'Shocking, was it not?' he queried lightly.
'You French people are mad !' she burst out, finding relief in anger. 'I've never experienced such atrocious driving!'
He shrugged. 'A man's true character is said to be revealed by the nature of his driving. While, in fairness to my countrymen, I must refute your charge of insanity, I must be equally fair and admit that a Frenchman exercises the same emotions when he is driving as he does when he is making love— he is impatient, he is reckless, and above all he is passionately desirous of achieving his goal.'
Chantal closed her eyes to block out the picture his words had formed, but quickly opened them again when the image immediately strengthened. His presence was torment enough without having to endure the added aggravation of carrying about in her mind a vision of what it would be like to be loved by a man Gallic to his very fingertips.
Surprise overcame embarrassment when they entered a thriving, bustling town full of large shops, fashionable cafés, theatres, cinemas and many office blocks advertising the headquarters of a dozen famous champagne firms. Brut drove to the rear of a building bearing the sign Etablissement La Roque à Remi and into a private car park marked into sections, each indicating the designation of the person for whom it was intended. When smoothly the bonnet of the car came to rest beneath a sign printed Chef de Cave, Chantal indicated it with a nod and queried diffidently:
'Won't he mind?'
'No, I do not mind in the least,' he laughed, easing long legs out of the car.
By the time he had walked around the rear and appeared at the side of the car to help her out his meaning had become clear.
'You are the Chef de Cave,' she accused, 'the man around whom the whole of the firm revolves! Yet you allowed me to think that you never actually worked!'
'You have formed so many preconceived ideas about me, ma belle châtaigne, that I am being forced to work methodically to eradicate them one by one. My first task was to rid you of the false impression that I wished to see your brother and yourself fail in your courageous venture. My second was to prove that I am not the surly brute I must at first have appeared. And now,' he smiled, cupping her elbow in his hand to assist her to alight, 'I should like, if you will permit me, to atone for past indiscretions by ensuring that you enjoy this short break from your labours. It would help,' he urged softly, his blue eyes tracing the contours of her troubled face, 'if for a few hours you could lay suspicion aside and relax as if in the company of a friend.'
He really was the most plausible rogue, she told herself as, with her hand tucked within the crook of his arm, she was hustled through a confusion of side streets towards an outfitters that supplied suits for hire.
Within the space of fifteen minutes her business had been transacted and they left the shop with the promise that the goods they had chosen would be parcelled, ready to be picked up when later they returned.
'Lunch next, I think ...' He glanced at his watch. 'There is an excellent hotel not far from here.'
'Oh, but ...' Disappointment clouded her face.'
He halted. 'Please, don't make the excuse that you are not hungry! You English care so little for your stomachs—which is probably why your cooks omit loving care from the preparation of meals and rarely achieve succulence and sublety in sauces and garnishing.'
'No need to continue with the lecture,' she laughingly protested, 'I assure you that I'm hungry and I do enjoy my food, it's simply that, if you have no objection, I would love to eat in a bistro.'
It must have been many years, if ever, since the aristocratic Marquis had entered such a workaday establishment, yet without hesitation he fell in with her wishes.
'Certainement! We will look for a place that is well filled with local people; what we are served may not be the best food in France, but still it will be very good indeed. The majority of my race are far more interested in what is on the plate than in the smartness of the surroundings.'
As it was comparatively early it did not take long to discover a place that promised to meet with his requirements. A delicious aroma met them as they stepped inside a warm, bustling, conversation-filled interior. A smiling patronne escorted them to one of the few empty tables and flicked an imaginary crumb from the spread of spotless chequered tablecloth, before offering proudly.
'May I recommend our dish of the day—Salade aux moules à la Boulonnaise?' She blew a rapturous kiss into the air. 'One of our chef's specialities!'
'Yes, please,' Chantal nodded, eager to try the dish she knew was a delicious mussel and potato salad.
'And no doubt Monsieur would like a carafe of wine?' the patronne enquired of the Marquis.
