Читать книгу Loves Choices - Пенни Джордан, PENNY JORDAN - Страница 5

HOPE woke several hours later, stiff and uncomfortable, despite the fact that the Comte had reclined her seat for her. He seemed to know by some sixth sense that she was awake and she felt the decrease in speed of the powerful car as he turned to her. ‘Do you feel better for your sleep?’

Hope managed a smile. In point of fact she felt terrible—her head ached and she felt vaguely nauseous, her body stiff from lying too long in the same position.

‘You are not well?’ The Comte frowned as he looked into her pale face. ‘What is it?’

‘A headache,’ Hope told him, ‘but it is nothing. It will soon go.’

‘It’s probably the result of too much excitement,’ the Comte said wryly. ‘I forget that your convent life has not prepared you for the hurly-burly of real life.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I think we had better find somewhere to stay tonight and then continue our journey tomorrow. When I said we would drive straight to Serivace I had forgotten that you are not as used to travelling as I am myself.’

Hope wanted to protest. She didn’t want to spend any more time with the Comte then she needed to.

‘I shall not eat you, mon petit,’ she heard the Comte drawl mockingly above her. ‘The good Sisters should have taught you that it is not always wise to look at a man the way you are looking at me. Your eyes have all the dread and fear of the persecuted for the persecutor, and who would blame me, if, when I look into them, I am tempted to make your fears reality.’ He saw her flinch and smiled. ‘You shrink from shadows, Hope. Do you really fear me so much?’

His mockery brought a flash of rebellion to Hope’s eyes. She was not so foolish that she didn’t know when she was being deliberately baited. The nuns had taught their pupils from an early age to give respect and obedience to their elders, and the fact that the Comte was her father’s friend, coupled with his manner towards her, had made Hope defer to him. Now she faced him with stormy eyes, her slender body braced against retaliation as she said defiantly, ‘I am not afraid of you, Monsieur le Comte.’

‘Just as cautious as a gazelle penned up with a leopard,’ the Comte added wryly. ‘Tell me, how long is it since you last saw your father?’

Not sure what had prompted the change of conversation, but nonetheless grateful for it, Hope told him.

‘Two years?’ His eyebrows drew together, darkly.

‘My father has many business interests, it is not always possible for him to visit me, and … and during the holidays there is not always someone to accompany me …’

‘But now you are no longer a schoolgirl, but a young woman. Have you any plans for your future?’ He was talking to her now more in the manner she would expect a man of his years and sophistication to address her, and Hope did her best to respond, explaining that the training at the convent did not really equip its pupils for careers.

‘Other than the time-honoured one of marriage,’ the Comte agreed dryly. ‘Is that what you want, mon petit? To go from the schoolroom to the bedroom?’ He saw that he had shocked her, watching the colour come and go in her face.

‘Come,’ he murmured, glancing sardonically at her. ‘You are not going to tell me that the nuns kept you in complete ignorance of the “facts of life"? There must have been holidays, encounters with attractive young men who were only too willing to add practical knowledge to theory.

‘No!’ Hope’s shocked denial silenced him for several seconds, while she sat bolt upright in her seat, her body trembling with rejection of his suggestion, her mind unable to analyse why it should have provoked such a strong response. After all, many of her fellow pupils had indulged in just the sort of experimentation the Comte had so mockingly described, and although she had never been included in the excited midnight discussions about them, she was not so naïve that she didn’t know that there was far more to human relationships than the cold, dry facts presented to them during their lectures.

‘No?’ The Comte pulled off the main road, bringing the car to a halt beside a field. They were in the middle of the country and Hope noticed absently that the crop was growing, green-gold fields stretching into the distance, an ancient stone castle perched precariously among the foothills which marked the beginning of the sierras.

Her profile averted from her companion, she tensed when his fingers cupped her jaw, forcing her to face his enigmatic green gaze.

‘No?’ he repeated queryingly. ‘Not even so much as a stolen kiss, ma jolie?’

