by Julia James
Alexa flinched. ‘Immie, don’t. Please.’ Then she plunged on, ‘But I can’t, can’t believe he’d marry someone that young.’
‘He’ll probably enjoy a young wife. Someone naive and easy to manipulate. Someone he can impress. Make a fool of.’ She cast a dark look at Alexa. ‘Though you don’t have to be nineteen to be taken for a ride by Guy de Rochemont!’
But Alexa was still too shocked to react to the jibe. ‘She can’t be only nineteen,’ she echoed.
‘Well, she is. And don’t tell me he won’t find it convenient. He’ll be able to pocket her dowry—Daddy’s bank!—to add to his collection, and then after a night deflowering her he can set up a sophisticated, grown-up mistress—like you were, Alexa, whether or not you like that word—and sow his oats with her, not some inexperienced little teenage virgin!’
Alexa’s lips pressed together. ‘Immie, don’t. That’s a completely unwarranted accusation! Guy would never do that! Be unfaithful to his wife.’
Imogen laughed harshly. ‘Oh yeah? Wanna bet? Honestly, Alexa, you’re as naive about him as if it was you who was nineteen!’ She glared at her friend. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? Face the truth, Alexa—Guy de Rochemont used you! He treated you appallingly. It’s unbelievable. He turned up whenever he wanted and there you were, waiting and willing. Or if he decided he could fit you into his oh-so-busy schedule, he had you flown out to him—like some whore!’ Her voice sharpened, her expression fierce. ‘He used you for on-demand sex, Alexa!’
‘No!’ Alexa’s denial was automatic, instant.
‘Yes,’ insisted Imogen.
Alexa shut her eyes, twisting her head away. Imogen’s ugly words seared into her brain. No! she wanted to cry out again. It wasn’t like that! It wasn’t!
Denial fought with doubt.
Imogen hammered home her condemnation.
‘Guy treated you like dirt—why shouldn’t he treat his wife like dirt too?’
‘Stop it—I won’t let you say such things about him!’ protested Alexa, clinging to denial. ‘You don’t know him, Immie. I do.’
Imogen looked at her. ‘Do you?’ she said.
Alexa closed her eyes. Inside her lids, a thousand images and memories replayed themselves.
Then, ‘Yes, I do,’ she said, as she opened them again and let her gaze rest unflinchingly on her condemning friend. ‘Guy is not like that. I know. I know you didn’t like the way he came and went, but I’ll tell you, and I’ll tell you again and go on telling you, I was OK with it. It suited us both.’
Imogen just nodded. ‘Right. So will it suit you when he swans back into your life and suggests picking up again where you left off, because his honeymoon’s over?’
For a moment as brief as the stab of a knife emotion leapt in Alexa’s throat. Then, very carefully, she answered.
‘That isn’t Guy. Whatever the reasons he’s marrying—and for all I know he’s loved her for years and has been waiting for her to grow up—’ She ignored the derisive snort from Imogen at this fairy-tale explanation. ‘He’ll treat her honourably. Why shouldn’t he?’
Imogen just looked at her. ‘Because,’ she spelt out, ‘he didn’t treat you “honourably”, that’s why. And, Alexa, you’re no Carla Crespi—she’s as hard as nails and must have ambition written all the way through her like a stick of rock. So what excuse was there for the way he treated you? Apart from the excuse you keep coming up with? Saying you liked being treated like that! OK, OK, I won’t go on about it any more—I’ll just leave you to find out the truth for yourself. Because I’ll bet you, hand on heart, that that painted little doll he’s marrying won’t keep him between her sheets. I will bet you the sum of one hundred pounds—cash down, Alexa—that he’ll be running to another woman, wedding ring on his finger or not!’
‘You’re wrong,’ said Alexa. Her teeth were gritted, her throat tight.
But Imogen had only levelled her remorseless gaze on her. ‘One hundred pounds. On the table. And I,’ she said, ‘am going to win it.’
