Search for Love

by Nora Roberts

  His eyes narrowed, his grip increasing, and she found herself outmatched in the short, silent struggle. With a sigh of angry exasperation, she allowed her hand to lay limp in his.

  “Do you always get your own way?” she demanded, eyes darkening with suppressed fury.

  “Bien sûr,” he replied with irritating confidence, releasing her now-dry hand and giving her a long, measuring look. “I feel you are also used to having your own way, Serenity Smith. Will it not be interesting to see who, how do you say, ‘comes out on top’ during your visit?”

  “Perhaps we should put up a scoreboard,” she suggested, retreating behind the armor of frigidity. “Then there would be no doubt as to who comes out on top.”

  He gave her a slow, lazy smile. “There will be no doubt, cousine.”

  Her retort was cut off by the appearance of the countess, and Serenity automatically smoothed her features into relaxed lines to avoid the other woman’s speculation.

  “Good morning, my children.” The countess greeted them with a maternal smile that surprised her granddaughter. “You are enjoying the beauty of the garden. I find it at its most peaceful at this time of day.”

  “It’s lovely, Madame,” Serenity concurred. “One feels there is no other world beyond the colors and scents of this one solitary spot.”

  “I have often felt that way.” The angular lines softened. “The hours I have spent here over the years are uncountable.” She seated herself on a bench across from the dark man and fair-skinned woman and sighed. “What have you drawn?” Serenity offered her pad, and the countess studied the drawing before raising her eyes to study the woman in turn. “You have your father’s talent.” At the grudging admission, Serenity’s eyes sharpened, and her mouth opened to retort. “Your father was a very talented artist,” the countess continued. “And I begin to see he had some quality of goodness to have earned Gaelle’s love and your loyalty.”

  “Yes, Madame,” Serenity replied, realizing she had been awarded a difficult concession. “He was a very good man, both a constant loving father and husband.”

  She resisted the urge to bring up the Raphael, unwilling to break the tenuous threads of understanding being woven. The countess nodded. Then, turning to Christophe, she made a comment about the evening’s dinner party.

  Picking up drawing paper and chalks Serenity began idly to draw her grandmother. The voices hummed around her, soothing, peaceful sounds suited to the garden’s atmosphere. She did not attempt to follow the conversation, merely allowing the murmuring voices to wash over her as she began to concentrate on her work with more intensity.

  In duplicating the fine-boned face and the surprisingly vulnerable mouth, she saw more clearly the countess’s resemblance to her mother, and so, in fact, to herself. The countess’s expression was relaxed, an ageless beauty that instinctively held itself proud. But somehow now, Serenity saw a glimpse of her mother’s softness and fragility, the face of a woman who would love deeply—and therefore be hurt deeply. For the first time since she had received the formal letter from her unknown grandmother, Serenity felt a stirring of kinship, the first trickle of love for the woman who had borne her mother, and so had been responsible for her own existence.

  Serenity was unaware of the variety of expressions flitting across her face, or of the man who sat beside her, observing the metamorphosis while he carried on his conversation. When she had finished, she lay down her chalks and wiped her hands absently, starting when she turned her head and encountered Christophe’s direct stare. His eyes dropped to the portrait in her lap before coming back to her bemused eyes.

  “You have a rare gift, ma chérie,” he murmured. And she frowned in puzzlement, unsure from his tone whether he was speaking of her work or something entirely different.

  “What have you drawn?” the countess inquired. Serenity tore her eyes from his compelling regard and handed her grandmother the portrait.

  The countess studied it for several moments, the first expression of surprise fading into something Serenity could not comprehend. When the eyes rose and rested on her, the face altered with a smile.

  “I am honored and flattered. If you would permit me, I would like to purchase this.” The smile increased. “Partly for my vanity, but also because I would like a sample of your work.”

  Serenity watched her for a moment, hovering on the line between pride and love. “I’m sorry, Madame.” She shook her head and took the drawing. “I cannot sell it.” She glanced down at the paper in her hand before handing it back and meeting the blue eyes. “It is a gift for you, Grandmère.” She watched the play of emotion move both mouth and eyes before speaking again. “Do you accept?”