Sensing the mockery behind the question, Hope blushed hotly, hating the way he was exposing her life, her inadequacies, because hadn’t she secretly wondered what it would be like to share the giggled confidences of the others? Hadn’t she secretly lain awake in her bed wondering why she felt none of their desire?

‘There is no one to steal kisses from behind the walls of the convent,’ she retorted bravely at last, ‘except for Father Ignacio who comes to hear our confessions. My father wouldn’t let me spend my holidays with my friends and …’ She broke off, hating herself for confiding so much to him. Now, doubtless, he would tell her father what she had said and she burned with embarrassment and humiliation. How gauche and disloyal her father would think her.

‘So!’ His gaze rested disturbingly on her lips, and Hope could almost feel the soft flesh burn from the contact. She longed for him to look away, but his fingers still cupped her jaw, curling against her skin, his thumb gently stroking along the bone, quivers of sensation spreading from the point where his flesh touched hers. Her mouth had gone dry, her lips parting on a small sound of protest, turning to a shocked gasp when the Comte rubbed his thumb over the fullness of her bottom lip, his free hand grasping her wrists as though he sensed her intention to thrust him away. His dark head descended, and the brush of his mouth against hers caused Hope to tense and stiffen, confused by her conflicting emotions. On the one hand was shock, outrage that he should trespass on his friendship with her father, on the other was this curious, languorous sensation that the brush of his lips against hers evoked, making her want to slide her hands over his dark-suited shoulders, explore the shape and feel of him, while his mouth continued to …

With a horrified cry, Hope tore herself out of his grasp, her eyes huge and deeply violet in her small face, her fingers fluttering betrayingly to touch the quivering softness of her lips. Was that compassion she read in the darkness of his eyes? Or was it scorn for her lack of expertise, her inexperience?

‘Well, mon petit? Is your curiosity now satisfied? Do you no longer envy your schoolfriends their little experiments?’

Hope sat immobile with despair and hatred in her heart. Not even her most secret thoughts were safe from this man. Had he known also that she had looked at his mouth and wondered what it would be like to have it touch her own? She had quenched the thought almost at birth, shocked and disturbed by it, but somehow he had known.

‘What’s the matter? Did the good Sisters tell you that such intimacies should only be shared with your husband, that no one should touch those soft lips but him?’

‘I am not quite a fool, monsieur,’ Hope managed stiffly. ‘I am well aware that it amuses you to … to torment me.’

She heard him laugh soundlessly as he re-started the car, and turned back to the main road. Was he married, she wondered curiously. Did he have a family of his own?

‘There is a small town a few miles away, where we can spend the night,’ she was informed as the Ferrari ate up the miles. ‘The hotel was once the home of a local family, but it has now been taken over by the government and opened as an exclusive hostería.

Several miles on they came to the town. The road had started to climb into the foothills, and to Hope’s surprise, their destination turned out to be the castle she had noticed before.

‘A fitting setting for you, Hope,’ the Comte murmured lazily as he stopped the car. ‘We shall have to ask them if they can find a turret room for you. You have all the inviolate innocence of a fairy princess.’

She wasn’t given a turret room, but the room she was given was far more luxurious than anything she was used to, Hope admitted, smoothing the heavy bedspread over the carved four-poster which dominated the room. Her room had an adjoining bathroom, and she secured her hair on top of her head, almost filling the bath with hot water, indulging in the pleasure of soaking her aching limbs in the scented water. Outside, dusk had fallen. The Comte had suggested that she should eat in her room, and she wasn’t disposed to argue with him. She didn’t feel hungry, and all she wanted to do was to sleep. Tomorrow, she hoped, she would see her father. Why didn’t she feel more excited at the thought? Perhaps her senses had been blunted by too much excitement, after being starved of it, Hope thought wryly, stepping out of the bath and drying herself, studying her reflection wonderingly in the full-length mirror, her eyes drawn to the pointed thrust of her breasts, taut and firm, the skin silky-smooth. A strange sensation curled through the pit of her stomach, her eyes darkening as she remembered how the Comte had kissed her. She must not think about it! Shivering with reaction, Hope looked for her robe, remembering that she had left it in her room.

