Читать книгу At The French Baron's Bidding - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 9

NATASHA tilted her head and took another satisfied look at herself in the gilded three-way mirror. It was a long time since she’d bothered about clothes and looking nice. The last few years, tucked away in the African bush with two pairs of jeans and a few faded T-shirts, had not helped her improve her fashion skills. Still, she’d spent time in Deauville that afternoon and taken the advice of a charming shop assistant who, seeing her in doubt, had helped her select a number of items, discarding others with a disparaging wave of her well-manicured hands, saying that beige did not favour mademoiselle.

Now, as she looked at her reflection, Natasha had to admit that the woman had been right. Everything she’d chosen—from the pretty pink tweed Chanel suit to the sleek trousers and the attractive cream dress she now wore—spelled chic, smart, and made her look very different from the girl who’d stepped off the plane a few days before. Suddenly she’d been transformed from average to head-turning, thanks to the make-over that Martine, the shop assistant, had insisted on. Upon her excellent advice, Natasha had gone to the top hairdresser in town and had her long hair shaped, washed and blow-dried. The effect, combined with the new outrageously expensive outfit, was staring her right in the face, and she was finding it hard to reconcile the woman in the mirror with who she was inside.

Oh, well, she conceded with a shrug, surely she could get used to improvement? Plus, she was damned if she was going to dine at Raoul d’Argentan’s castle looking like something the cat had brought in on a bad day. Which made her wonder uncomfortably, as she turned away from the mirror and stepped into the bathroom to put on some makeup, why he’d asked her over in the first place. Perhaps it was curiosity. After all, everyone must be wondering who she was and why she was here. Although no doubt Monsieur Dubois, the notary, had dropped hints in his various clients’ ears. She could imagine just how intriguing it must be for a small community such as this to have her as the new châtelaine.

Which in turn brought her back to the problem of what she was going to do. Was she really prepared to turn her life around one hundred and eighty degrees and come and live in Normandy, away from the world she knew, to pick up a legacy left to her by a woman who’d denied her that same legacy all her life?

Glancing at the ormolu clock on the pink marble mantelpiece, Natasha realized it was getting late and wasn’t the moment for soul-searching. She’d think about her life later. Right now she needed to get downstairs, where Henri would be waiting to drive her over to the Baron’s.

After a last peek in the mirror, she picked up a smart evening purse and stepped into her new, amazingly comfortable high heels. She took a few tentative steps. Not bad, considering she’d only worn sandals and sneakers for the past three years.

Hoping she wouldn’t totter too badly, Natasha made her way to the grand stairway and accomplished her descent without mishap, glad to see Henri waiting for her in the hall.

As the car drew up at the floodlit drawbridge Natasha caught her breath. The Baron’s château was amazing. Her grandmother’s Manoir was beautiful, but it was also stiff and formal. This place, in contrast, was a maze of twelfth-century turrets, built of heavy stone and obviously impregnable. The men who’d built it were not to be tampered with, was the message it conveyed. All at once she shuddered and wondered about its present owner.

‘It is very impressionnant, is it not?’ Henri said, seeing her gaze up at the ramparts.

‘It certainly is. It must be very old.’

‘The Argentan family has lived here since before William departed to conquer England,’ he relayed proudly. ‘The Baron is a descendant of a long line of warriors. They fought many battles and have made many friends and not a few enemies. The first Baron was also named Raoul.’

He drove the car slowly across the drawbridge, which creaked ominously.

‘Enemies?’ Natasha asked, her brows knitting.

‘Yes. There are many tales in the region of the Baron’s ancestors, in particular one Regis d’Argentan.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. But I must not go on. All that is in the past and better left buried there. Here we are, mademoiselle.’ He drew up in the courtyard and quickly stepped out of the car to help her alight before she could ask any further questions.

Minutes later Natasha was being conducted by a wizened butler up an ancient stone stairway illuminated by torches. Had he put on the full show for her, she wondered, or was there no electricity? The place felt strangely eerie, and an odd sense of déjà vu assailed her. But she shrugged it off and, holding her head high as she passed ancient tapestries, braced herself for the evening ahead.

Just as she was wondering where he’d got to, Raoul stepped out of the shadows.

‘Good evening,’ he said, once more raising her hand to his lips. A curious gleam lit his eyes and he took a step back. ‘Excuse me if I seem rude, but I barely recognize you.’

‘Is that a compliment?’ she asked suspiciously, a laugh hovering.