Hairpin bends snaked along the mountain side, heading towards the pass into Switzerland, away from the ducal schloss and his future bride. Guy drove fast and furiously, the powerful engine of his low, lean car eating up the curves along with the miles. The concentration it required to negotiate the precipitous Alpine road was a welcome—necessary!—diversion for his mind.
How the hell had he ended up in such a damnable situation?
But the question was pointless. Rhetorical. He knew very well how—had played it out a thousand times in his head. It didn’t matter how he cut it, marrying Heinrich’s daughter was the safest way to protect Rochemont-Lorenz. And protecting Rochemont-Lorenz was his job. His purpose. Just as it had been his father’s and his father’s before him, for over two hundred years. The weight of dynasty, destiny, pressed down upon him.
As he climbed the pass his eyes were bleak. It was nothing new, carrying such a weight. And for some it had been far worse than his burden. Only two generations ago his great-great-uncle Lorenz had liquidated his assets a week before the Anschluss of Germany with Austria, banking the remainder in a Swiss vault rather than let the Nazis sequester it. The gesture hadn’t gone unpunished, and his great-great-aunt had become a widow, her husband ‘disappeared’ into Nazi prison camps.
Her sister-in-law had divorced the husband she’d loved to marry one of Hitler’s top cronies, who’d fancied such a prestigious wife, in order to halt any further ‘disappearances’ in her branch of the family—and to preserve what she could of the Polish branch of the bank, first from Nazi and then Communist despoilation.
After the war another cousin had courted Stalin, funding Russian industry despite his father-in-law being despatched to the gulags for being a ‘dissident intellectual’ with his academic work suppressed. Even in less drastic times personal fulfilment had always been put aside for the sake of what was best for Rochemont-Lorenz.
His own father had wanted to be a professional sportsman—but what use would an Olympic rower have been to the family? So he’d become a banker instead—steering the family fortunes through the EC corridors of Brussels and Strasbourg and the opening up of the former Eastern bloc, and marrying a woman he did not love because it was a match that profited the family, whose perpetual requirements outweighed the petty emotions of individual members. Petty, transient emotions, that would not last if they were starved sufficiently, denied sufficiently.
Emotions as petty as desire. And more than desire…
That waterfall of pale hair, the slender, graceful body, the porcelain skin, and those grey, luminous eyes widening in wonder as the moment came upon her…
Guy’s hand gripped the gear lever, shifting up to match the engine speed. What use to think of such things? To remember a time when he’d been free—free to have Alexa in his life? That was in the past. In the future was following in his parents’ footsteps. Doing as they had done. He took another hairpin, faster than he should, as though by driving fast he could escape the inescapable, and thought about his parents’ marriage. Neither had loved the other, but they had married all the same, and made a pretty good job of it along the way. Respect and consideration went a long way in a marriage.
Would it do the same for his?
The question hung in the high mountain air.
And found no answer.
Only as he glanced upwards, seeing an eagle soaring on thermals, came the sure and certain knowledge that such freedom as the eagle had would never be his again.
Ahead of him, the dark mouth of the road tunnel started to open, swallowing all that entered. He depressed the accelerator and let himself be swallowed up.
‘It’s good that she is so young.’ The voice speaking was beautifully modulated, and it was impossible to tell from it what its owner thought—other than the words expressed.
‘Too young.’ Guy’s answer showed all too clearly his disquiet.
His mother paused momentarily in her needlework. Outside on the parterre an
autumn leaf eddied intermittently. The sky was grey above the Loire château, but there was still light in the air, and the ornamental trees marching along the boundary of this section of the gardens still held their leaves, despite the season. Along the gravel, a peacock strolled disconsolately, his tail furled.
‘It’s an advantage,’ Claudine de Rochemont said. ‘It will make her impressionable to your charms. It would be good for her, Guy, if she fell in love with you. It would not be hard for you to make that happen, you know.’ Green eyes, so similar to her son’s, rested on him.
Her son frowned. ‘God, no!’ he exclaimed feelingly. ‘How could you hope for such a thing? Unrequited love is the very last thing I would want for her! None of this mess is of her making, and I certainly acquit her of any ambition to marry me.’ He gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Her appearance at dinner was enough to convince me of that. She had no design to attract me. She had neglected to change out of her jeans—Heinrich and Annelise were not pleased.’