When she opened her bedroom door she realised someone had been in her room. The lamps had been switched on, her nightdress lay across the bed, and a small enclosed electric trolley was pulled up against a small table. Her supper, no doubt. She walked towards the bed, stiffening with shock as something moved in the shadows beyond the lamps, and the Comte’s lean figure detached itself from the darkness.

Every instinct screamed for her to cover her nakedness from him, but strangely she could not move, her muscles locked in paralysing terror as she stared up at him as he studied her body with a clinical detachment that broke through her fear, freeing her to reach shakily for her robe, wishing it was her old school one and not this flimsy fine silk which merely clothed her body rather than concealed it.

‘I’m sorry, Hope, I didn’t realise you hadn’t heard me.’ It was the first time he had apologised to her, and Hope sensed that it was genuinely meant. ‘I did knock,’ he continued, ‘but you obviously didn’t hear me. They have brought our dinner—come and sit down.’

For the first time Hope noticed that he, too, had changed. His darkly formal suit had given way to a thin silk shirt that made her disturbingly aware of the male body beneath it, with dark, thigh-hugging pants moulding his legs.

When they were both seated, the Comte indicated the trolley and smiled, asking Hope if she would like to serve them or if she would prefer him to do it.

This, at least, was an area in which she was proficient, Hope thought, approaching the trolley. All the girls at the convent were taught how to be perfect hostesses, and even with the Comte’s eyes on her, she managed to serve their soup dexterously and properly.

‘It seems to me that your convent teaches the more old-fashioned virtues; the womanly arts rather than commercial ones,’ the Comte murmured when Hope removed the soup bowls and served the main course, a rich chicken paella.

‘Many of the pupils come from the Latin American countries,’ Hope told him. ‘Their parents normally arrange their marriages for them, and as they are invariably wealthy and socially prominent, it is important that they are able to conduct themselves properly.’

‘But you are the exception to the rule?’ the Comte prodded. ‘No marriage has been arranged for you?’

Hope’s revolted expression gave her away. ‘So what are your plans for your life? Do you expect to act as your father’s hostess?’

Hope did have some hazy idea that this was what might happen to her. Her own feeling was that, having placed her in the convent, her father had turned his mind to other matters. As an English girl, the thought of an arranged marriage was totally abhorrent to her, and she had often wished rebelliously that her father had allowed her to have a more normal upbringing. Perhaps now she would be able to persuade him to let her go to college, to gain some commercial skills.

‘What do you do, Comte?’ Hope questioned politely, remembering the Sisters’ lectures on conversation. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and Hope hated him for laughing at her.

‘That is very good, mon petit,’ he mocked, watching her fingers tighten on her knife and fork. ‘But it is customary to show a little more enthusiasm. Your stilted enquiry reminds me of a child reciting its lessons. However, I shall answer you, since conversation, like any other skill, only comes with practice.’

For some reason his words made Hope remember how he had kissed her. Was that another field in which he found her lamentably lacking? What did it matter if he did? she asked herself crossly.

‘As I have already told you, my mother was Russian. My father’s family owned vineyards near Beaune. Some of the wines we produce are what is known as Premier Cru.’ He saw Hope’s expression and smiled. ‘Ah, so the Sisters have taught you something about the world, mon petit?’

‘I know of the great vintages, the classifications for wine.’

‘So! You will understand then when I tell you that Serivace wines are Premier Cru wines. This was so in my grandfather’s time, as it is during mine. I have other estates, near Nice, which I visit during the summer; during the winter I stay in Paris where I have an apartment. I am considered a moderately wealthy man, not perhaps wealthy enough to merit one of the docile doves of your convent as a bride, mon petit, but certainly no pauper.’

‘You aren’t married, then?’

When he shook his head, Hope asked hesitantly, ‘Do you have any family?’

