by Nora Roberts
Serenity watched from the terrace as bride and groom performed their first dance as man and wife, a folk dance, full of charm and saucy movements, and Bridget flirted with her husband with tossing head and teasing eyes, much to the approval of the audience. Dancing continued, growing livelier, and Serenity found herself being pulled into the crowd by a charmingly determined Yves.
“But I don’t know how,” she protested, unable to prevent the laugh his persistence provoked.
“I will teach you,” he returned simply, taking both her hands in his. “Christophe is not the only one with the ability to instruct.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her frown. “Ah-ha! I thought as much.” Her frown deepened at the ambiguity, but he merely smiled, lifted one hand to his lips briefly, and continued. “Maintenant, first we step to the right.”
Caught up first in her lesson, then in the pleasure of the simple music and movements. Serenity found the tensions of the past days drifting away. Yves was attentive and charming, taking her through the steps of the dances and bringing her glasses of champagne. Once seeing Christophe dancing with a small, graceful Geneviève, a cloud of despair threatened her sun, and she turned away quickly, unwilling to fall back into the well of depression.
“You see, chérie, you take to the dance naturally.” Yves smiled down at her as the music paused.
“Assuredly, my Breton genes have come to the fore to sustain me.”
“So,” he said in mock censure, “will you not give credit to your instructor?”
“Mais, oui.” She gave him a teasing smile and a small curtsy. “My instructor is both charming and brilliant.”
“True,” he agreed, chestnut eyes twinkling against the gravity of his tone. “And my student is both beautiful and enchanting.”
“True,” she agreed in turn, and laughing, she linked her arm through his.
“Ah, Christophe.” Her laughter froze as she saw Yves’s gaze travel above her head. “I have usurped your role as tutor.”
“It appears you are both enjoying the transition.” Hearing the icy politeness in his voice, Serenity turned to him warily. He looked entirely too much like the seafaring count in the portrait gallery for her comfort. The white silk shirt opened carelessly to reveal the strong, dark column of throat, the sleeveless black vest a startling contrast. The matching black pants were mated to soft leather boots, and Serenity decided he looked more dangerous than elegant.
“A delightful student, mon ami, as I am sure you agree.”
Yves’s hand rested lightly on Serenity’s shoulder as he smiled into the set, impassive face. “Perhaps you would care to test the quality of my instructions for yourself.”
“Bien sûr.” Christophe acknowledged the offer with a slight inclination of his head. Then, with a graceful, rather old-fashioned gesture, he held out his hand, palm up for Serenity’s acquiescence.
She hesitated, both fearing and longing for the contact of flesh. Then seeing the challenge in his dark eyes, she placed her palm in his with aristocratic grace.
Serenity moved with the music, the steps of the old, flirting dance coming easily. Swaying, circling, joining briefly, the dance began as a confrontation, a formalized contest between man and woman. Their eyes held, his bold and confident, hers defiant, and they moved in alternating circles, palms touching. As his arm slipped lightly around her waist, she tossed her head back to keep the gaze unbroken, ignoring the sudden thrill as their hips brushed.
Steps quickened with the music, the melody growing more demanding, the ancient choreography growing more enticing, the contact of bodies lengthening. She kept her chin tilted insolently, her eyes challenging, but she felt the heat begin its insistent rise as his arm became more possessive of her waist, drawing her closer with each turn. What had begun as a duel was now a seduction, and she felt his silent power taking command of her wills as surely as if his lips had claimed hers. Drawing on one last shred of control, she stepped back, seeking the safety of distance. His arm pulled her against him, and helplessly, her eyes sought the mouth which hovered dangerously over hers. Her lips parted, half in protest, half in invitation, and his lowered until she could taste his breath on her tongue.
The silence when the music ended was like a thunderclap, and she watched wide-eyed as he drew the promise of his mouth away with a smile of pure triumph.