  “Oui.” The word came on a sigh. “I shall treasure your gift, and this”—she looked down once more at the chalk portrait—“shall be my reminder that one should never allow pride to stand in the way of love.” She rose and touched her lips to Serenity’s cheeks before she moved down the flagstone path toward the château.

  Standing, Serenity moved away from the bench. “You have a natural ability to invite love,” Christophe observed, and she rounded on him, her emotions highly tuned.

  “She’s my grandmother, too.”

  He noted the veil of tears shimmering in her eyes and rose to his feet in an easy movement. “My statement was a compliment.”

  “Really? I thought it a condemnation.” Despising the mist in her eyes, she wanted both to be alone and to lean against his broad shoulder.

  “You are always on the defensive with me, are you not, Serenity?” His eyes narrowed as they did when he was angry, but she was too involved with battling her own emotions to care.

  “You’ve given me plenty of cause,” she tossed back. “From the moment I stepped off the train, you made your feelings clear. You’d condemned both my father and me. You’re cold and autocratic and without a bit of compassion or understanding. I wish you’d go away and leave me alone. Go flog some peasants or something; it suits you.”

  He moved so quickly that she had no chance to back away, his arms nearly splitting her in two as they banded around her. “Are you afraid?” he demanded, and his lips crushed hers before she could answer, and all reason was blotted out.

  She moaned against the pain and pleasure his mouth inflicted, going limp as his hold increased, conquering even her breath.

  How is it possible to hate and love at the same time? her heart demanded of her numbed brain, but the answer was lost in a flood of turbulent, triumphant passion. Fingers tangled ruthlessly in her hair, pulling her head back to expose the creamy length of her neck, and he claimed the vulnerable skin with a mouth hot and hungry. The thinness of her blouse was no defense against the sultry heat of his body, but he disposed of the brief barrier, his hand sliding under, then up along her flesh to claim the swell of her breast with a consummate and absolute possession.

  His mouth returned to ravage hers, bruising softness with a demand she could not deny. No longer did she question the complexity of her love, but yielded like a willow in a storm to the entreatment of her own needs.

  He lifted his face, and his eyes were dark, the fires of anger and passion burning them to black. He wanted her, and her eyes grew wide and terrified at the knowledge. No one had ever wanted her this intensely, and no one had ever possessed the power to take her this effortlessly. For even without his love, she knew she would submit, and even without her submission, he would take.

  He read the fear in her eyes, and his voice was low and dangerous. “Oui, petite cousine, you have cause to be afraid, for you know what will be. You are safe for the moment, but take care how and where you provoke me again.”

  Releasing her, he walked easily up the path his grandmother had chosen, and Korrigan bounded up, sent Serenity an apologetic glance, and then followed close on his master’s heels.

  Chapter Six

  Serenity dressed with great care for dinner that evening, using the time to put her feelings in order and decide on a plan of action
. No amount of arguments or reasoning could alter the fact that she had plunged headlong into love with a man she had known only a few days, a man who was as terrifying as he was exciting.

  An arrogant, domineering, audaciously stubborn man, she added, pulling up the zipper at the back of her dress. And one who had condemned her father as a thief. How could I let this happen? she berated herself. How could I have prevented it? she reflected with a sigh. My heart may have deserted me, but my head is still on my shoulders, and I’m going to have to use it. I refuse to allow Christophe to see that I’ve fallen in love with him and subject myself to his mockery.

  Seated at the cherrywood vanity, she ran a brush through soft curls and touched up her light application of makeup. War paint, she decided, and grinned at the reflection. It fits; I’d rather be at war with him than in love. Besides—the grin turned into a frown—there is also Mademoiselle Dejot to contend with tonight.

