by Lynne Graham
She was quite glad when Gaston came to summon them to dinner, in a much cosier room hung with tapestries of medieval hunting scenes, in which, she noticed, the central figure was a tall man with a long, slightly hooked nose and clothing that glimmered with gold.
‘Philippe Le Hardi. Duke Philip the Bold,’ Andre supplied quietly. ‘An amazing man, at one time King of France in all but name, and the creator of the Order of the Golden Fleece. His feasts were legendary and so was his spending. He died poor.’
‘But we remember him,’ said Bertrand, ‘for his interest in the wine industry and the measures he took to protect its quality, which led, in time, to the Appellation Contrôlée system.’
Monique Chaloux flung up her hands. ‘Have pity, messieurs. You forget that Mademoiselle Mason is not Dominique Lavaux and this talk of wine will bore her. Let us speak instead of your plans for her entertainment while she is with us.’ She paused. ‘You will make time for a little sightseeing, n’est-ce pas?’
There was a brief odd silence, and Ginny saw Andre’s mouth tighten. He said calmly, ‘As soon as the pruning is finished, and begin, I think, with Beaune. Would that please you, Virginie?’
‘Thank you,’ she returned swiftly. ‘But it’s really not necessary. You have work to do, and I have plenty to read, and Barney to take for walks. I’ll be fine.’
Monique Chaloux clapped her hands. ‘The perfect guest.’
But not Dominique Lavaux, thought Ginny. And wondered.
The meal, served by Gaston, began with consommé, moved on to some excellent smoked fish patties with a creamy sauce, followed by grilled steak, served with a gratin dauphinois and green beans.
‘Charolais beef,’ said Bertrand with satisfaction. ‘The best in the world.’
Ginny, helping herself to Dijon mustard, decided it would be impolitic to speak up for Aberdeen Angus. Too many undercurrents already, she thought.
Dinner concluded with crème brûlée and a selection of local cheeses. Ginny sat back in her chair with a little sigh. ‘That was a wonderful meal.’
‘No better than the one you served to me,’ Andre said lightly and smiled at her across the table.
And for once, she realised, there was no edge or mockery to his smile, just a warmth that seemed to reach out and touch her, spreading its tendrils over every inch of her body. Holding her transfixed and making it suddenly difficult to think or to breathe...
And heard some inner voice whisper with longing, Andre...
‘Do not let Gaston hear you, Andre.’ Monique’s brisk voice broke the spell. ‘Or he may tell his wife and she will make our stomachs suffer for it.’ She paused. ‘Shall we take coffee in the salon?’
‘We will join you later, if you please,’ said Bertrand, adding blandly, ‘I need to speak with my son on the boring topic of wine.’
* * *
The coffee, though strong and delicious, was served in tiny, fragile cups balancing awkwardly on their saucers, while Ginny, in turn, balanced on the edge of a spindly chair.
One false move, she thought wryly, and Baronne Laure’s satin upholstery will never be the same again.
For a while there was silence, except for the crackling of the logs in the grate and Barney’s faint snores from the exquisite pastel rug, then Mademoiselle leaned forward. ‘Tell me, mademoiselle, how long do you intend to stay at Terauze?’
‘I’m not really sure,’ she returned with guarded truth.
‘Then am I permitted to offer some advice?’
Apart from putting a hand over the woman’s mouth and wrestling her to the floor, Ginny could see no way of preventing it, so she murmured something non-committal and waited warily.
‘If you have any romantic dreams about Monsieur Andre, abandon them now.’ Mademoiselle’s voice was low, almost intense. ‘He can be charming, and women find him attractive.’ Her mouth twisted into a faint sneer. ‘Something of which he takes full advantage, believe me, although his preference is for beautiful blondes. But never seriously or for very long, as his lovers soon discover.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps, in this, he resembles his true father.’