“Your teacher is to be commended, Mademoiselle.” His hands dropped from her waist, and with a small bow, he turned and left her.
The more remote and taciturn Christophe became, the more open and expansive became the countess, as though sensing his mood and seeking to provoke him.
“You seem preoccupied, Christophe,” the countess stated artlessly as they dined at the large oak table. “Are your cattle giving you trouble, or perhaps an affaire de coeur?”
Determinedly, Serenity kept her eyes on the wine she swirled in her glass, patently fascinated by the gently moving color.
“I am merely enjoying the excellent meal, Grandmère,” Christophe returned, not rising to the bait. “Neither cattle nor women disturb me at the moment.”
“Ah.” The countess breathed life into the syllable. “Perhaps you group both together.”
Broad shoulders moved in a typical gesture. “They both demand attention and a strong hand, n’est-ce pas?”
Serenity swallowed a bit of canard à l’orange before it choked her.
“Have you left many broken hearts behind in America, Serenity?” The countess spoke before Serenity could voice the murderous thoughts forming in her brain.
“Dozens,” she returned, aiming a deadly glance at Christophe. “I have found that some men lack the intelligence of cattle, more often having the arms, if not the brains, of an octopus.”
“Perhaps you have been dealing with the wrong men,” Christophe suggested, his voice cool.
This time it was Serenity’s shoulders which moved. “Men are men,” she said in dismissal, seeking to annoy him with her own generalization. “They either want a warm body for groping in corners, or a piece of Dresden to sit on a shelf.”
“And how, in your opinion, does a woman wish to be treated?” he demanded as the countess sat back and enjoyed the fruits of her instigation.
“As a human being with intellect, emotions, rights, needs.” Her hands moved expressively. “Not as a happy convenience for a man’s pleasure to be tucked away until the mood strikes him, or a child to be petted and amused.”
“You seem to have a low opinion of men, ma chérie,” Christophe intimated, neither of them aware they were speaking more in this conversation than they had in days.
“Only of antiquated ideas and prejudice,” she contradicted. “My father always treated my mother as a partner; they shared everything.”
“Do you look for your father in the men you meet, Serenity?” he asked suddenly, and her eyes widened, surprised and disconcerted.
“Why, no, at least I don’t think so,” she faltered, trying to see into her own heart. “Perhaps I look for his strength and his kindness, but not a replica. I think I look for a man who could love me as completely as he loved my mother—someone who could take me with all my faults and imperfections and love me for what I am, not what he might want me to be.”
“And when you find such a man,” Christophe asked, giving her an unfathomable stare, “what will you do?”
“Be content,” she murmured, and made an effort to give her attention to the food on her plate.
Serenity continued her painting the following day. She had slept poorly, disturbed by the admission she had made to Christophe’s unexpected question. She had spoken spontaneously, the words the fruit of a feeling she had not been aware of possessing. Now with the warmth of the sun at her back and brush and pallet in hand, she endeavored to lose her discomfort in the love of painting.
She found it difficult to concentrate, Christophe’s lean features invading her mind and blurring the sharp lines of the château. Rubbing her forehead, she finally threw down her
brush in disgust and began to pack her equipment, mentally cursing the man who insisted on interfering with both her work and her life. The sound of a car cut into her eloquent swearing, and she turned, her hand shading her eyes from the sun, to watch the approaching vehicle wind down the long drive.
It halted a few yards from where she stood, and her mouth dropped open in amazement as a tall, fair man got out and began walking toward her.
“Tony!” she cried in surprise and pleasure, rushing across the grass to meet him.
His arms gripped her waist, and his lips covered hers in a brief but thorough kiss.
“What are you doing here?”
“I could say I was just in the neighborhood.” He grinned down at her. “But I don’t think you’d buy that.” He paused and studied her face. “You look terrific,” he decided, and bent to kiss her again, but she eluded him.
“Tony, you haven’t answered me.”
