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

A WEEK passed and still Natasha hadn’t taken any definite decision regarding her future. To her annoyance she experienced a moment’s disappointment when there was no sign of Raoul at the end of the week. But she shook it off, reminding herself that it was for the best. He’d obviously seen the light, realized how embarrassing any involvement would be. After all, they might be neighbours for the next half-century for all she knew.

Neither had she had time to further her investigation into the lives of Regis d’Argentan and her ancestor Natasha, for Monsieur Dubois had appeared at the château the morning following her evening with Raoul, armed with heavy manila files overflowing with documents needing to be signed and filed, and others she needed to read to become familiar with her grandmother’s estate.

‘And you should visit your grandmother’s apartment in Paris immediately,’ the notaire had admonished in his precise legal tone.

So now here she was, a week later, sitting on a train headed to Paris.

Except for an old schoolfriend, she knew no one in that city. But, despite this somewhat daunting fact, Natasha was excited. Here she was, going to Paris to stay in her very own apartment. It seemed incredible. It was a long time since she’d visited the city with her parents, and the thought of rediscovering such exciting places as the Louvre and the Centre Pompidou, and ambling down the Champs Elysées, stopped her being anxious for long. Perhaps she would even hit Avenue Montaigne, now that she’d discovered the novel and intriguing delight of creating a new wardrobe.

As the train drew up to the platform at the Gare du Nord, Natasha stepped down with her practical roll-on case. She was about to follow the crowd down the platform towards the main station entrance when she heard her name called.

‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed as Raoul stood looming over her, his dark features stark in the afternoon sun. ‘You gave me such a fright.’

‘Forgive me. It was not my intention.’

‘How did you know I was here?’ she asked haughtily, hastily regaining her composure.

‘I rang the Manoir to talk to you and Henri told me you’d be on the four-fifty, so I came to pick you up,’ he replied matter-of-factly.

‘Well, that’s very nice of you,’ she said, hoping her tone was dampening enough, and willing her pulse not to beat quite so hard, ‘but Henri had no business telling you my whereabouts.’ Another time she’d leave specific instructions not to reveal her plans.

‘I think he assumed you would like to be picked up,’ he said mildly, taking her case and slipping his hand protectively about her shoulders as two heavily laden backpackers nearly collided with her on the crowded platform. ‘I believe you are not very familiar with Paris?’

‘No, I’m not,’ she acknowledged crossly, wishing she could calm the agitation that being next to him caused. Then, as they began walking down the platform, she saw Raoul signal to an older man in a grey suit and tie.

‘May I introduce Pierre?’ Raoul said smoothly, as they reached him. ‘He drives for me. We shall be taking mademoiselle to the Saugure apartment in the Place François Premier, Pierre.’ His tone was polite, yet there was no doubt that the words were an order. Natasha felt strangely exhilarated and annoyed. How dared he swan into her life and simply take over? What if she’d wanted to go somewhere else rather than the apartment?

She was about to protest when by chance her eyes fell on the large queue waiting for taxis. It went against the grain, but she swallowed her words. It was really much simpler and more agreeable to be driven, even though Raoul’s manner was intolerably high-handed. Of course she’d have to make it very plain indeed that she was not going to be herded around Paris at his pleasure, she reflected, climbing into the Bentley that had materialized as though by magic. She had her own plans for her Parisian stay, and they did not include Raoul d’Argentan.

Or at least they hadn’t up until now.

‘I thought you’d enjoy dining here,’ Raoul said a few hours later as they glanced at their menus over the candlelit dinner table.

Natasha wasn’t quite certain how she’d ended up at Laurent’s with Raoul. It had all happened in such a natural manner that she’d barely noticed the time go by. First she’d been enchanted by the apartment, situated in one of Paris’s loveliest squares. It was ample, elegant, and beautifully decorated. Very different from the stiff formality of the Manoir, as though another hand had been at work here. The housekeeper, Madame Duvallier, a large middle-aged woman with a warm smile and an efficient manner, who had worked with the old Comtesse for many years, had made her most welcome. She’d also greeted Raoul warmly, and it had been plain to Natasha that he was an habitué.