Chantal smiled to herself when, looking slightly pained, he communicated consent with a brief nod.
'Such places cannot as a rule offer an extensive wine list,' he complained, 'a bottle of vin ordinaire would be no more palatable than the local wines supplied by the carafe.'
'You're obviously spoiled,' she scolded with a smile, 'or perhaps your job has turned you into a wine snob.'
His eyebrows rose in response to her censure. 'On the contrary, a wine snob uses an imagined knowledge of wine to make unfortunate acquaintances feel inferior, whereas I have become embroiled over the years in a passionate love affair that has provided me with many mistresses. Each vintage, like every woman, has its own brand of seduction—a smell, a taste, a body so distinct that a man can close his eyes, sip, and identify immediately the blend of opulence and pleasure he is sampling.'
Chantal shifted uncomfortably, embarrassed by his choice of simile, but determined that her flippancy should be thoroughly punished, he continued to shock.
'From the cool, blonde German Hock he is given a reminder of an invigorating shower taken after toiling through the heat of a summer's day. In the company of a sweet, dark Spanish Oloroso he can relive the somnolent delight of basking under hot sun. From the cheerful Italian Chianti he receives the vitality of youth and the gluttonous enjoyment of eating a delicious meal. But only from Champagne,' he glinted wickedly, 'The maîtresse irresistible, can be gained a similar erotic pleasure to that of drinking wine from a French girl's navel.'
She was perfectly well aware that he was mocking her innate modesty and hated him for the satisfaction he displayed when, in spite of brave efforts to prevent it, a tide of colour rose swiftly to her cheeks.
To her relief his attention was diverted by the arrival of their meal, a large oval serving dish lined with potato slices, topped with mussels cooked in wine and a sprinkling of chopped parsley and chives, the whole sumptuously produced, skilfully prepared, and chilled to perfection.
To Chantal's untrained palate the rough peasant wine seemed to blend perfectly with the main course and also with the cheese she dared to select in preference to a sweet dessert, young goat's cheese, swaddled in bands of brown chestnut leaves which she slowly unwound to reveal a soft succulent centre dripping with moisture.
'I buy it from the gypsies, mademoiselle.' The patronne waited anxiously for her reaction. 'They deliver it to me fresh every day.'
'Mmm ... gorgeous!' Chantal mumbled, her mouth rather full.
The patronne beamed at the Marquis. 'It is most unusual for an English person to show appreciation of good food, monsieur.'
'Like the Eiswein, madame, the lady is indeed a rarity,' he agreed.
'Eiswein ...?' Chantal puzzled, her eyes wide with curiosity as she peeped across the rim of her glass.
'The famous German Ice Wine,' he exclaimed. 'When a late dry summer is followed by a quick hard frost the juice in the grapes becomes frozen. The grapes are then gathered and pressed when the juice is still frozen, the resultant wine being absolutely superb. The fact that the necessary climatic conditions occur very infrequently is responsible for the rarity of the wine, and explains why there have been only ten vintages of Eiswein in the last hundred years.'
'It seems to me that you place the highest value upon things that are not too readily available,' she deci
ded slowly. 'Like a small boy, you desire most what you've been told you can't have.'
He shrugged. 'What we obtain too cheaply, we esteem too lightly. It is rarity that gives everything its value.'
Made bold by too much wine, Chantal flirted dangerously, green eyes sparkling a challenge across the safe width of the table. 'I'm flattered to be placed in the same category as a much sought-after vintage, but I find it a little disappointing that you made no mention of this wine among your list of ... er ... mistresses. Does the omission imply that I ... that it lacks some quality essential to your pleasure?'
His smooth reply stripped the conversation of all pretence that they were speaking exclusively on the subject of wine.
'Indeed not.' His assessing smile caused her a sobering pang. 'The object of learning about wine is not just to achieve sufficient knowledge to appreciate those wines that have become established favourites, but also to supply guidelines to those who wish to explore the possibilities of any delightful new discoveries. A mail's taste can become jaded, familiarity breeds boredom, so he begins looking elsewhere in search of fresh interests to titillate his senses.' The words rolled from his tongue in the manner of a chef de cave following the routine of his profession, thoroughly tasting, analysing, and then discarding.