  Standing, she surveyed her full reflection in the freestanding mirror. The amber silk echoed the color of her eyes and added a warm glow to her creamy skin. Thin straps revealed smooth shoulders, and the low, rounded bodice teased the subtle curve of breast. The knife-pleated skirt floated gently to her ankles, the filminess and muted color adding to her fragile, ethereal beauty.

  She frowned at the effect, seeing fragility when she had desired poise and sophistication. The clock informed her that there was no time to alter gowns, so slipping on shoes and spraying a cloud of scent around her, she hurried from the room.

  The murmur of voices emitting from the main drawing room made Serenity realize, to her irritation, that the dinner guests had already arrived. Her artist’s eye immediately sketched the tableau which greeted her as she entered the room: the gleaming floor and warm polished paneling, the high, lead-paned windows, the immense stone fireplace with the carved mantle—all set the perfect backdrop for the elegant inhabitants of the château’s drawing room, with the countess the undisputed queen in regal red silk.

  The severe black of Christophe’s dinner suit threw the snow-white of his shirt into relief and accented the tawny color of his skin. Yves Dejot was also in black, his skin more gold than bronze, his hair an unexpected chestnut. But it was the woman between the two dark men who caught both Serenity’s eye and reluctant admiration. If her grandmother was the queen, here was the crown princess. Jet-black hair framed a small, elfin face of poignant beauty. Almond-shaped eyes of pansy-brown dominated the engaging face, and the gown of forest-green glowed against the rich golden skin.

  Both men rose as she entered the room, and Serenity gave her attention to the stranger, all too aware of Christophe’s habitual all-encompassing survey. As introductions were made, she found herself looking into chestnut eyes, the same shade as his hair, which held undeniable masculine approval and an unmistakable light of mischief.

  “You did not tell me, mon ami, that your cousin was a golden goddess.” He bent over Serenity’s fingers, brushing them with his lips. “I shall have to visit the château more often, Mademoiselle, during your stay.”

  She smiled with honest enjoyment, summing up Yves Dejot as both charming and harmless. “I am sure my stay will be all the more enjoyable with that prospect in mind, Monsieur,” she responded, matching his tone, and she was rewarded with a flashing smile.

  Christophe continued his introductions, and Serenity’s hand was clasped in a small, hesitant grip. “I am so happy to meet you at last, Mademoiselle Smith.” Geneviève greeted her with a warm smile. “You are so like your mother’s portrait, it is like seeing the painting come to life.”

  The voice was sincere, and Serenity concluded that no matter how hard she tried, it would be impossible to dislike the pixielike woman who gazed at her with the liquid eyes of a cocker spaniel.

  The conversation continued light and pleasant throughout apéritifs and dinner, delectable oysters in champagne setting the mood for an elegantly prepared and served meal. The Dejots were curious about America and Serenity’s life in its capital, and she attempted to describe the city of contrasts as the small group enjoyed le ris de veau au Chablis.

  She began to draw a picture with words of stately old government buildings, the graceful lines and columns of the White House. “Unfortunately, there has been a great deal of modernization, with huge steel and glass monstrosities replacing some of the old buildings. Neat, vast, and charmless. But there are dozens of theatres, from Ford’s, where Lincoln was assassinated, to the Kennedy Center.”

  Continuing, she took them from the stunning elegance of Embassy Row to the slums and tenements outside the federal enclave, through museums and galleries and the bustle of Capitol Hill.

  “But we lived in Georgetown, and this is a world apart from the rest of Washington. Most of the homes are row houses or semi-detached, two or three stories, with small bricked-in yards edged with azaleas and flowerbeds. Some of the side streets are still cobblestoned, and it still retains a rather old-fashioned charm.”

  “Such an exciting city,” Geneviève commented. “You must find our life here very quiet. Do you miss the animation, the activity of your home?”

  Serenity frowned into her wineglass, then shook her head, “No,” she answered, somewhat surprised by her own admission. “That’s strange, I suppose.” She met the brown eyes across from her. “I spent my entire life there, and I was very happy, but I don’t miss it at all. I had the strangest feeling of affinity when I first walked into the château, a feeling of recognition. I’ve been very content here.”

