fury and disbelief.

  Resolutely dismissing the image from her mind, she let Andre guide her through the throng, his hands lightly clasping her waist, pausing now and then to receive congratulations and boisterous good wishes.

  At the same time, she found herself wondering wistfully how it would have been if Andre had indeed been marrying her for love.

  Gaston’s announcement that the food was being served managed to divert everyone’s attention and, while plates were being filled, Ginny found Andre once more at her side.

  He touched the rubies glowing round her throat, saying softly, ‘They were made for you, mignonne,’ before allowing his fingers to drift down to where the first swell of her breasts lifted above her low neckline.

  ‘Just as you, ma belle, were made for me.’ He bent forward, his breath fanning her ear as he whispered, ‘Sleep with me tonight, Virginie. Let me know that you belong to me.’

  His face seemed strained, his gaze oddly intense. He said again, ‘Virginie...’

  The swift hammer of her heart was half-joyous, half-fearful. She wanted so badly to say yes and know that, for an hour or two, he would belong to her too, lost in the exchanges of sexual pleasure. But with the added danger that she might so easily be betrayed into saying what he did not want to hear—and what must for ever remain unspoken. The words, I love you.

  But as she hesitated, she heard the loud clang of a bell and saw a surprised Gaston hastening to the front door.

  She saw the candles flare in the sudden draught as the door opened to admit the late arrival. Through the shifting mass of people, she saw a woman, her mass of blonde hair spilling on to her shoulders as she pulled off her woollen cap. For a moment, she thought it must be Dominique Lavaux, who had not replied to her invitation, but then, above the buzz of conversation, she heard a voice she knew all too well, announcing autocratically, ‘I’m here to see my sister, Virginia Mason. Where is she, please?’

  She stood, numb with disbelief, as Cilla, in her violet quilted coat, came pushing her way through the crowd towards her. But only to walk past as if she was invisible.

  ‘Oh, Andre.’ There was a note of hysteria in Cilla’s voice. ‘I had to come, because everything’s just awful and I don’t know what to do.’

  And with a strangled sob, she threw herself straight at Andre, burying her face in his shirt front as he caught her.

  For a moment there was total, astonished silence. Then Jules appeared from nowhere with a chair. He detached the weeping girl from Andre with cool authority, made her sit, and when his aunt arrived with brandy, encouraged her firmly to drink.

  It occurred to Ginny, suddenly transformed into helpless bystander, that this was one party no one would forget in a hurry. Least of all herself.

  She stepped forward into the breach. Raising her voice, she said in her clear schoolgirl French, ‘Madame Rameau, would you have the goodness to prepare a room for my sister. She has had a long and tiresome journey and needs rest.’

  Madame gave the drooping beauty an old-fashioned look, but nodded and bustled off.

  Ginny walked over to the chair and put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. ‘Has Mother come with you? Is she waiting somewhere?’

  ‘Mother?’ Cilla reared up, nearly spilling what was left of the brandy. ‘You must be joking. She’s turned me out and won’t even speak to me—not since Jon broke off our engagement. Why else would I be here?’

  Why indeed? thought Ginny. Conscious of the eyes and ears around them and Baron Bertrand’s shocked face, she said, ‘We’ll talk about this later. Why don’t I take you upstairs to freshen up in my bathroom?’

  ‘Your bathroom?’ Cilla seemed to focus on her for the first time, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the rubies. ‘What’s going on here? What’s the celebration?’

  Ginny kept her voice steady. ‘Among other things, my engagement to Andre.’

  ‘Engagement,’ Cilla repeated. Her laugh was breathless as she looked back at Andre, who was standing stony-faced, his arms folded. ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘Au contraire, madame.’ It was Jules who spoke. ‘The marriage of our future Baron is a serious affair, but also a time of great happiness for the Château Terauze.’

  Cilla got to her feet. ‘But I thought,’ she began, then paused, swaying slightly, a hand to her head, as she whispered, ‘Andre...’

  Then, as Andre took one slow step towards her, Jules again intervened. ‘You are clearly not yourself, mademoiselle. You must allow me to assist you.’

  And before anything more could be said or done, he calmly lifted Cilla into his arms and carried her across the room and up the stairs, leaving an amazed silence behind him.

  ‘Did you expect
this to happen?’ Andre asked harshly. ‘You received some advance warning, perhaps?’

  They were in the petit salon, the last guests having left half an hour before and the Baron having bade them a tactful goodnight.

  Although there’d been no mass exodus from the party, Cilla’s arrival had changed the whole atmosphere of the evening, offering another sensation for the participants to mull over.

  And, in private, a different confrontation.

  ‘No,’ Ginny protested. ‘Of course not. I told my mother we were getting married, but I thought she was simply ignoring it like all my other messages. And clearly, she hasn’t told Cilla.’

  He said icily, ‘But what irony, n’est-ce pas, that on the night of our engagement, your sister arrives to say her relationship with Monsieur Welburn is at an end.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because le bon Jonathan is now free to choose again. You may regret even more our afternoon of delight.’

  And what about you? she thought, stung by the note of derision in his voice. Everyone in the room saw you take that step towards her. If Jules hadn’t butted in, I’d have had to watch you carrying her up the stairs.

  When, only minutes before, you’d been asking me to sleep with you...

  Because it’s obvious why she’s come here, she thought, and it’s not to see me.

  She said, ‘And you may be reading too much into a lovers’ tiff brought on by pre-wedding stress. It happens.’

  ‘But not, I think, in this case.’ He paused. ‘You will be speaking to her?’

  ‘In the morning. She’s had a cup of bouillon, followed by one of Madame’s tisanes so I’ve been instructed to let her sleep.’

  He nodded. ‘Clothilde is very wise.’ He added quietly, ‘We all need to sleep. Everything will be different tomorrow.’

  Everything has changed already...

  Including the rubies that now seemed to resemble drops of blood against her skin.

  She reached to the back of her neck, fumbling for the clasp. ‘I should return these. I expect they belong in a safe somewhere.’

  ‘Permit me.’