A Vow of Obligation

by Lynne Graham

  But she would still have to man up and handle it, Tawny told herself in an urgent pep talk while they flew to Paris on Navarre’s sleek private jet. She could not run away on the very first day of married life. She would only get one chance to make their marriage work so that they could give their son or daughter a proper loving home with a mother and a father. It was what she had always longed for and always lacked on her own account, but perhaps she had been naive as well not to face the truth that any relationship between two people would at times hurt her and demand that she compromise her ideals.

  By the time they were in a limousine travelling to his home on Ile de France, several miles west of Paris, Navarre had borne the silence long enough. It was not a sulk—a sulk he could have dealt with. No, Tawny spoke when spoken to, even smiled when forced, but her vibrant spirit and quirky sense of fun were nowhere to be seen and it spooked him.

  ‘I don’t know you like this … what’s wrong?’ he asked, although it was a question that on principle he never, ever asked a woman, but now he was asking even though he feared that he already knew the answer.

  Tawny shot him another fake smile. ‘I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. It’s been a very long day.’

  ‘D’accord. I constantly forget that you’re pregnant and I’m making no allowances for that,’ Navarre responded smoothly. ‘Of course you’re tired.’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that it was their wedding night and she wasn’t that tired but that would have been like issuing an invitation and she no longer possessed the confidence to do that.

  The awkward silence was broken by her gasp as she looked out of the window and saw that the car was travelling through elaborate gardens and heading straight for a multi-turreted chateau of such stupendous splendour that she could only stare. ‘Where on earth are we?’

  ‘This is my home in Paris.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s not a hotel?’ Tawny asked stupidly, aghast at the size and magnificence of the property.

  ‘It was for a while but it is now my private home. It’s within easy reach of my offices and I like green space around me at the end of the day.’

  Yes, it was obvious to her that he liked an enormous amount of green space and even more obvious why he had not been unduly impressed by Strathmore Castle, the entirety of which might well have fitted into the front hall of his spectacular chateau. Tawny was gobsmacked by the dimensions of the place. Although they had flown from London in a private jet it had still not occurred to her that Navarre might live like royalty in France. Nor had not it crossed her mind until that very moment what a simply vast gulf divided them as people.

  ‘I feel like Cinderella,’ Tawny whispered weakly. ‘You live in a castle.’

  He was frowning. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  They were greeted by a manservant in the echoing vastness of the hall and every surface seemed to be gilded or marbled or mirrored so that she could see far too many confusing reflections of her bewildered face. ‘It’s not really a castle, it’s more like a palace,’ she muttered when he informed her that refreshments awaited them upstairs.

  She mounted the giant staircase. ‘So how long have you lived here?’

  ‘Several years. You know, you shouldn’t be wearing heels that high in your condition—’

  ‘Navarre?’ Tawny interrupted. ‘Don’t tell me what to wear. I’m not working for you any more.’

  ‘No, we’re married now.’

  Tawny did not like the tone Navarre had employed to make that statement. She felt that he ought to be over the moon about being married to her, or at least capable of pretending to be. Instead he sounded like a guy who had got to bring the wrong woman home and that was not an idea that she liked at all, for it came all too close to matching her own worst fears.

  ‘I don’t want to have an argument with you on our wedding day,’ Navarre informed her without any expression at all.

  ‘Did I say that I wanted an argument?’ Tawny demanded a touch stridently as he thrust open a heavy door and she stalked into yet another vast room, a bedroom complete with sofas and tables and several exit doors. ‘It’s too big … it’s all too big and fancy for me!’

  As her voice began to rise in volume Navarre cut in. ‘Then we’ll sell it and move—’

  ‘But then you wouldn’t be happy. This is what you’re used to!’

  ‘I grew up in a variety of slums,’ he reminded her levelly and somehow the way he looked at her made her feel like a child throwing a tantrum.