‘I would like to think of it as one,’ he confirmed, gallantly steering her into a huge hall with an imposing stone hearth, around which several high-backed velvet chairs were arranged. The fire was burning. Here the lighting seemed at least to be improved. In fact, she realized, it was terribly subtle, with ultra-modern halogens slipped behind the heavy oak beams, pinpointing tapestries and coats of arms which adorned the stone walls.

‘Your home is quite amazing,’ she said sincerely, aware of his hand at her elbow.

‘Thank you, mademoiselle—it is mademoiselle and not madame, I take it?’ he enquired smoothly.

‘Yes. Of course. I’m not married,’ she returned, surprised.

‘You object to marriage?’

‘It’s not something I think about.’

‘Really? Well, that is surprising. I thought most women did. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Well, that is not a very great age, I admit, but I know a number of girls your age who have several children already.’

‘Really?’ Natasha tossed her head defiantly. ‘I thought women were marrying much later nowadays, and having children in their mid-thirties.’

‘Is that what you plan to do?’ he asked, that same quizzical brow shooting up, this time with an air of disapproval.

‘I have no idea,’ she responded tartly. This was not a subject she wished to enlarge upon.

‘Ah, so no fiancé dying to drag you to the altar?’ he quizzed, motioning to one of the chairs.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied with an embarrassed laugh. Thank God he couldn’t possibly know about Paul, and all the shame and embarrassment she’d been through at the age of barely nineteen, when he’d dumped her a week before their wedding.

‘Very well. Enough about marriage. How about champagne instead?’

‘Please.’ She sat demurely in the high-backed chair and crossed her legs elegantly. It felt strange to feel so beautifully dressed and feminine, to feel Raoul’s eyes devouring her not with the mere curiosity of a neighbour but with patent admiration. And all at once Natasha realized that for the past few years, since her disastrous engagement, she’d been afraid of looking attractive, of facing another relationship, in case she was faced with another misadventure. Well, she was older now, and more mature, she reflected, taking the champagne flute with a smile. She could deal with a little attraction without getting burned or involved.

Raoul settled in the chair opposite. He looked devastatingly handsome tonight, in black pants and a burgundy jacket, his raven hair swept back, his profile caught in the firelight. For an instant Natasha thought he looked just as she would have imagined a Norman Baron must look in his lair.

‘So, you are Mademoiselle de Saugure,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘At the risk of sounding nosy, were you expecting to become Marie Louise’s heir?’

‘Actually, I had no idea. It never occurred to me. I hadn’t seen my grandmother in ages. She—she and my father had a falling-out a few years ago,’ she finished, not prepared to get into intimate details regarding her family.

‘I remember. The Comtesse didn’t accept his marriage to your mother. Very foolish, since it made her into a lonely old lady. But understandable.’

‘You think so?’ Natasha’s hackles rose immediately. Her mother’s background was something she defended tooth and nail.

‘Yes. Your father would have had problems whoever he married. Unless, of course, it had been someone of the Comtesse’s own choosing. She was nothing if not authoritative. Liked getting her own way. We had a few tussles ourselves.’ He smiled wryly and their eyes met, locking in the candlelight for a few interminable seconds.

‘You and my grandmother?’

‘Yes. Ever since my parents’ demise several years ago I have been Lord of the Manor, so to speak. The Comtesse deemed it her duty to tell me how to run my estate. When I didn’t follow her advice to the letter we had a few tiffs. But we got over them and remained fast friends. Strange that you should have arrived so suddenly and that her death should have ensued in such a precipitate manner.’

‘If you think it was my fault I can assure you it wasn’t,’ Natasha replied coolly, hating herself for justifying something she’d had nothing to do with.

‘Of course it wasn’t. Perhaps she was waiting for you to come before she let go. She’s been fairly ill for a while. Did she tell you about the will?’

‘No. I only found out when the notary—look, I really don’t see what business it is of yours,’ she said, suddenly clamming up.

‘Pardon,’ he said, with a smile that was anything but apologetic. ‘You must excuse my curiosity. But you must admit that the circumstances are somewhat unexpected.’

‘They are. Which is why I haven’t taken any decisions regarding the future, and don’t plan to for a while.’

‘Very wise.’ He nodded, aware that he’d pushed her too far. So the little English girl had fangs under that smooth bland exterior. Interesting. Raoul felt an inner stirring which he immediately recognized as lust. Banishing it at once, aware that a quick hot affair with this woman would hardly be conducive to good neighbourly relations, he rose and extended his hand. ‘Let us proceed to dinner,’ he said, taking her arm in his. ‘I hope you will like what’s on the menu.’