Now, as they sat at the candlelit table, she decided to question him. ‘Have you come often to Grandmère’s apartment?’ she asked, after they’d ordered and the menus had been removed.

‘Quite frequently. My parents and she were friends. So, yes, I’ve been in and out over the years. Lately the Comtesse had asked me for some advice about her affairs. In fact, I’m quite surprised she never told me that you were to be her heir,’ he added, with that same critical stare that left her feeling as though he was suspicious of her.

Natasha bristled. ‘I don’t see why she should have. After all, I didn’t know myself.’

‘No, but—’ He cut off his words, shook his head and smiled. ‘It is of no importance. Do not let us spoil such a pleasant evening by conjecturing over things which we cannot alter in any case.’

The logic of his argument struck home. There was little use in trying to figure out the old Comtesse’s motives. She might as well do as he said, and enjoy the lovely atmosphere of the restaurant.

‘Do you plan to make a long stay in Paris?’ Raoul enquired as they sipped champagne, and Natasha felt a delicious headiness take hold of her.

‘I really don’t know. But very soon I’ll have to decide whether or not I’m returning to my job. I took two months off. But after that I’ll need to make a definite decision as to the future.’

‘Do you enjoy your job?’ he asked curiously, his eyes boring into hers.

‘I do enjoy it, yes. It has been very fulfilling. But…’ She hesitated, something stopping her from confiding in him.

‘But?’ He prodded gently, determined to get her to tell him what was on her mind.

‘Well, it’s just that all this has been so unexpected. I mean, how could I have imagined when I left Khartoum that my life would take such a strange turn?’

‘No, you couldn’t, could you?’ he murmured, still sizing her up while accepting the caviar the waiter had placed before them. ‘Now things seem very different?’

‘Yes.’ She hesitated, then decided to risk it and tell him how she felt. Expressing it might help her understand better herself. ‘Now it’s as though I have a new path that I must follow. Not that I’m certain yet,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s too soon for me to take such a radical decision. The thing is that if I don’t remain here—or at least at the Manoir—I’ll probably have to sell it.’

‘Sell the Manoir?’ Raoul’s cup hit the saucer with a crack. ‘You can’t sell the Manoir. It has been in the Saugure family for almost three centuries. The original house much longer than that. It’s unthinkable.’ His voice cut the air like a knife and his dark eyes flashed with anger.

‘I know that. But all things have to move on at some point,’ she reasoned thoughtfully.

‘That is a ridiculous statement,’ he bit back. ‘Selling the Manoir is out of the question.’

‘Might I remind you,’ she said, drawing herself up, ‘that it really is none of your business what I do with my property.’

‘You can remind me as much as you like,’ he answered, his burning eyes meeting hers full on in a clash of wills, ‘but I assure you, mademoiselle, that I will personally make your life as difficult as possible should you even contemplate such an action. Mon Dieu. What would Marie Louise do if she could hear you? She must be turning in her grave at this very instant.’ He sent her a withering look across the table and signalled the waiter for the bill.

‘I don’t see how you can stop me if I do decide to sell,’ Natasha challenged, furious at his meddling. ‘I have every right to do whatever I like with all three properties. Neither you nor anyone can stop me.’

‘Technically I may not be able to stop you,’ he replied in a low, menacing voice as the waiter approached, ‘but I assure you that you would regret it if you so much as thought about selling the Manoir.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ Her chin jutted out and she faced him head on.

‘Merely warning you that you are on shaky ground when it comes to selling. You have inherited a duty to your name and your lineage,’ he threw, his tone as biting as it was derisive. ‘Surely even an Englishwoman like you can understand that? Doesn’t your bloodline mean anything to you?’

‘You are insupportable,’ Natasha hissed, throwing down her napkin on the table and getting up while the waiter hovered anxiously. ‘I’ll do whatever I like with my property, and I’ll thank you to leave me alone. I need neither your assistance nor your advice. Goodnight.’ On that dramatic note she swept regally from the table and made her way to the entrance of the restaurant.