Was it her imagination or did he pause fractionally before answering? Whatever the case, there was certainly no trace of hesitation in his voice when he responded firmly, ‘None. One day I shall marry—I owe it to my name to ensure that there will be someone to follow me, but that day has not arrived yet.

‘It is a tradition in our family that the men do not marry early. My father was forty when he married my mother.’ Just for a moment, with the lamplight casting shadows along the high cheekbones, he looked sinister and withdrawn, more Russian than French, and Hope’s heart beat fiercely as she acknowledged that no matter how sophisticated he appeared, somewhere inside that sleekly suave covering was hidden all the ruthless passion of his Russian ancestry. ‘What is the matter, ma jolie?’

Hope hadn’t realised that he was watching her, studying the pensive thoughtfulness of her eyes and the vulnerability of her mouth.

‘Nothing—I was just wondering about my father,’ she told him huskily. ‘It is so long since I have seen him.’

‘And you fear that you will meet as strangers?’ he asked perceptively. ‘Do not. I am sure you are all that your papa hopes you will be—and more,’ he added almost beneath his breath, ‘much, much more,’ leaving Hope to puzzle over what he had said as she picked at her vanilla dessert and watched him eat cheese and biscuits, fascinated against her will by the lean masculine fingers; the taut planes of his shadowed face.

‘It is time you were in bed,’ he announced eventually. ‘You are falling asleep in your seat. Such a baby still—would you like me to carry you to bed and kiss you goodnight?’ He caught the tiny fluttering movement of rejection she made and laughed softly. ‘How very confusing it is, isn’t it, little one? The good Sisters tell you one thing and your body tells you another.’ He stood up and came round to stand beside her, bending to take her in his arms as though she weighed no more than a child, carrying her to her bed, her face pressed into the curve of his shoulder, her senses absorbing the scent and feel of him as he pulled back the covers and placed her carefully on the bed. He folded the covers back over her, the lean fingers of one hand resting briefly on the pale flesh of her shoulder before they were withdrawn and he was gone.

After the door had closed behind him, Hope didn’t know whether it was relief or disappointment that touched her body so achingly. But surely it must be relief? She couldn’t have wanted him to kiss her again!

‘If you are now ready, I suggest we continue our journey.’ They had breakfasted on soft, warm rolls and fresh apricot jam, and Hope felt as though she could never eat another thing. Today she was wearing a pleated skirt with a toning blouson top in soft green silk. Her hair had retained its new style and she had found it easier to apply her new make-up than she had anticipated, any nervous trembling of her fingers surely more due to the thought of coming face to face with the Comte again rather than anything else.

In the event she need not have worried, the half-frightening, taunting man she remembered from the evening had been banished and in his place was a smiling, almost avuncular man she couldn’t recognise at all.

They drove all through the morning, the tapes the Comte inserted into the machine on the dashboard obviating the need for any conversation, allowing Hope to concentrate on the scenery, lulled by the music.

At lunchtime the Comte pulled off the main road and drove into a small, French market town, parking the car on the forecourt of what he told her had once been a famous coaching inn.

The building was old, wreathed in wisteria, heavy racemes of violet-purple flowers hanging from its branches. The owner led them to their table himself, hovering solicitously to proffer advice on the menu. At first Hope supposed this was because the Comte was known to him, but when he had disappeared to greet some other diners, the Comte explained to her that lunch was often the main meal of the day in French households and that this particular auberge had a particularly good reputation.

‘Since we are travelling again this afternoon and cannot drowse off the effects of a heavy meal, I suggest we confine ourselves to three courses,’ he added with a humorous smile. ‘Would you like me to choose for you?’

Shaking her head, Hope reached for the menu. The Sisters had taught their pupils well, and when she had made her choice and conveyed it to the waiter in correct and fluent French she had the gratification of knowing she had not let them down.

The food was everything Hope had expected it would be and she had not made the mistake of ordering anything too rich or heavy. Meals at the convent were always light, but carefully balanced, and Hope found that she had automatically chosen with the same careful precision. When she shook her head over a sweet the Comte raised his eyebrows a little. Hope had been surprised to see that he too was equally selective and that his plate, while it held more food than hers, showed a healthy regard for the nutritional value of food rather than simply its taste.