‘And what is that?’ Natasha asked archly. She was finding her feet in this game of light flirtation more easily than she would have believed.

‘Oh, ris de veau. A speciality my chef loves to prepare.’ His eyes sparkled with laughter.

Natasha hesitated, swallowed. ‘Isn’t that brain?’ she asked warily.

‘When it is prepared by Alphonse you will not think at all about its origin,’ he assured her, leading the way into a vast baronial dining room, where liveried footmen stood behind two chairs at the long table.

‘Is everything always so formal?’ she asked impulsively as they stood in the entrance. ‘I don’t think I could live as you do and Grandmère did on an everyday basis. I think it would drive me mad.’

‘You prefer a more casual lifestyle?’ he asked, looking down at her from his six foot two.

‘Yes. I’ve lived in Africa with refugees in the desert for the past three years. It makes one focus on the essentials in life.’

‘I can believe that,’ he said as they sat down, and he watched her, intrigued. So she was not some dull little secretary from a provincial backwater but rather a woman who sought adventure in her life. The thought was alluring, gave her an extra aura, and as the candlelight flickered and she unfolded her napkin he took a good look at her face, aware now of just how perfect her features were, and how lithe and attractive her body. Would it be pliant and lithe in bed? he wondered, a sudden image of her lying naked among the sheets causing him to divert his thoughts quickly to avoid any embarrassing consequences.

‘Tell me about Africa,’ he requested, truly interested in learning more about his intriguing neighbour. Perhaps he’d underestimated her.

Dinner went smoothly. Comfortable talking about a place she was familiar with, a culture which she’d taken the trouble to study, and the humanitarian crisis that she felt so strongly about, Natasha relaxed and became her true self. By the time they’d had coffee and after-dinner drinks, it was close to midnight.

‘Gosh, it’s getting awfully late. I’d better go home…to the Manoir, I mean. Could I call a taxi?’ she enquired, glancing at him across the fireplace.

‘Out of the question. I’ll drive you.’

‘That’s very kind, but I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

‘A beautiful woman is never a nuisance. In fact, ma chère, it is a pleasure,’ Raoul replied smoothly, executing a small formal bow, his lips curved in a half-smile.

Despite her new desire to be cool and sophisticated, Natasha swallowed. The man was positively devastating when he smiled, she realized, and she was still unused to compliments. To her annoyance the earlier flush returned to her cheeks. Still, letting him drive her home was hardly a big deal.

Once downstairs, they stepped outside into the courtyard and Raoul opened the door of his sleek red Ferrari, clearly amused.

A woman who blushed.

That was an interesting concept—one he hadn’t come across in a while. For an instant Clothilde flashed across his mind. He doubted she’d blushed at twelve, let alone now. The thought of the other woman reminded him that tomorrow he would have to go back to Paris and deal with her. For some strange reason it all seemed rather further away than it had earlier in the day, as though his evening with Natasha had somehow obliterated any vestiges of feeling he might have had.

Soon they were driving down dark country lanes before heading into the drive of the Manoir.

‘I suppose our families have been neighbours for ever,’ Natasha remarked as the wheels crunched the gravel and the vehicle drew up at the front door.

‘We have, in effect, been neighbours for going on approximately six hundred years.’

‘Who was your ancestor—Regis?’ she asked suddenly, remembering Henri’s words and turning to try and distinguish his expression in the half-light coming from the outside lamps.

She saw him stiffen. ‘Who told you about Regis?’ he asked warily.

‘Oh, somebody mentioned him. I can’t remember who,’ she lied, sensing there was more to this story than met the eye. More that she definitely planned to find out.

‘Regis was a rather flamboyant character. All families have them, I suppose—a sort of black sheep, in a way. I’ll tell you about him some time. It would take too long tonight, ma chère.’

‘All right.’ Natasha pretended not to be intrigued by the story. Someone else could surely tell it. Which made her suddenly determined to become better acquainted with the people on the estate and in the village. Perhaps she could glean some interesting details from them, learn all sorts of things about the past.

Then, when she least expected it, Raoul leaned over and in one smooth, swift movement slipped his hand under her chin and drew her mouth to his.

She should protest, should stop him, should do something, Natasha realized. But it was impossible. For the next thing she knew Raoul’s firm lips were parting hers, forcing them to surrender to his will. His arms came about her and her breast cleaved to his hard chest. It was crazy, but all she could do was succumb, allow his probing tongue to wander, seek, explore, and try to ignore the delicious tautness of her nipples, to control the myriad sensations coursing through her body from head to toe. When finally he withdrew his mouth, and stayed staring down at her, she pulled out of his arms, breathless, her pulse racing.