When the doorman asked her if she wanted a cab she acquiesced gladly, still fuming from the altercation while desperately trying to ignore the needling truth that Raoul’s words had brought home: she did feel a link to the past, and to her name and to all she owed it. But she was damned if she would admit that to him, she reflected savagely, letting out a cross huff as she waited impatiently for the cab.

So she had a temper. Well, he liked her all the better for it. But he was damned if he was going to let her get all sorts of ridiculous ideas into that pretty head of hers. Sell the Manoir indeed. Absurd. Plus, that might lead to the divulging of past history much better left buried.

Having settled the bill, Raoul made his way to the entrance of the restaurant, where he could see Natasha’s back stiffly etched in the doorway. A smile hovered about his lips. She was turning out to be quite a handful, the drab little English miss. Not only had she been transformed into a raving beauty, but her character was proving more and more intriguing by the moment.

Signalling the doorman, he murmured to him to cancel the cab and approached Natasha.

‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, if I said anything to offend you,’ he murmured in a conciliatory tone, ‘but the truth must be faced.’

She whirled around, eyes blazing. ‘I’ve had just about enough of you for one evening, Raoul d’Argentan. Now, please leave me alone. I’ve ordered a cab and I can find my way back to the apartment perfectly well on my own.’

‘But the doorman has just indicated to me that there are no taxis available in Paris at this hour,’ he said, sounding much more French than he had before, and raising his hand in a very Gallic manner while shaking his head, eyes twinkling.

‘Really? That wasn’t the case five minutes ago,’ she replied coldly.

‘No? Well, things can change very fast in Paris. Transport is unreliable.’ He slipped an arm into hers and began walking. ‘Much better to let me accompany you—which, I might add, I do with pleasure.’ The slight lilt of a French accent thickened and his eyes sparkled. ‘Really, Natasha, there is no need to be upset. It is only a ride home, après tout, and you are only cross because I pointed out something that I have a funny feeling you already know deep down inside yourself.’

Natasha swallowed, bereft of words. How did he know? And how could she deny the truth? She glanced back at the doorman, who sent her an apologetic look. Anger still seethed inside her at the way she’d been so accurately read and cleverly manipulated. But, she realized, letting out a sigh, it was unlikely that the doorman would order her a cab now that the Baron had imposed his wretched will, and the best she could do, without causing an embarrassing scene, was to concede gracefully.

Several minutes later they drove alongside the Seine, past famous bridges, with the lights from the barges and bateaux mouches shimmering. On the Isle Saint-Louis she heard the chime of the bells at Nôtre Dame. It was impossible to be here, in this the loveliest of cities, and not surrender to its charm and enchantment.

‘How about a drink before we turn in?’ Raoul asked, taking a sidelong glance at her as he kept the car steady in the flow of traffic. She looked calmer, more composed. And he had no intention of letting her go home right now. She looked too beautiful in that silk dress, her hair flowing like golden wheat over her shoulders. Plus, he’d finally dispatched Clothilde and was therefore free as the wind. Added to all these valid reasons was the fact that the kiss they’d shared the other night in the car had remained strangely imprinted in his mind.

‘I suggest we pop over to the bar of the Plaza Athénée. If you haven’t been there before you’ll find the decoration amusing.’ He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, and before Natasha had a chance to agree or refuse he was reserving a table in quick French.

‘Raoul, I never said I was going,’ she said when he’d finished.

‘Do you always have to protest against every good idea?’ he countered with a shrug, a wicked smile breaking on his handsome face. ‘Just relax—voyons—and go with the flow, as they say in America. After all, you’re in Paris. Enjoy it.’

She sighed, realizing she was beaten and that actually she rather wanted to go for a drink. Plus, there really could be no possible harm in joining him in the bar of one of Paris’s best hotels, she justified.

Soon they were seated in the corner of the dimly lit bar and Raoul ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. The atmosphere was fun and young, and Natasha eyed the bar counter—a replica of a huge slab of ice, internally illuminated—intrigued.

‘Like it?’ Raoul asked, following her gaze. ‘It’s fun, isn’t it? I like coming here.’