“The firm had some business to conduct in Paris,” he explained. “So I flew over, and when I set things straight, I drove out here to see you.”
“Two birds with one stone,” she concluded wryly, feeling a vague disappointment. It would have been nice, she reflected, if he had dropped his business and charged across the Atlantic because he couldn’t bear to be parted from me. But not Tony! She studied his good-looking, clear-cut features. Tony’s much too methodical for impulses, and that’s been part of the problem.
He brushed her brow with a casual kiss. “I missed you.”
“Did you?”
He looked slightly taken aback. “Well, of course I did, Serenity.” His arm slipped around her shoulders as he began walking toward her painting apparatus. “I’m hoping you’ll come back with me.”
“I’m not ready to go yet, Tony. I have commitments here. There are things I have to clear up before I can even think about going back.”
“What things?” he asked with a frown.
“I can’t explain, Tony,” she evaded, unwilling to take him into her confidence. “But I’ve barely had time to know my grandmother; there are so many lost years to make up for.”
“You can’t expect to stay here for twenty-five years and make up for lost time.” His voice was filled with exasperation. “You have friends back in Washington, a home, a career.” He stopped and took her by the shoulders. “You know I want to marry you, Serenity. You’ve been putting me off for months.”
“Tony, I never made any promises to you.”
“Don’t I know it.” Releasing her, he stared around in abstraction. With a pang of guilt, she tried harder to make him understand.
“I’ve found part of myself here. My mother grew up here; her mother still lives here.” She turned and faced the château, making a wide, sweeping gesture. “Just look at it, Tony. Have you ever seen anything to compare with it?”
He followed her gaze and studied the large stone structure with another frown. “Very impressive,” he stated without enthusiasm. “It’s also huge, rambling, and, more than likely, drafty. Give me a brick house on P Street any day.”
She sighed, deflated, then turning to her companion, smiled with affection. “Yes, you’re right, you don’t belong here.”
“And you do?” The frown deepened.
“I don’t know,” she murmured, her eyes roaming over the conical roof and down to the courtyard. “I just don’t know.”
He studied her profile a moment, then strategically changed the subject. “Old Barkley had some papers for you.” He referred to the attorney who had handled her parents’ affairs and for whom he worked as a junior partner. “So instead of trusting them to the mail, I’m delivering them in person.”
“Papers?”
“Yes, very confidential.” He grinned in his familiar way. “Wouldn’t give me a clue as to what they were about; just said it was important that you get them as soon as possible.”
“I’ll look at them later,” she said in dismissal, having had enough of papers and technical forms since her parents’ death. “You must come inside and meet my grandmother.”
If Tony had been unimpressed with the château, he was overwhelmed by the countess. Serenity hid her smile as she introduced Tony to her grandmother, noting the widening of his eyes as he accepted the offered hand. She was, Serenity thought with silent satisfaction, magnificent. Leading Tony into the main drawing room, the countess ordered refreshments and proceeded to pump Tony in the most charming way for every ounce of information about himself. Serenity sat back and observed the maneuver, proud of her straight face.
He doesn’t stand a chance, she decided as she poured tea from the elegant silver pot. Handing the dainty china cup to her grandmother, their eyes met. The unexpected mischief in the blue eyes almost caused a burst of laughter to escape, so she busied herself with the pouring of more tea with intense concentration.
The old schemer! she thought, surprised that she was not offended. She’s determining if Tony’s a worthy candidate for her granddaughter’s hand, and poor Tony is so awed by her magnificence, he doesn’t see what’s going on.
At the end of an hour’s conversation, the countess had learned Tony’s life history: his family background, education, hobbies, career, politics, many details of which Serenity had been ignorant herself. The inquisition had been skillful, so subtly accomplished that Serenity suppressed the urge to stand and applaud when it was completed.
“When do you have to get back?” she asked, feeling she should save Tony from disclosing his bank balance.