‘I’ll be back at the end of the week,’ he murmured, his voice husky with undisguised desire, ‘then we can pick up where we’ve left off, ma belle. I look forward to it already.’

‘We will do nothing of the sort,’ she retorted, regaining some measure of composure. ‘And I’ll thank you to leave me alone. I have no need or desire for your attentions. Keep your kisses for your own kind. I have no wish for them.’ With that she flung out of the car and, stumbling on the gravel in her high heels, reached the front door.

Henri had given her a heavy key before dinner. Now she inserted it in the lock, her fingers struggling nervously to undo it. ‘Oh, bother,’ she exclaimed, when it wouldn’t turn.

‘May I?’ Raoul, composed and gentlemanly once more, stepped forward.

‘Oh, just go away and leave me alone,’ Natasha exclaimed crossly, her nerves still jangling from their unexpected encounter.

‘But you’ll be stuck out here in the night,’ he remarked matter-of-factly. ‘Let’s be reasonable about this, ma chère, after all it was only a kiss.’

With an annoyed huff Natasha stepped back and let Raoul take over. After one expert twist the key turned. ‘Voilà,’ he said, smiling down at her with that same mischievous twinkle which had the effect of making her melt inside. ‘Bonne nuit, lovely lady. May you have sweet dreams.’ Then he turned abruptly, just as he had the other day. And the next thing she knew he was driving off down the drive as she let herself into the dimly lit hall.

Sleep was impossible. She simply must pull herself together. Instinctively Natasha walked to the library and switched on a lamp. Perhaps another drink would do her good—a nightcap. Or maybe that was the problem. She wasn’t used to much alcohol, and, although it hadn’t seemed much at the time, over the course of the evening she must have consumed quite a bit. Perhaps a book might do the trick—distract her from the evening’s adventure.

But, as she skimmed the packed shelves of classics, Natasha could still feel the touch of Raoul’s lips on hers, the tingling sensation that caused her breasts to peak even now, and a strange delicious throbbing travelling through her. It was ridiculous, she reasoned. Outrageous that a man she barely knew could cause such havoc. Why, she hadn’t had a boyfriend since Paul, and even then she’d been hesitant to sleep with him, as though something deep down inside had warned her of his future behaviour. But she had. And it hadn’t been a success. She’d been afraid, unexcited, but determined to do what she had to. Never in the two years they’d gone out together had she felt anything close to the extreme rush of pleasure she’d derived in those few minutes with Raoul in the car.

‘Absurd,’ she muttered, glancing at the rows of titles, determined to find something to distract her. All at once her eyes fell upon a large leatherbound volume. A Concise History of the Famille d’Argentan, she read. Extracting the large volume from its slot, where it had obviously remained for many years, she brushed off some dust. There was nothing concise about it, she reflected with a grimace, carrying the enormous book over to the sofa.

Wrapping herself in a rug, Natasha opened the stiff cover and began curiously to turn the pages. There was a long detailed family tree. Suddenly her eye fell upon Regis. His dates were interesting. 1768 to 1832. So he had been a young man during the French Revolution. Then, to her amazement, she read a name that was all too familiar: Natasha de Saugure.

The name was not printed, in the manner of a wife’s, but inscribed as a handwritten side-note. A shiver ran down her spine. So she had been named after an ancestor. Her father had never mentioned the fact. Avidly she glanced at Natasha’s dates. 1775 to 1860. The woman had lived to a ripe old age. But what had been her relationship to Regis? There were no details. Just the scribbled note. How strange, she thought, flicking through the pages, that her namesake should be inscribed next to the name of the man nobody seemed to want to talk about.

After a while perusing the book, she felt sleep begin to press upon her, and, laying the volume down on an ornate table, she rose and yawned. Time to go upstairs and rest. Tomorrow she would seek further information.

As she wandered up the grand stairway Natasha glanced up at the portraits on the wall. A lovely grey-eyed girl in a stiff brocade dress with a revealing décolleté—as had been the fashion in the late eighteenth century—stared down at her from one of them. Natasha held her breath as her eyes went to the tiny bronze plaque on the frame. As she’d supposed, it was Natasha de Saugure. Who had she married and had she been happy? she wondered suddenly. Her eyes in the portrait looked bright and filled with hope. But there was something else, a mysterious melancholic twist to the smile.

Natasha glanced at the painting a moment longer, then, letting out a sigh, she climbed the rest of the stairs and headed to her room.