Ginny swallowed back the hot denial rising to her lips, saying evenly, ‘Mr Charlton was a good man. I think he genuinely loved Andre’s mother. Besides which, one affair hardly makes him a serial seducer.’ She paused, her throat tightening painfully. ‘As for Andre, his private life is not my concern. Or perhaps I don’t take him seriously either.’
‘Vous avez raison. Marriage is a serious business, and Andre is not the material from which good husbands are made.’ She examined her immaculate nails. ‘His wife, you understand, will need to be a girl of discretion, someone from his own world who can also contribute to the domaine.’
Ginny said quietly, ‘Then it’s fortunate that I have no interest in being married.’ Which, she told herself defensively, was no more than the truth.
Mademoiselle’s brows lifted. ‘Then why, with Monsieur Charlton gone, did you accept such an invitation?’
The million-dollar question.
Ginny said carefully, ‘Perhaps I too needed to get away from the trauma of the last few weeks. And I admit I was curious about this part of my stepfather’s life, mademoiselle.’
‘And when your curiosity is satisfied?’
‘I intend to go back to England.’ And offered a silent prayer that there’d be nothing to prevent her. Or, at least, that she could convince Andre it was so.
Monique Chaloux’s nod suggested she too was satisfied. ‘You are wise. Whatever your beau-père may have hoped, mademoiselle, there is nothing for you here, except heartbreak perhaps.’ She paused. ‘Permit me to offer you more coffee.’
Ginny managed a polite refusal. She had just eaten a delicious meal, but she felt as hollow inside as if she’d fasted for a week. Shaken too.
Which was ridiculous, because how could the revelation that Andre was an experienced and predatory womaniser really come as any kind of surprise after the way he’d behaved with her?
I must have been one of his easiest conquests, she told herself bitterly as self-disgust attacked her again.
And presumably this Dominique Lavaux has all the necessary attributes of a future Baronne, even if I am temporarily occupying her bed.
Barney stirred, lifting his head, then got up, tail wagging, padding towards the door as it opened and the men came in, laughing together, and even with just a sideways glance across the room, Ginny felt her entire body clench in a sudden shock of need, and knew it was no wonder if women collapsed like ninepins under the sheer force of Andre’s attraction.
What she must not do was let it happen to her. Not again.
Now she watched Barney gently head-butt Andre’s long legs in welcome, as if underlining his change of allegiance. And felt as if she’d never been so much alone in her life.
After that, the party broke up fairly soon, Mademoiselle Chaloux insisting prettily that she had an early start in the morning. ‘They say the weather will become warmer tomorrow,’ she added with a mock shiver. ‘Like my mother, I find the winters harsh here compared with Provence.’
The Baron also excused himself on the grounds of having paperwork to attend to, and, to Ginny’s relief, Andre showed no wish to linger among the stripes and gilding.
‘You are very quiet,’ he observed as they entered the kitchen, neat, empty and silent apart from the hum of the dishwasher. ‘Did Monique bore you with more praise of Baronne Laure and her exquisite taste?’
She didn’t bore me at all, thought Ginny, with a pang. She forced a smile. ‘No, but perhaps she guessed it was a lost cause. The furniture may be valuable, but I prefer comfort.’
‘It was certainly expensive,’ he returned drily. ‘Papa says that one of the few times my grandfather lost his temper with her was when he discovered she’d been fooled by someone
she’d met at a party into paying Louis Quinze prices for reproduction junk.
‘Heureusement, it ended her dalliance with interior décor.’ He smiled at her. ‘But if you have any ideas for improvements to the château, I would be delighted to hear them.’
Ginny bit her lip. He was talking about a situation that could not—must not exist, she thought resentfully. Acting as if they were an actual couple in love and planning their future home. Something she could not allow to go on, but was not sure how to stop.
She said, ‘I was surprised to see Mademoiselle Chaloux tonight.’
Andre shrugged. ‘But I was not,’ he replied tersely. ‘Monique has her own agenda to pursue.’
‘She’s a close friend?’