‘You surprise me, mon petit,’ he commented when the waiter had withdrawn. ‘I thought a sweet tooth was the prerogative of the very young.’

‘Ice-cream and sticky cakes, monsieur?’ Hope queried with a smile, shaking her head as she explained the lectures all the students were given by the convent’s dietician.

‘So, what you are saying is that we are what we eat?’ he asked when she had finished. ‘That is true to a large extent, but one must make allowances for other … desires. One is not simply a machine functioning on fuel, one must allow for the needs of the senses.’

‘You didn’t drink any wine with your meal,’ Hope pointed out. ‘Nor did you have any rich sauces.’

‘The fact that I am driving precludes me from enjoying a good wine as it should be enjoyed, and as to my food—’ He looked at her, and Hope found herself trembling a little beneath the look in his eyes. ‘Make no mistake, mon petit, no matter how nutritious or excellent the food, were it not attractively served, and presented, as tempting to the palate as to the eyes, I should not touch it. We are given our senses so that we may enjoy our environment through them whether it be the sense of taste, or the sense of touch.’ As he spoke his eyes rested on her body and Hope felt almost as though he had touched her. What would it be like to be made love to by a man like him, Hope wondered, so startled by the way the thought had crept unbidden into her mind that she wasn’t aware of the way her eyes mirrored her thoughts, or of how she was observed by the man seated opposite her.

It was late afternoon before they entered what the Comte told her was the Burgundy region of France. His own estate lay to the north-east, he added. The scenery of the Côte-d’Or as they drove through made Hope catch her breath, her eyes rounding in awe, forgetting her tiredness as she saw the vineyards, interspersed with tantalising glimpses of châteaux and weathered farmhouses, with the word clos constantly appearing on signboards. It referred to enclosed vineyards, the Comte explained to her; vineyards which had once belonged to large convents or monasteries, and which still retained their enclosing walls.

‘Are your vineyards like that?’ Hope asked him, suddenly curious to know more about his home.

‘No. The Serivace lands are too extensive to be enclosed, although there is one small clos not far from the … house.’

He didn’t seem disposed to talk any more, and Hope lapsed into silence, tension knotting her stomach, although she was at a loss to understand why.

At last they turned off the main road, taking a narrow, badly tarmacked track, barely wide enough for the Ferrari, and open to acres of vines on either side.

‘The Serivace vines,’ the Comte told her laconically, adding, ‘Serivace is one of the largest vineyards in the area. The ancestor of mine who first settled here said he would own land in every direction from his home as far as the eye could see. Despite the many vicissitudes the family has passed through, that still holds true today.’ He paused and pointed out a long, low collection of buildings in the distance. ‘That is our bottling plant, Jules Duval, my manager, lives there with his family. There are many small growers in the locality who also make use of the plant.’

A large copse suddenly loomed up ahead of them, so alien in the vine-covered countryside that it took Hope completely by surprise. The sun, which had been sulking behind dull cloud, suddenly broke through, glinting on something behind the trees, and then they were among them, and the Comte was telling her that many of the trees were rare and valuable specimens, planted by one of his ancestors to provide parkland, ‘in the English fashion’. Beyond the belt of trees were formal gardens, and at the end of the drive … Hope’s eyes rounded as she saw the lake with the château rising from it, a fairy-tale in spun white resting on the silver water like a mirage. An ancient, wooden ‘drawbridge’ spanned the lake at its narrowest part, the Ferrari wheels reverberating noisily as they crossed it, driving under the stone archway and through into the courtyard beyond, the Ferrari coming to rest beside an arched and studded wooden door.

‘It’s … it’s like something out of a fairy-tale,’ she stammered, bemused by the total unexpectedness of her surroundings. A ‘house’ the Comte had said and she, foolishly, had expected a large and rambling farmhouse, not this airy turreted château with its peaceful lake and formal parterred gardens.

