Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome

by Champagne Spring

  She glimpsed a hint of satanic satisfaction in eyes blue as newly-kindled flame that pierced the dusk, noting every nuance of uncertainty, dismay and confusion on her expressive features. That she was no match for his sophisticated brand of dalliance was driven home to her when he reached out a finger to poke inquisitively inside a dark red curl.

  'Belle châtaigne,' he murmured, gently uncurling the burnished ring then laughing under his breath when, as he withdrew his finger, the fiery lock sprang back into its original coil. 'A golden head, a throat that purrs, eyes that put emeralds to shame, a perfect body that compels fierce undeniable attraction,' he whispered into her astonished ear. When his hands grasped her shoulders she remained stiffly rooted, her young mind awhirl, her naïve emotions defenceless against such sensuous barrage. 'Ma petite belle châtaigne,' he husked, touching cool lips against her downcast lashes, 'I am utterly perplexed—are you ice or fire? Are you Madonna or Magdalen?'

  Chantal never quite knew what snapped the taut thread between them, it might have been the pad of restless hooves or the call of a bird passing overhead, but suddenly she became aware of the incongruity of the suave, immaculate Marquis seriously attempting to seduce a grubby, smelly urchin. A bubbling well of laughter opened up inside her and she folded up, giving rein to her amusement.

  He jerked upright, affronted, and gladly she grasped the opportunity to extract revenge upon the tall, blue-eyed boss man of the vineyards, whose conceit had led him to expect her to be as available as the bunches of luscious grapes that fell so readily into his hands.

  Had she been born a full-blooded Champenoise, she could not have poured more scorn upon his folly. 'Thank you, monsieur, for helping to restore my sense of humour. According to Hortense, who I must admit has little regard for the opposite sex, the men of this area are,' she began ticking off on her fingers, 'cuckolds, beggars, toads and asses. You seem to me to epitomise all of their attendant vices. Did you really think you could override my contempt of your despicable tactics by muttering a few compliments in my ear?' She stamped a foot in her rage. 'Couldn't you have done justice to my intelligence by at least choosing a more appropriate moment?' Grabbing an odorous handkerchief from her pocket, she flung it straight into his face.

  'Mon dieu ...!' Instinctively he recoiled.

  'Quel horreur!' She mimed Nicole's theatrical shudder, then braved blazing blue eyes just long enough to mock. 'I pity you, monsieur—as I would pity a snake-charmer bitten by his own snake!'

  She ran all the way back to Trésor d'Hélène and burst into the kitchen, startling Hortense into dropping a handful of spoons back into the cutlery drawer. 'Please delay serving dinner for half an hour,' she begged, 'I must rid myself of this smell.'

  'Gladly,' the housekeeper's nose wrinkled. 'Fortunately there are two bathrooms—your brother is already occupying one of them.'

  As she mounted the stairs Chantal heard Peter singing at the top of his voice and wondered what had brought about such a quick change of humour. But then the necessity to feel sweet and clean again took precedence. First of all she shampooed and thoroughly rinsed her hair, then she luxuriated in a bath filled with pine-scented water, soaping every inch of her skin, scrubbing beneath her nails, until all that remained of the épandage des fumiers was a ghastly memory.

  She thought herself composed when she sat down at the dinner table, yet Peter's opening remark caused an inner nerve to jerk.

  'You and Brut seemed to find plenty to say to one another?' The statement was more a question.

  Nodding approval of the generous helping of pâté Hortense was heaping on to her plate, she took time to quell her emotions before prevaricating.

  'Brut... ?'

  'The Marquis,' he enlightened crossly, showing his dislike of pretence.

  Determined not to be drawn until such time as she could reflect upon the interlude without pain or tremor, Chantal further incensed him by idly refleeting.

  'Brut... The name is certainly applicable!'

  Hortense surprised them with one of her rare chuckles. 'The word has an extra meaning to us— one that is probably unknown to you. Brut is a category of champagne, the very driest variety that is always drunk at the beginning of a meal, never at the end because fruit and sweet desserts paralyse its delicate flavour. The Marquis' name is actually Léon, but his friends, when they rechristened him, obviously had in mind his natural acidity. Predictably, even his taste in women runs towards the elegant and sophisticate rather than the sweet ingenue.'