‘No, I imagine they would not be,’ observed his mother. ‘But Louisa is very pretty, Guy—Annelise took pains to send me the studio shots she had done in the summer. Too overdone, but that’s just Annelise’s taste. Underneath the bones are good.’
‘Pretty?’ echoed Guy condemningly, and said no more.
He did not want ‘pretty’. His eyes veiled, masking memories.
His mother glanced at him assessingly. ‘Not all women can aspire to the allure of Signorina Crespi,’ she remarked dryly.
Guy gave a slight shrug but said nothing, aware that his mother was still looking at him. He glanced at his watch. He wanted out of this conversation, but knew he owed his mother the courtesy of letting her raise the subject. He could hardly exclude her.
‘So, what are the plans in respect of the wedding?’
He glanced back up at her. ‘I have no idea. It is not imminent.’ His lips pressed tightly. ‘Despite Heinrich’s eagerness!’
His mother nodded. ‘That is sensible. Such affairs should not be rushed. I must get in touch with Annelise. And of course Louisa must visit here too.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Guy heavily. He glanced at his watch again. ‘Maman, you must excuse me. I have a dinner engagement in Paris. The helicopter is on standby.’
Again that speculative look was in his mother’s eyes. ‘A personal engagement?’ she ventured.
Guy’s expression closed. ‘No. Business.’ He paused, then said deliberately, ‘I know enough, Maman, to follow the conventions! The only press coverage about me outside the financial press will be in respect of Louisa. And now, forgive me, I must go.’
He took his leave, dutifully kissing his mother on her scented cheek, and strode off. From her place on the Louis Quinze sofa his mother watched him go. Her expression was troubled. A long engagement for a man like her son, fêted by women and used to their enjoyment, was not a good idea. Louisa von Lorenz was young—but a pretty, adoring young bride, swept off her feet by a handsome, sophisticated and experienced husband, could make a workable marriage. And who knew? A softening look in her eyes. Perhaps an adoring young bride would finally inspire her son to do what would be best for him—fall in love.
She picked up her needlework again, the troubled look gone, replaced by hope. Above all she wished her son the gift of a marriage based on love. Even if it took a marriage de covenance to achieve it, as it had in her case.
Would it be so for her son as well?
For now, she could only watch, and wait, in hope.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘ALEXA, it’s the best thing that could have happened to you. Richard Saxonby is seriously nice. Plus he’s good-looking, well-heeled, and really keen on you. You couldn’t do better!’
Imogen’s encomium was a ringing endorsement of what Alexa already knew about the man who was asking her out. Richard was indeed seriously nice. Plus he was good company and intelligent, which was important to her—though Alexa did not regard as highly as Imogen his financial status and keenness on her. She liked him, and, yes, with her eyes she could see he was good looking, with his brown hair and brown eyes, and sturdy, muscular build.
But did that mean she should go out with him?
‘Yes!’ urged Imogen. ‘You can’t go on moping for ever!’
‘I am not moping,’ Alexa replied evenly.
‘Just living like a nun.’ Imogen said acidly. She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s been four months since Guy de Rochemont did the dirty on you. And since then—’ she ignored the customary rejection Alexa always gave whenever she heard Guy criticised ‘—all you’ve done is work, work, work. If it hadn’t been for me plaguing you, you wouldn’t have seen a soul except your clients! C’mon, Alexa—it’s time to rejoin the female race. Guy’s history—and you’re well out of it. Find someone normal, with emotions, not just some jerk who thinks his zillions entitle him to treat women like disposable sex toys whenever he wants some personal R&R when he’s not adding to his gold piles. That’s why Richard Saxonby’s so good—he’s nice, for Pete’s sake!’
‘Too nice,’ Alexa prevaricated. ‘I don’t want to—’
She stopped. Saying more would be revealing, and since Imogen was only too ready to find any reason to persist in her castigation of Guy de Rochemont Alexa did not want to add any fuel to the fire. But silently she completed the sentence in her own head.