  Tawny gritted her teeth on another foolish comment. Her brain was all over the place. It certainly wasn’t functioning as it should be. She kept on picturing Tia’s flawless face and her even more perfect and always immaculately clothed body. She was thinking of the frivolous, frothy, wedding night negligee she had purchased with such joy in her heart and feeling sick at the prospect of having to put the outfit on and appear in it for his benefit. Who was she kidding? It would not hide her overblown breasts or her even more swollen stomach.

  ‘You know …’ Tawny mumbled uneasily, succumbing to her sense of insecurity. ‘I’m not really in the right mood for a wedding night.’

  ‘Je sais ce que tu ressens … I know how you feel.’ Navarre stood there like a statue.

  Tawny had expected him to argue with her, not agree with her. She wanted him to kiss her, persuade her, make everything magically all right again, but instead he just stood there, six feet plus of inert and unresponsive masculine toughness.

  ‘You’re tired, ma petite. I’ll sleep elsewhere.’

  Tawny recognised the absolute control he was exerting not to let her see what he really thought. She suspected that he was annoyed with her, that he had hoped she would continue as though nothing whatsoever had happened, as though nothing at all had changed between them. But how could she do that? How could she pretend she had not seen the way he looked at Tia? He had never looked at her like that, but she so badly needed him to and, denied what she most wanted, she refused to settle for being a substitute for Tia. And, to be frank, a very poor second-best at that.

  Wishing her goodnight with infuriating courtesy, Navarre left the room. Her legs weak, Tawny sagged down on the sofa at the end of the bed as though she had gone ten rounds with a champion boxer. He was gone and she was no happier. She was at the mercy of as many doubts as a fishing net had holes. Had she done the wrong thing? What was the right thing in such circumstances when all she was conscious of was the level of her disillusionment? She turned her bright head to look at the big bed that they might have shared that night had she been tougher and more practical and she imagined she heard the sound of a sharp painful crack—it was the sound of her heart breaking …

  CHAPTER TEN

  TAWNY signed the cartoon and sat back from it with a sense of accomplishment. She was working in the room that Navarre had had set up as a studio for her. For the first time in her creative life she had the latest in light tables to work at. Her cartoon series now entitled ‘The English Wife’ and carried in a fashionable weekly magazine, had already attracted a favourable wave of comment from the French press and she had even been interviewed in her capacity as cartoonist and wife of a powerful French industrialist. A knock on the door announced the arrival of Gaspard, who was in charge of the household and the staff, bringing her morning coffee and a snack.

  On the surface life was wonderful, Tawny acknowledged, striving to concentrate only on the positive angles. Navarre had been in London the previous night on a business trip, but Tawny had not accompanied him because she had work to complete. Furthermore just as he had forecast she adored Paris: the noble architecture of the buildings, beautiful bridges and cobblestoned streets, the Seine gleaming below the autumn sunlight, the entertaining parade of chic residents. Settling in for someone who spoke French and was married to a Frenchman had not proved much of a challenge. In fact her new life in France was absolutely brilliant now that her career had finally taken off. She had no financial worries,
a beautiful roof over her head covered with all the turrets a castle-loving girl could ever want and a staff who ensured that she had to do virtually nothing domestic for herself. The food was amazing as well, Tawny conceded, munching hungrily through the kind of dainty little pastry that Navarre’s chef excelled at creating.

  In fact after six weeks of being married to Navarre, Tawny was willing to admit that she was a very lucky woman. Cradling her coffee in one hand, Tawny studied herself in a wall mirror. Her hair piled on top of her head in a convenient style that her hairdresser had taught her to do, she was wearing her favourite skinny jeans teamed with an artfully draped jersey tunic that skimmed her growing bump and long suede boots. She had signed up with a Parisian obstetrician and her pregnancy was proceeding well. She had no problems on that front at all: she was ridiculously healthy.