  'That can hardly be so, madame.' When Peter contradicted in a soft, dreamy voice Chantal paused in the act of transferring a morsel of pâté to her mouth to stare at her unfamiliarly sober-looking brother. 'He's very fond of his cousin, Nicole, and she is the sweetest, most gentle girl I've ever known. Don't you agree, Chantal?'

  Chantal was shocked to see how vacant his stare had become. Suspecting a case of besotted calf-love, her reply was impulsive and foolish. 'As a tiger cub is gentle !' she wasped, then could have immediately bitten off her tongue. Quickly she attempted to repair the damage her sarcasm had caused, but Peter, whose appetite had always been his main consideration, rose from the table, cast her a look of injured disgust, then stalked out of the room.

  Nonplussed, Chantal and Hortense shared a puzzled look.

  'Oh, là, là!' the old housekeeper smiled broadly, 'the boy is obviously in love !'

  Icy fingers clutched Chantal's heart and squeezed hard. Peter was not in love, she told herself, he was infatuated, and by a girl who had deliberately set out to charm him, just as her cousin had tried to charm herself. They must have plotted together— the Marquis and his cousin—to devise a scheme of planned seduction, to what end she could not guess, but intuitively she sensed that family harmony was being threatened. So long as she and Peter remained united they would be safe—separated, they would become vulnerable as lambs astray in a jungle.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TINY puffs of smoke were floating up into the soft spring sunshine. March had arrived, the best month of all for vines to be pruned. In every vineyard women and children were following in the pruners' footsteps, collecting the discarded shoots that were destined to be destroyed by burning on the many small bonfires.

  At Trésor d'Hélène, however, there were no women or children evident, only a solitary, slender girl toiling in the wake of two men, one expertly wielding secateurs, the other paying rapt attention while his teacher instructed and demonstrated.

  'Of all the vineyard tasks,' Hortense had explained earlier that morning, 'the pruning of the vines is the most important and, except for grafting, is the one requiring the most care and knowledge. In order to grow grapes of high quality it is important to restrict the number of bunches; a vine left unpruned will produce heavy crops, then quickly become exhausted.'

  The air was still slightly crisp, yet perspiration was running in rivulets down Chantal's aching back. Grimly determined not to complain, she continued clearing the debris left by Louis' swift, sure secateurs and the smaller piles contributed by Peter, his carefully methodical pupil.

  At the sound of approaching footsteps the three of them looked up. Chantal's nerves tingled a vibrant warning when she recognised a tall figure, with uncovered head glinting golden in the sunshine, eating up yards of ground with long, athletic strides.

  'It's Brut... !'

  Peter's familiar form of address incensed her, but not half so much as the welcome extended to the Marquis by the two men. With almost servile humility Louis doffed his woollen cap.

  'Bonjour, Monsieur le Marquis!' he struggled shyly, then grabbed his secateurs, eager to retreat into the World he knew best.

  Peter grinned. 'Nice of you to pay us a visit.' Then showing that he had inherited a truly Gallic lack of emotional inhibition, he looked beyond his shoulder, then quizzed with evident disappointment, 'Have you come alone?'

  The Marquis was quick to supply the information he sought. 'Nicole and her mother have gone to Paris on a shopping expe
dition that is planned to last a few days.' He smiled briefly. 'However, if their previous expeditions are anything to go by, the visit will be extended until at least the end of the week. According to my young cousin, every item in her wardrobe is either out of date or shabby. I tell her that if all her clothes are in a worn state it would seem to indicate that she goes out too much.' His attention swiftly fell upon Chantal. 'What about you, mademoiselle?' The blue eyes seemed to pierce her through and through. 'Do you have the same problem?'

  Acute self-consciousness made her sound abrupt. 'Parties are usually held to rid people of their social obligations. We're too tired in the evenings to entertain and even if we were not, adverse propaganda has ensured that none of our neighbours would accept an invitation to visit Trésor d'Hélène. Consequently, they feel no obligation towards us.'

  Anxious to continue with his work, Peter excused himself and hurried to join Louis who had advanced a fair distance away.