‘But an employee. A few days a week, she maintains the records for the house and the domaine and keeps the accounts, all with great efficiency.’ He paused. ‘Also, she hopes to marry Papa Bertrand.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Ginny swallowed. ‘Do you think she will?’
‘I try, ma belle, not to think about it at all,’ he drawled. ‘But I trust most sincerely that she will be disappointed.’
She said slowly, ‘She mentioned Provence. Wasn’t that where your mother’s friend went to live?’
‘Mais oui. Monique was the friend on whom Maman so mistakenly relied. She stayed in Provence until a few weeks after my mother’s funeral, then returned alone.’ He added drily, ‘Presumably she had another correspondante who kept her informed.’
Ginny gasped. ‘You mean she—waited to come back until your mother was dead?’
‘There would have been little point in returning while Maman lived.’
He paused. ‘Clothilde has always claimed that Monique, as a girl, threw herself at Papa constantly, and left Terauze with her parents only when she realised that his heart was already given to her little English friend.’
His mouth curled contemptuously. ‘One should not accept too readily Mademoiselle’s references to notre chère Linnet.’
‘I don’t.’ She paused. ‘But there was something else I wanted to ask.
‘Did I misunderstand, or is Gaston really married to Madame Rameau?’
There was a note almost of awe in her voice and Andre’s face relaxed into a wicked grin.
‘C’est incroyable, n’est ce pas, mais c’est vrai. And they have three big sons, married with families, two in Dijon and one in Lyon.’
‘Heavens,’ Ginny said weakly.
He clicked his tongue reprovingly. ‘You, ma belle, are thinking naughty thoughts.’ He discarded his jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair, then walked over to the stove. ‘Du café?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said quickly, deciding it was best to leave and take her naughty thoughts with her. She put a hand over her mouth as if stifling a yawn. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘It is still early,’ he said. ‘And still I wish to talk to you. I will join you in the petit salon, and we will have a digestif together.’
As she hesitated, he added softly, ‘S’il te plaît, Virginie,’ and she found herself making her way reluctantly out of the kitchen and across the hall.
The fire in the salon had been rekindled at some point, and the room felt deliciously cosy. Ginny fed it with more logs before seating herself stiffly in the corner of the sofa.
When he came in, he was carrying a bottle of brandy and two glasses into which he poured generous measures before seating himself beside her.
‘A la tienne,’ he said, lifting his own glass in a toast. ‘Eh bien, what else did Monique say to make you so thoughtful?’
Ginny stared straight ahead at the leaping flames. ‘Something I already knew,’ she returned, choosing her words with care. ‘That I don’t belong here and should go home.’
There was a taut silence, then he said quietly, ‘How obliging of her to interest herself in your welfare on so short an acquaintance.’
‘Perhaps she was also speaking for Monsieur Bertrand,’ she said quickly. ‘He clearly doesn’t welcome my presence.’
Andre shrugged. ‘He found it a surprise, peut-être.’
Ginny swallowed some brandy, enjoying against her will the smooth mellow flavour. ‘All the same, I want to bring this supposed visit to an end.’
‘Not,’ he said, ‘until the situation between us has been resolved. As you agreed.’
‘That was before I knew how impossible it would be. Whatever you may think, I don’t like deceiving people, and I can’t treat it as lightly as you seem to.’
‘You are mistaken,’ he said quietly. ‘I regard it as seriously as you could wish.’
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘please let me go home.’
‘Home?’ The query was almost contemptuous. ‘To what? No vague replies. Where and how will you live?’
His words struck an unhappy chord with her own fears, pushing her into dangerous waters.
‘You mean now that Andrew, my meal ticket, won’t be there?’ she challenged.
The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Is that how you saw him?’
Think what you like...
The words hovered, but remained unspoken. She would not—could not betray Andrew’s memory.
She bent her head. ‘No, of course not.’ She drew a shivering breath. ‘I—I loved him, and I thought he cared for me.’ She added wildly, ‘For all of us.’