  Indeed her only problem was her marriage … or, to be more specific, the marriage that had never got off the ground in the first place. With the calmer frame of mind brought on by the passage of several weeks, she knew that wrecking their wedding night and rejecting Navarre had been the wrong thing to do. An outright argument would have been preferable; a demand for an explanation about that scene with Tia would have been understandable. But refusing to ask questions and hiding behind her wounded pride had not been a good idea at all, for it had imposed a distance between them that was impossible to eradicate in such a very large house. My goodness, he was sleeping two corridors away from her! And she had only found that out by tiptoeing round like a cat burglar in the dark of the night and listening to where he went when he came upstairs at the end of the evening.

  There were times, many many times, when Tawny just wanted to scream at Navarre in frustration. He did not avoid her but he did work fairly long hours. At the same time she could not accuse him of neglecting her either because he had gone to considerable lengths to make time and space for her presence in his life and show her Paris as only a native could. He would phone and arrange to meet her for lunch or dinner or sweep her off shopping with an alacrity that astonished her. Navarre was a very woman-savvy male. When she was in his company he awarded her his full attention and he was extraordinarily charming, but he still continued to maintain a hands-off approach that was driving her crazy.

  Sometimes she wondered if Navarre was very cleverly and with great subtlety punishing her for that rejection on the first night. He took her romantic places and left her as untouched as if she were his ninety-year-old maiden aunt. He had introduced her to Ladurée, an opulently designed French café/gallery where the beautiful people met early evening for coffee and delicious pastel-coloured macaroons that melted in the mouth. He had shown her the delights of La Hune, a trendy bookshop in the bohemian sixth arrondissement of St-Germain. He had taken her shopping on the famous designer rue St—Honoré and spent a fortune on her. She had toured the colourful organic market at boulevard Raspail and eaten pumpkin muffins fresh from a basket. They had dined at Laperouse, a dimly lit ornate restaurant beside the Seine, an experience that had cried out for a more intimate connection and she had sat across the table willing him to make a move on her or even voice a flirtatious comment, only to be disappointed.

  And then there were the gifts he brought her, featuring everything from an art book that had sent her into ecstasies to a pair of Louboutin shoes that sparkled like pure gold, not to mention the most gorgeous jewels and flowers. He was never done buying her presents, indeed he rarely came home empty-handed. She had got the message: he was generous, he liked to give. But how was she supposed to respond? Her teeth gritted. She really didn’t understand the guy she had married because she didn’t know what he wanted from her. Was he content with their relationship as it was? A platonic front of a marriage for the sake of their child? Were the constant gifts and entertaining outings a reward for not questioning his relationship with Tia Castelli? Could he possibly be that callous and without scruples?

  Yet this was the same man who had gripped her hand in genuine joy and appreciation when he attended a sonogram appointment with her and they saw their child together for the first time on a screen. The warmth of his response had been everything she could have hoped for. Their little girl, the daughter whom Tawny already cherished in her heart, would rejoice in a fully committed and ardent father. She knew enough about Navarre to understand how very important it was for him to do everything for his child that had not been done for him. He might hide his emotions, but she knew they ran deep and true when it came to their baby. It hurt not to inspire an atom of that emotion on her own account.

  After a light lunch, she walked round the gardens until a light mist of drizzling rain came on and drove her indoors. She was presented with a package that had been delivered and she carried it upstairs, wondering ruefully what the latest treat was that Navarre had bought her. She extracted an elaborate box and, opening it, worked through layers of tissue paper to extract the most exquisite set of silk lingerie she had ever seen in her life. A dreamy smile softened her full mouth and her pale eyes flared with the thought of the possibilities awakened by that more intimate present. Her fingers dallied with the delicate set. An invitation? Or was that wishful thinking? Was it just one more in a long line of wonderfully special gifts? Maybe she should wear it to meet him off his flight this evening and just ask him what he meant by it. That outrageous thought made her laugh out loud.