'Here,' Chantal heard an inner voice of caution, 'is a man who will discard women as often, and with as little thought, as he would discard an inferior wine.' Only a superwoman could hope to achieve the standard of perfection he demanded— only a superwoman could cope with the pain of being rejected if she did not!
She was quiet during the return journey, and as Brut too, seemed occupied with thoughts of his own, the drive was accomplished practically in silence. There was no reason that she could think of for the sudden bout of depression that had dropped like a cloud over what had turned out to be a very enjoyable day. Not a relaxing one by any means; it was impossible to relax in the company of a man who loved to torment, which was probably why she felt so tired, why she could be grateful for the fact that because his mood matched hers she was being spared the effort of searching for flippant replies to his usually teasing comments.
She chanced a sideways glance and saw that his aquiline features were stern, almost morose, as he divided his attention between his driving and the thoughts that had chased devilment from his eyes and the curled, slightly derisive smile from his lips. It would be so easy to become charmed by him, she thought, a breath catching sharply in her throat. It was useless trying to deny that she found him intensely attractive, or that with a quirk of an eyebrow, an unexpected smile, he could stampede her immature senses. Yet innate common sense warned her that the attraction was purely physical, and besides that, deliberately contrived. Which was why she had to remain always on the defensive, remembering always that she was participating in what might turn out to be a very dangerous game!
With her armour of self-confidence renewed, she was able to turn upon him a cool, enquiring look when just as they came within sight of Trésor d'Hélène he pulled into the side of the road, switched oil' the ignition, then twisted in his seat to face her. When, without a word, he snaked an arm across the back of her seat to grip her shoulder she tensed. She just had time to register: 'Oh, God, he's so predictable ... !' before he lowered his head and captured her mouth beneath his in a long, draining kiss.
Scorn offered little immunity to the shattering impact upon her senses as his mouth searched and probed, arousing deeply buried nerves into quivering life, setting a torch to emotions that had lain tidy, neat and untouched waiting for a flame to leap them into fiery life. When finally he withdrew his lips from hers she felt she had been consumed, as fire consumes everything before it, leaving her heart, her senses, her emotions no more than a litter of charred debris.
Only her eyes remained alive in an ashen face, darkly green, turbulent with anger and contempt. With breath escaping from her lips in strangled gasps, she managed to spit!
'I trust that the payment you've extracted was sufficient, monsieur?'
Furiously, she wrenched open the door, then changed her mind and twisted round to face him.
'Just in case it wasn't, I'd better leave a tip!'
The sound of her palm connecting against his cheek was music in her ears after she jumped from the car and ran from the man who had made no attempt to fend off her blow, who had not flinched, not even when the signet ring on her finger had cut deeply into his lip.
CHAPTER EIGHT
'MADEMOISELLE, have you decided what you are going to wear to the ball at the Château?' Hortense was checking through the contents of the linen cupboard and Chantal, because she was not needed that day in the vineyard, was helping her.
Angry because her hands had suddenly begun to shake, she thrust them inside the pockets of her skirt and replied moodily,
'Peter will have to go alone, I have nothing suitable in my wardrobe for such a posh affair and it would be a sinful waste of money to buy an extravagant dress for one night only. No, Peter must convey my apologies, I'm certain he won't mind going alone.'
'I'm quite sure he will not,' Hortense hesitated as if searching for words, 'but are you sure it would be wise to allow him to do so? The boy's attitude has changed for the better since you found a suit for him to wear. His apology to Louis was sincere and they are once more the best of friends. He has done me many small kindnesses in order to atone, and I know that the relationship between the two of you has been restored almost to normal. And yet...'