“I have to leave first thing in the morning,” he told her, relaxed and totally oblivious to the gentle third degree to which he had been subjected. “I wish I could stay longer, but …” He shrugged.
“Bien sûr, your work comes first,” the countess finished for him, looking understanding. “You must dine with us tonight, Monsieur Rollins, and stay with us until morning.”
“I couldn’t impose on your hospitality, Madame,” he objected, perhaps halfheartedly.
“Impose? Nonsense!” His objection was dismissed with a regal wave of the hand. “A friend of Serenity’s from so far away—I would be deeply offended if you would refuse to stay with us.”
“You are very kind. I’m grateful.”
“It is my pleasure,” the countess stated as she rose. “You must show your friend around the grounds, and I will see that a room is prepared for him.” Turning to Tony, she extended her hand once more. “We have cocktails at seven-thirty, Monsieur Rollins. I will look forward to seeing you then.”
Chapter Eight
Serenity stood in front of the full-length mirror without seeing the reflection. The tall, slender woman in the amethyst gown, soft waves of crepe flowing like a jeweled breeze, might not have stared back from the highly polished glass. Serenity’s mind was playing back the afternoon’s events, her emotions running from pleasure, irritation, and disappointment to amusement.
After the countess had left them alone, Serenity had conducted Tony on a brief tour of the grounds. He had been vaguely complimentary about the garden, taking in its surface beauty, his logical, matter-of-fact mind unable to see beyond the roses and geraniums to the romance of hues and textures and scents. He was lightly amused by the appearance of the ancient gardener and slightly uncomfortable with the overwhelming spaciousness of the view from the terrace. He preferred, in his words, a few houses or at least a traffic light. Serenity had shaken her head at this in indulgent affection, but had realized how little she had in common with the man with whom she had spent so many months.
He was, however, completely overawed by the château’s châtelaine. Anyone less like a grandmother, he had stated with great respect, he had never encountered. She was incredible, he had said, to which Serenity silently agreed, though perhaps for different reasons. She looked as if she belonged on a throne, indulgently granting audiences, and she had been so gracious, so interested in everything he had said. Oh, yes, Serenity had concurred silently, trying and failing to be indignant. Oh yes, dear, gull
ible Tony, she had been vastly interested. But what was the purpose of the game she was playing?
When Tony was settled in his room, strategically placed, Serenity noted, at the farthest end of the hall from herself, she had sought out her grandmother with the excuse of thanking her for inviting Tony to stay.
Seated in her room at an elegant Regency writing desk penning correspondence on heavy-crested stationery, the countess had greeted Serenity with an innocent smile, which somehow resembled the cat who swallowed the canary.
“Alors.” She had put down her pen and gestured to a low brocade divan. “I hope your friend has found his room agreeable.”
“Oui, Grandmère, I am very grateful to you for inviting Tony to stay for the night.”
“Pas de quoi, ma chérie.” The slender hand had gestured vaguely. “You must think of the château as your home, as well as mine.”
“Merci, Grandmère,” Serenity had said demurely, leaving the next move to the older woman.
“A very polite young man.”
“Oui, Madame.”
“Quite attractive …”—a slight pause—“… in an ordinary sort of way.”
“Oui, Madame,” Serenity had agreed conversationally, tossing the ball into her grandmother’s court. The ball was received and returned.
“I have always preferred more unusual looks in a man, more strength and vitality. Perhaps”—a slight teasing curve of the lips—“more of the buccaneer, if you know what I mean.”
“Ah, oui, Grandmère.” Serenity had nodded, keeping a guileless open gaze on the countess. “I understand very well.”
“Bien.” The slim shoulders had moved. “Some prefer a tamer male.”
“So it would seem.”
“Monsieur Rollins is a very intelligent, well-mannered man, very logical and earnest.”
And dull. Serenity had added the unspoken remark before speaking aloud in annoyance. “He helps little old ladies across the street twice a day.”