It was only then that he saw a slim familiar figure silhouetted across the room, seated with friends by the window, and his heart sank. Clothilde sat, sylphlike and languorously elegant, dressed as always in the latest Dior fashions. Her dark-eyed gaze fulminated as it rested upon him. Raoul glanced away. Why hadn’t he remembered that she’d probably be here tonight? Hopefully she would be too proud to make a scene.

But his hopes were dashed when two minutes later Clothilde snaked between the tables, her slim hips swaying, then stood before him, her long black hair shrouding her face, a cigarette waving in her nervous fingers.

‘Monsieur le Baron,’ she threw sarcastically, ‘to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence here tonight? I thought you were ruralizing for a while.’

‘Good evening, Clothilde. May I introduce an English friend of mine, Natasha de Saugure?’

‘Non!’ Clothilde exclaimed. ‘I’m not interested in your friends or your lies,’ she spat venomously, sending Natasha a scathing look. ‘You’re a liar and a cheat, Raoul d’Argentan, and I’ll make sure all of Paris knows it. Be careful of him,’ she added, addressing Natasha, ‘he’s the biggest bastard in town.’ Then, tossing her head, she turned on her spiky high heels and stalked back to her table, where her cohorts sat watching approvingly.

Raoul sighed and shook his head. ‘Sorry about that,’ he murmured. ‘I’m afraid Clothilde is rather theatrical.’

‘Who is she? Your girlfriend?’

‘Ex-girlfriend. If you can call her that. I dated her for a while and she thought it was more serious than it ever was. Why is it that women always fall into that trap?’ he enquired, brows knit. ‘I don’t understand why they can’t just accept the status quo and enjoy it. It always amazes me how they complicate life.’ He shook his head and let out a sigh.

‘Perhaps the women you run into have a deeper sense of commitment than you do,’ she replied, tongue in cheek, before taking a sip of chilled champagne.

‘Maybe. But no commitment ever existed in the first place. Not on my side anyway. I made that abundantly plain from the outset.’

‘But things can start out as casual in life and then become deeper as time goes on,’ Natasha argued.

He shrugged in what she considered to be a very French gesture. ‘I never make promises that I might break. And I never offered marriage or even an in-house living arrangement to Clothilde. I really don’t see why she’s so upset.’

‘Well, she seems to think she has a ton of reasons,’ Natasha remarked tartly.

‘You see?’ He turned and threw his hands up. ‘That is exactly what I mean. Women are all the same—always filling in the blanks with all sorts of reasons and justifications for getting their own way. I will never understand them.’

Natasha smothered a smile and decided there was little point in pursuing the subject. But Clothilde’s burst of anger had left her thinking. It was clear that Raoul was a seasoned playboy, used to getting his own way. Perhaps she should take the other woman’s warning seriously. After all, she knew nothing about him except that he was her neighbour in Normandy.

Later, as they drove back to the apartment through the quiet streets of the city, she determined to keep her distance from this man. She’d learned her lesson with Paul, hadn’t she? The minute you trusted you could also be betrayed. And, frankly, she had very few reasons to trust Raoul.

When they reached the imposing building he stopped the car and parked. ‘How about inviting me in for a nightcap?’ he said with a grin.

‘I don’t think so. I’m quite tired tonight. I have a long day tomorrow—meetings with my grandmother’s lawyers and so on.’

‘Ah, you’re meeting with Perret, I take it.’ He nodded. ‘He’s quite a good man on the whole, but I told Marie Louise she might want to consider a change of legal counsel.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Oh, I’ll tell you some other time, when you have more time on your hands,’ he answered affably.

Natasha could have kicked herself for falling into the trap.

‘Right—well, I’d better be going.’ She began opening the door, but he leaned quickly across her and held it closed.

‘Not so fast, ma belle,’ he murmured, his voice turning husky. ‘You can’t be in that much of a hurry.’

‘I—’ Natasha felt her body click into overdrive. What was it about this man that left her mesmerized, unable to react as she should? When his hand slipped behind her neck and he drew her close, his lips dropping a trail of deliciously feathery kisses on her cheek, down past her lips, her throat, then slipped to her breast, instead of repulsing him she let out a pent-up sigh of longing.