Her voice cracked suddenly as a wave of the sorrow circumstances had so far forced her to suppress finally broke over her. Overwhelmed her.
She found herself blinded, drowning in scalding tears, her throat aching and her body torn by the hot and heavy sobs she was unable to control as she mourned for Andrew.
She was dimly aware of Andre taking the glass from her hand. Felt herself enfolded, lifted across his body, her face pressed into the strong angle between his neck and shoulder and his lips against her hair as he held her.
She was aware of the crisp collar of his shirt against her cheek. The warmth of him, coupled with the evocative scent of his skin. The infinite comfort of his hand moving slowly and gently against her spine.
He said softly, ‘You must not cry any more. My father was a man with disappointments in his life, but please believe that you were not one of them.’
But her tears were not so easily dammed, and she clung to him, pushing into him in a kind of desperation, as if she needed to be absorbed, utterly consumed. A mute offering of her entire self.
She heard him murmur something roughly. Then his hand was under her chin, tilting up her soaked, ruined face, and his lips found hers, parting them for the heated, irresistible invasion of his tongue.
The kiss was endless. Driven. Her hands moved on him, tracing the familiarity of bone and muscle through the linen fabric of his shirt, and stroking the strong column of his neck before twining in his dark hair.
As the demand of his mouth deepened, he pushed her top down from her shoulder together with the strap of her bra, his fingers seeking one rose-tipped breast, freeing it from its lacy cup and caressing it with delicate sensuality.
She was lost, the raw emotion of grief exploding into another very different sensation, her body arching in its own demand that was also a surrender, as she remembered the searing, exquisite pleasure of being naked in his arms. And as the desire to have him once again sheathed inside her exerted its own almost brutal pressure, impossible to be ignored or denied.
He said her name quietly and huskily. Then his mouth closed on her uncovered nipple, laving it with the tip of his tongue, before suckling it gently and voluptuously to an aching glory of need, as his hand moved downwards to push away the folds of her skirt and stroke the silken warmth of her parted thighs.
But it was not enough. She wanted to feel the arousal of his touch on her bare flesh—to relive the wonder of that first devastating awaken
ing, and arched towards him, silently inviting him to free her from the confines of tights and briefs.
She heard him sigh softly, felt the arm that held her tighten its clasp to the brink of pain. Then he moved, lowering her slowly and with infinite care to the softness of the fur rug in front of the fireplace and following her down.
The only sound in the room was the hiss of the smouldering logs a few feet away and their own urgent breathing as they undressed each other between kisses, clumsy in their haste.
Their clothing gone, Andre’s mouth left hers and began to trace a slow, lingering path down her body, exploring with minute and exquisite detail every slender curve and plane, making her shiver with delight and an anticipation she hardly understood and almost feared.
Only to feel him pause, his head lifting as he stared towards the door.
And the next second she heard it too—the faint sound of footsteps crossing the hall combined with a man’s tuneless whistling and, at the same moment, in the distance, Barney’s vociferous barking.
Andre said on a groan, ‘Ah, Dieu.’ He sat up, reaching for his clothes and dragging them on, then got to his feet, pushing his shirt back into his pants and raking his dishevelled hair with his fingers.
He looked down at her, his mouth twisting ruefully.
‘Gaston,’ he said. ‘Doing his rounds before he locks up. I had—forgotten. I will delay him in the kitchen while you cover yourself.’
When he had gone, she lay still for a moment, her dazed brain coming to terms with what had happened.
And what might have happened if Gaston had started with the salon, finding them naked and enthralled in the welter of their discarded clothing.
She gave a little inarticulate cry and sat up, pulling on her skirt and top with frantic shaking hands and thrusting her feet back into her shoes, listening to the distant murmur of voices and dreading their approach. Knowing that even if she was now marginally decent, she could not risk being caught there.
Her underclothing scrunched into a tight ball in her hand, she tiptoed from the salon, making for the main staircase, and the sanctuary of her bedroom.