  But that same thought worked on her throughout the afternoon. Maybe a little plain speaking was all that was required to sort out their marriage. And Navarre was far too tricky and suspicious of women to engage in plain speech without a lot of encouragement. Was she willing to show him the way? Put her money where her mouth was? The concept of putting her mouth anywhere near Navarre was so arousing that she blushed.

  Toying with the concept, she went off to shower and rub scented cream all over her mostly slender body before applying loads of mascara and lippy. When she saw herself in that exquisite palest green lingerie she almost got cold feet. The tummy was there, there was no concealing or avoiding it, but it was his baby and he was definitely looking forward to its existence, she reminded herself comfortingly. As long as she wore vertiginous boots and looked at herself face on rather than taking in her less sensually appealing profile, she decided she didn’t look silly. Donning a black silky raincoat ornamented with lots of zips that had recently caught her eye for being unusual, she left the bedroom.

  At the airport, Navarre was stunned when, engaged in commenting on his reorganisation of CCC to a financial journalist, he glanced across the concourse and saw his wife awaiting him. That was definitely an unexpected development. In truth he had been a little edgy about the latest gift he had sent her. He had worried that it was a step too far, which might upset the marital apple cart even more, and so he had waited until he was out of the country to send it. He could never remember being so unsure with a woman before and he had found it an unnerving experience. As he excused himself to approach her a radiant smile lit up her face and she looked so gorgeous with her spectacular hair tumbling round her fragile features that he almost walked into a woman wheeling a luggage trolley.

  ‘Navarre …’ Tawny pronounced, hooking a slender pale hand to his arm.

  ‘I like the coat, ma petite,’ he murmured, although even with his wide experience he had never before seen a raincoat that appeared to lead a double life as a distinctly sexy garment, for it was short, showing the merest glimpse of long pale thigh and knee above the most incredible pair of long, tight, high-heeled boots.

  Luminous pale blue eyes lifted to his face. ‘I thought you’d like the boots—’

  ‘Il n’y a pas de mais … no buts about that,’ Navarre breathed a little thickly, wondering what she was wearing below the coat because from his vantage point no garment was visible at the neck. He watched her climb into the limousine and as the split at the back of the coat parted a tantalising couple of inches along with the movement he froze for a split second at the sight of the pale green knickers ri
ding high on her rounded little bottom.

  As the car pulled away, Tawny crossed her legs and asked him about London. His attention was welded to her legs, though, his manner distracted, and when he glanced up to find her watching him, a faint line of colour barred his high cheekbones, highlighting eyes of the most wicked green. ‘You have to know that you look amazing,’ he stressed unevenly. ‘I can’t take my eyes off you.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear, but it’s been so long since you said anything in that line … or looked,’ she pointed out gently.

  His lush lashes cloaked his gaze protectively. ‘Our wedding day should have been perfect but instead everything went wrong and that was my fault. I didn’t feel that I was in a position to make demands. I didn’t want to risk driving you away.’

  In a sudden movement, Tawny reached for his hand. ‘I’m not going anywhere!’

  ‘People said stuff like that to me throughout my childhood and then broke their promises,’ he admitted with a stark sincerity that shook her.

  ‘Touching me … I mean,’ she said awkwardly, ‘it wouldn’t have needed a demand.’

  Navarre rested a light fingertip below the ripe curve of her raspberry-tinted mouth and said, ‘How was I to know that?’

  As his hand trailed along her cheekbone Tawny pushed her cheek into his palm, lashes sensually low. ‘You know now,’ she told him.

  ‘You’re so different from the other women I’ve known. I didn’t want to get it wrong with you,’ he admitted gruffly, a delicious tension stretching out the moment as she angled her mouth up and he took the invitation with a swift, sure hunger that released a moan of approval from her throat.

  Navarre straightened again and a gave her a breathtaking smile. ‘I dare not touch you until we get back home. I’m like dynamite waiting on a lit match,’ he groaned, studying her with hot, hungry intensity. ‘It’s been too long and I’m too revved up.’