  Caught on the hop by his abrupt departure, Chantal found herself alone with the man, looking surprisingly at home in jeans that encased his narrow hips and sinewed thighs in a tough denim skin. Muscled forearms, tanned as leather, stood out against the stark whiteness of a short-sleeved tee-shirt of fine cotton that clung to his broad chest and imparted a tigerish grace to every muscled movement. Exposed to a virility that had lurked unsuspected beneath his usual outfits of impeccable formality, she turned aside to hide confusion and with a muttered apology resumed her gathering.

  A hand shot out to grasp her by the elbow. 'Leave that!' he ordered sharply. 'I want to talk to you.'

  Resentfully she tugged out of his grasp. 'You may have time to waste, monsieur, but I don't. As you can see,' she flung out an arm to encompass the vineyard, 'the locals dare not offend you, so we're having to do all of the work ourselves.'

  'I will help you out,' he brushed her anger aside, 'but first of all you must listen to what I have to say.'

  'You will help us... !' Her incredulity was insulting.

  His face darkened, eyes blue as chipped ice pinpointed in a look that froze the hot rush of blood coursing through her veins. Then, slightly mollified by her expression of white-faced fear, he threw back his head and laughed. 'Do I really give an impression of being incapable of a hard day's work?' he grinned. 'Believe me, mademoiselle,' he hesitated, frowned, then queried politely, 'may I call you Chantal?' Taking her assent for granted, he continued, 'No Champenois, whatever his ultimate status in life, is allowed to spend his boyhood in idleness. In common with those children,' he nodded towards a neighbouring vineyard, 'I was taught at a very early age the proper way to untie shoots, to dig water stops, to lay new earth, to apply manure,' his lips twitched, 'to prune, to spray, to trim, to become expert, in fact, in every stage of culture before I was even allowed inside the laboratories to learn the art of making champagne. So you see,' his teasing tone did strange things to her heartbeats, 'having served a hard apprenticeship I am perfectly well qualified to help you out. Should I become exhausted by the unaccustomed labour, however,' the twinkle in his eye grew brighter, 'I shall expect you to cool my fevered brow.'

  The hint of irony, the slightly jeering, slightly accented voice had the infuriating effect of making her tremble at the knees. In her weak, uncertain state Chantal was no match for the charm he was spreading thick enough to bury her. Her salvation lay in the fact that his conceit had not allowed him to guess that she could see through his attempt to disarm a member of a family his father had taught him to distrust. That he was even bothering to talk to her indicated some ulterior motive, so, working on the premise that to be forewarned is to be forearmed, she decided to play him along in the hope that she might gain some hint of the true purpose behind his devious manoeuvres.

  'I'm ready for a rest.' She abandoned her task to direct him a dazzling smile. Praying he would not sense the inner havoc that was driving her pulses frantic, she held out her hand. 'Let's find some place to sit—for only ten minutes or so, remember !' Pride retched at the necessity to deploy coyly swept-down lashes. 'Then afterwards you must stand by your promise to help me catch up.'

  Incredibly, he was completely deceived. Capturing the hand she offered inside fingers of steel, he led her to a vantage point where, utilising an upturned crate as a seat, they sat looking down upon slopes of terraced vines, a patchwork of plots each as coveted, as jealously guarded, as well maintained, as a demanding mistress.

  'Remind me to bring you here at dusk some summer's evening,' he murmured in the seductively accented voice she found fascinating. 'Then, the subtle harmony of ochre-red tiles, blue-grey slates and the many-toned greens of vineyards, woods and fields creates a magic softness reminiscent of a Monet masterpiece. In early June the vines flower. Flowering starts at the bottom of the vine,' casually, his finger began tracing a line of fire from her wrist up the length of her arm, 'where the flow of sap is stronger, then spreads upwards. The yellowish green petals exude a heady scent that has been likened to that of the passion-fruit flower. Lovers wander the vineyards at sundown, when the scent is most potent, hoping to test out the claim that it is an aphrodisiac. We must join them, you and I, and try to discover for ourselves whether or not the legend is true.'