'I know what you're going to say,' Chantal sighed. 'There's an air of suppressed excitement about him that's very worrying. He's been with Nicole for some part of every day since she returned from Paris two weeks ago. He hasn't shirked his share of the work, but I can't see how the presence of Nicole in the vineyard, trailing in his shadow, flirting prettily while pretending to help, can have been anything other than a hindrance. I've given her no encouragement, indeed, on one or two occasions I've been on the verge of delivering a definite snub, but because I don't want to anger Peter further I've managed to bite my tongue. What's her aim, Hortense?' she burst out anxiously. 'The two of them are much of an age, but compared with Nicole my brother is as sophisticated as a babe in arms !'
'I have no idea, mademoiselle,' Hortense shook her head, 'but this much I do know—Nicole has inherited her mother's devious ways. I would not trust either of them an inch, which is why I am urging you to attend the ball if only to keep an eye on your brother! I fear Nicole is playing with his emotions as a cat would play with a mouse; soon she will tire of the novelty and as a consequence he will be very hurt. As it is useless trying to reason with him, I think you should stay close by his side in case help should be needed.'
'But I can't go to the ball!' wailed Chantal. 'As I've already explained, I can't afford to buy a new dress.'
'Then we will make one,' Hortense insisted. 'There are three whole days left before the ball is to be held.'
'Make one?' Chantal stared. 'How? I have no material, and even if I had who do we know who's clever enough to run up a dress suitable for such an occasion?'
Hortense bridled. Slightly offended, she exclaimed, 'You see before you, mademoiselle, one who has spent the better part of her life as a lady's maid. Part of my duties was to cut out and sew dresses for far grander occasions than the one we are discussing—and what is more,' she sniffed, 'if my work was good enough to satisfy your grandmother who, as everyone knows, set extremely high standards, I see no reason why it should not be equally satisfactory to you.'
Chantal had resigned herself to staying away from the ball, but only now, when a faint hope of going had presented itself, did she realise how much she was missing the company of others outside of their small tight circle. It would be fun to forget work for one day at least, to dress up and feel young and carefree again, to dance, perhaps ...
She shied away from picturing herself in the arms of one particular man and asked anxiously of Hortense, 'Do you really think it possible? Coul
d we get the material in time?'
Hortense preened. 'There is a wealth of material upstairs in the attic, dozens of trunks containing dresses that belonged to your grandmother, all carefully wrapped to preserve the material. Among them we are sure to find one that could be restyled or unpicked, perhaps, so that the material can be fashioned into a dress of your own design. If you could perhaps sketch out a design for me to copy ... ?'
'I certainly can, Hortense, you clever, clever dear !' Chantal enveloped the old woman in a warm hug. 'Come on, let's see what we can find!
Hortense had not exaggerated. The attic, which Chantal had not previously visited, was lined with trunks packed with every dress the Comtesse had owned from the day of her marriage until a few years previous to her death. There were skirts of lightweight tweed, immaculate as the day the cloth had been woven; blouses of cotton and shimmering silk; day gowns; cocktail dresses and evening wear in every colour, style and material imaginable. She pounced upon every article, preening in front of a fly-blown mirror as she posed with each dress held up in front of her. But by the time an enjoyable hour had passed they had to call a halt, confused by the colourful profusion of silks, brocades, chiffons and laces piled knee-deep around them.
'Did my grandmother never throw anything away?' Chantal gasped, sinking wide-eyed on to a nearby trunk.
'Never.' Hortense blinked, misty-eyed with the revival of many memories. 'She could be generous to a fault, and yet in many little ways she showed a thriftiness typical of all French women. If ever she saw a poor woman in need of a coat she would buy her one, yet she was loath to part with any of her own possessions—especially clothes that she had worn on happy occasions. This dress, for instance,' she held up a gown of dark brown velvet with a bodice inset with lace and a high, boned collar, 'was one of her special favourites. She wore it often, especially,' the old woman chuckled, 'when she wished to wheedle some extra favour from your grandfather—even though she was perfectly well aware that whichever dress she happened to be wearing he would still find her irresistible.'
Champagne Spring by Margaret Rome Page 8