  Glancing over, she found Christophe’s eyes on her, brooding and penetrating, and she felt a quick surge of panic. “Of course, it’s a relief not to enter into the daily contest for a parking space,” she added with a smile, attempting to shake off the mood of seriousness. “Parking spaces are more precious than gold in Washington, and behind the wheel even the most mild-mannered person would commit murder and mayhem to obtain one.”

  “Have you resorted to such tactics, ma chérie?” Christophe asked. Raising his wineglass, he kept his eyes on her.

  “I shudder to think of my crimes,” she answered, relieved by the light turn of topic. “I dare not confess what lengths I’ve gone to in order to secure a few feet of empty space. I can be terribly aggressive.”

  “It is not possible to believe that aggression is a quality of such a delicate willow,” Yves declared, blanketing her in his charming smile.

  “You would be surprised, mon ami,” Christophe commented with an inclination of his head. “The willow has many unexpected qualities.”

  Serenity continued to frown at him as the countess skillfully changed the subject.

  The drawing room was gently lit, lending an air of intimacy to the vast room. As the group enjoyed after-dinner coffee and brandy, Yves seated himself next to Serenity and began dispensing his abundant supply of Gallic charm. She noted, with a great deal of discomfort around her heart, which she was forced to recognize as pure, honest jealousy, that Christophe devoted himself to entertaining Geneviève. They spoke of her parents, who were touring the Greek islands, of mutual acquaintances and old friends. He listened attentively as Geneviève related an anecdote, flattered, laughed, teased, his attitude being one of overall gentleness, a softness Serenity had not seen in him before. Their relationship was so obviously special, so close and long standing, that Serenity felt a swift pang of despair.

  He treats her as though she were made of fine, delicate crystal, small and precious, and he treats me as though I were made of stone, sturdy, strong, and dull.

  It would have been infinitely easier if Serenity could have disliked the other woman, but natural friendliness overcame jealousy, and as time went by, she found herself liking both Dejots more and more.

  Geneviève consented, after some gentle prompting by the countess, to play a few selections on the piano. The music floated through the room as sweet and fragile as its mistress.

  I suppose she’s perfect for him, Serenity concluded dismally. They have so much in common
, and she brings out a tenderness in him that will keep him from hurting her. She glanced over to where Christophe sat, relaxed against the cushions of the sofa, his dark, fascinating eyes fixed on the woman at the piano. A swift variety of emotions ran through her—longing, despair, resentment, settling into a hopeless fog of depression as she realized no matter how perfect Geneviève might be for him, she could never happily watch Christophe court another woman.

  “As an artist, Mademoiselle,” Yves began as the music ended and conversation resumed, “you require inspiration, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Of one kind or another,” she agreed and smiled at him.

  “The gardens of the château are immensely inspirational in the moonlight,” he pointed out with an answering smile.

  “I am in the mood for inspiration,” she decided on quick impulse. “Perhaps I could impose on you to escort me.”

  “Mademoiselle,” he answered happily, “I would be honored.”

  Yves informed the rest of the party of their intention, and Serenity accepted his proffered arm without seeing the dark look thrown at her by the remaining male member.

  The garden was indeed an inspiration, the brilliance of colors muted in the silver shimmer of moonlight. The scents intertwined into a heady perfume, mellowing the warm summer evening into a night for lovers. She sighed as her thoughts strayed back to the man in the château’s drawing room.

  “You sigh from pleasure, Mademoiselle?” Yves questioned as they strolled down a winding path.

  “Bien sûr,” she answered lightly, shaking off her somber mood and granting her escort one of her best smiles. “I’m overcome by the overwhelming beauty.”

  “Ah, Mademoiselle.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it with much feeling. “The beauty of each blossom pales before yours. What rose could compare with such lips, or gardenia with such skin?”

  “How do French men learn to make love with words?”

  “It is taught from the cradle, Mademoiselle,” he informed her with suspicious sobriety.