  Chantal wanted to edge out of reach of the conscience-lacking Frenchman whose voice was purring wicked lies, whose brilliant eyes were sparkling with empty promises, Whose charm was accomplished enough to render an aphrodisiac superfluous. In fact, she thought wildly, faced with the prospect of his close proximity in surroundings such as he had outlined, any girl with her wits about her would opt for the calming influence of a sedative!

  'What ...' She cleared a nervous croak from her throat and began again. 'What was it you wanted to talk to me about?'

  Mercifully, he abandoned pretence in favour of sobriety. 'You have levelled some unjust accusations against me. No amount of argument will convince you that I am innocent of these charges, therefore I propose to supply actual proof that I have never sought to influence the locals against you or your brother. Suspicion of strangers, resentment of new comers, is too deeply ingrained in the Champenois for their attitudes to change overnight. Nothing I could say would make any difference, they will not be coerced. They might, however, be prepared to follow my lead, so what I am proposing is this. With your permission, and that of your brother, of course, Nicole and I will visit you often. We will hold out a visible hand of friendship by helping in any way we can to ensure the success of the vintage. Socially, too, you must be seen to have been accepted, and what better way to begin than by attending a ball that Nicole and her mother have arranged to hold in the Château? It is in aid of one of their pet charities, so everyone of note in the district will be attending. Once you have been introduced, invitations will follow. The Champenois labourer is a terrible snob—once he sees that you have been accepted by society you will have no further trouble finding workers for your vineyard.'

  Chantal was not fooled. Luckily, he was unaware that Peter, with uncanny perception, had summed up the situation and concluded that the Marquis was worried about the quality of the forthcoming vintage and that by fair means or foul he would devise some means of ensuring its success. To allow him freedom to come and go as he pleased meant having to endure his overbearing arrogance, accept his expert authority, and having to carefully sift his every devious word. Yet his aim was their aim, therefore, in order to survive another year it made sense to accept his offer, to pretend to be deceived in order to gain the benefit of an extra pair of hands.

  To mix socially with the Marquis, however, was an entirely different matter.

  Looking suitably subdued, she brushed twin fans of gold-tipped lashes across flushed cheeks before stammering,

  'It ... it seems we've misjudged you, monsieur. Your offer to help out is very generous, in the circumstances. On Peter's behalf, and my own, I accept gladly.'

  In case his satisfied glint should overcome her temptation to smack his face, she clasped her hands tightly in her lap
.

  'And what about the ball?' he asked? 'Will you attend?'

  'I'm ... I'm not so sure about that. I've nothing suitable to wear, I'm afraid.'

  Pleased with the result of his performance, he threw back his head and laughed. 'Woman's age-old excuse !' he jeered. 'If she does not wish to attend a party she suddenly discovers that she has nothing to wear, just as, with equal ease, she can conjure up a headache from nowhere in order to avoid having sex!'

  Wishing to conceal her flaming cheeks, she turned her head aside. 'On the first count you're being unfair,' she mumbled, 'many times in the past I've had to refuse invitations because, being a comparatively poor family, we had no money to spare for extravagant clothes. On the second count,' she hesitated, gulped, then galloped on, 'I've had no experience, so I can't pass judgment.'

  'No experience ...!' he mocked. 'How old are you—twenty, twenty-one ...?'

  'Twenty-two,' she croaked, humiliated by his obvious disbelief.

  'I know the English are not renowned for their passionate natures,' he reached out to turn her face towards him, 'but you are half French, the daughter of a woman who I've been told was very expert in exploiting all the advantages woman holds over man. Don't tell me,' his mouth developed a snide twist, 'that she did not pass on to her daughter the secret of her success?'

  Chantal faced his sardonic stare with wide, honest eyes. 'My mother died giving birth to Peter,' she told him simply.

  For a second longer his blue eyes continued to jeer, then slowly they darkened as he took in the sense of her words. This time it was he who was nonplussed.

  'I beg your pardon, Chantal. Please believe me. I had no idea ...'

  'Didn't Uncle James explain our circumstances?' she queried, eyebrows raised.

  'My discussion with your solicitor was run on strictly business lines,' he assured her stiffly, wrestling with the unfamiliar experience of being made to feel gauche, an awkward, insensitive brute.