I don’t want to give him false hope…
Even as the words formed she felt the familiar scrape against her heart. If only familiarity lessened the pain—but it had never yet seemed to. For over four months her strategy had simply been to ignore the pain. Acknowledge it was there, but otherwise ignore it. After all, what else could she do? She had fallen in love—stupidly and unintentionally and rashly—with a man who was the very last she should have fallen in love with. He’d never expected her to, and if he’d known she had he would have been appalled with her. It wasn’t his fault she’d gone and done it, which meant that the fall-out was hers and hers alone. She had to tough it out, that was all, because what else was there to do? At some point, surely, she would wake up one morning and realise that she was over him? Then, and only then, would she be ready to do what Imogen was vocally urging her to do—move on.
Move on to another man.
But that was the stumbling block. It was unimaginable still even to think of becoming emotionally involved with another man. The very thought was impossible. And for that reason she didn’t want anyone becoming emotionally hung up on her. Especially not someone as nice as Richard Saxonby.
She’d met him at one of Imogen’s frequent dinner parties, to one of which she’d finally been lured, and it was blatantly obvious he’d been carefully selected as a dinner guest by Imogen, purely to dangle in front of her. She’d been placed next to him, and Alexa had to allow that Richard ticked a lot of boxes. He was nice, funny, good-natured and good-looking.
But he wasn’t Guy de Rochemont.
No one is! No one possibly could be!
Alexa laid into her own futile objection ruthlessly. No one was ever going to be Guy, and Guy was beyond her now—beyond her for ever. Her future lay without him, and nothing on earth could change that.
I have to get over him! I have to!
The pain still scraped away at her heart, familiar and futile. So damn, damn futile…
And Immie was right. Until she made a determined effort to remake the rest of her life she would inevitably go on ‘moping’, as her friend so cruelly described her decision to withdraw from the social world, turn in on herself, try and tough it out.
I have to get over him—I have no alternative.
A deep breath filled her lungs, and she lifted her chin. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll give Richard a go.’
Immie shut her eyes. ‘At last. Thank God,’ she said fervently. Then, less audibly but yet more fervently, she muttered, ‘And maybe that bastard who treated you like dirt will finally get the hell out of your head! And stay out!’
Guy was meet
ing and greeting. As the customary social phrases flowed smoothly from his lips, so familiar to him that he could say them on automatic, his conscious mind was busy. Busy exerting what had become bleakly familiar to him over the last four months—iron self-control over his emotions.
Self-control had been an essential weapon in his personal armoury just about all his life, he recognised. It was what enabled him to function, and always had. It was as necessary as breathing. It enabled him to run the behemoth of Rochemont-Lorenz, bear the mantle that was his by inheritance, and cope with all the endless demands made on him—not only of ensuring that Rochemont-Lorenz would continue to survive and prosper in this uncertain new century but also far more tedious to endure, of being endlessly on call to just about every member of the entire damn clan.
So many relatives! So many gatherings of relatives! Dieu, he could have filled his days simply circulating around Europe, and further afield, on a non-stop diet of family social occasions from birthdays to weddings to christenings to funerals. His attendance was expected, his presence courted, and offence taken if he made too many repeated omissions. Ambitions were raised if he decided that relatives active in the myriad companies and enterprises within Rochmont-Lorenz were worth promoting, chagrin taken by those he did not consider sufficiently able.
Not to mention tracking and mitigating the endless politicking and jostling between the different branches—internecine rivalries and alliances alike. Not everyone had been of the opinion that a man in his early twenties—even though he was the son of the oldest branch of the family—should take over the helm from his father at so young an age. There had been plenty of older cousins who had challenged his succession. But Guy’s dedication to his role, his cool head and formidable financial acumen, had proved him his father’s son both in ability and determination, and now his place at the head of the dynasty was assured—taken for granted, even.
The bleakness in his face was visible momentarily. Just as it was taken for granted that he would continue to guard the fortunes of Rochemont-Lorenz, whatever that required.