‘Sleeping Beauty, perhaps?’ the Comte suggested, unfastening his seat-belt and opening his door. ‘Rest assured there is no captive princess here, mon petit,’ he told her dryly, adding, ‘Come, I shall collect our cases later.’ He saw her confusion and smiled. ‘You were perhaps expecting an army of retainers.’ He shook his head. ‘Those days are gone. The château consists mainly of unused rooms. I have a small suite in the main building, which is maintained by Pierre my … general factotum, I suppose is the best description. A word of warning, by the way, before you meet him. He worked for my father and was badly injured in the same car explosion which killed my parents. My father had a minor post in the government at the time of the Algerian troubles. A bomb was thrown into the car. He and my mother were killed outright, but Pierre who was driving was thrown free. However, he was badly burned, and since the accident he has never spoken. He has also lost the ability to hear.’

‘Oh, poor man!’ The shocked exclamation left Hope’s lips before she could silence it. The Comte glanced at her sardonically as he helped her from the car. ‘You would do well not to let Pierre become aware of such sentiments. He is not a man who cares for … pity … I was fourteen when it happened,’ he added, as though anticipating her next question. ‘At an age to feel very bitter, but, as all things must, it passed, and of course I had …’

‘Pierre?’ Hope offered, torn by compassion for the pain she had glimpsed in his eyes.

‘Pierre?’ The glance he shot her was sharply piercing. ‘Oh, yes, I had Pierre.’ He crossed the courtyard, leaving Hope to follow, and pushed open the heavy door. Standing inside it, surveying the vastness of the hall, Hope shivered, wondering if the chill was the effect of so much marble. It covered the floor in a black and white lozenge design echoed by the stairs, supported gracefully by marble columns, with polished mahogany doors set at pairing intervals along the walls.

‘This way.’ The Comte touched her arm, indicating one of the doors. ‘This central part of the château is all that we use now. This is the library. Later I shall show you the remainder of the rooms.

The library was heavily panelled with an enormous marble fireplace and a carpet which Hope suspected was Aubusson, the colours faded to muted creams, pinks and greens. Pale green velvet curtains hung at the windows, a large partners’ desk placed where it would obtain maximum benefit from the daylight.

‘This room doubles as my office,’ the Comte explained. ‘It’s where I keep all the vineyard records and data, but I shall now show you the rest and then Pierre can prepare dinner for us.’

Hope’s thoughts as the Comte showed her from room to room were that the as yet unseen Pierre must have his work cut out looking after such huge apartments, but the Comte told her that they received help from the village when it was needed. ‘After the vintage comes the time when we entertain the buyers, and then the château comes into its own. You look tired,’ he added. ‘I’ll take you to your room.’

The marble stairs struck a chill through the thin soles of her sandals, the last rays of sunlight turning the chandelier hanging from the ceiling into prisms of rainbow light, almost dazzling her in their brilliance. The landing was galleried, the walls covered in soft pale green silk, and Hope wondered who had chosen the décor which was obviously fairly recent, and who acted as the Comte’s hostess when he entertained his buyers. He indicated one of the doors off the landing, thrusting it open for her, watching her face as she stepped through it and started into the room.

It was huge, almost dwarfing the Empire-style bed with its tented silk hangings, the fabric drawn back to reveal the intricate pleating and the gold and enamel rose set in the ceiling which supported it. A chaise longue covered in the same cream and rose brocade was placed at the foot of the bed, with two Bergère chairs in front of the fire, and the delicate white and gold Empire furniture made Hope catch her breath in awe.

‘The bathroom and dressing room are through here,’ the Comte told her, indicating another door. ‘I’ll leave you to freshen up while I go and find Pierre. He’ll bring your cases up for you.’

When he had gone Hope wandered over to the window. It was already growing dark outside and she could just about make out the shimmer that was the lake below her window—perhaps originally it had been the château moat—and beyond it the formal parterred gardens, before the ring of trees closed round the landscape obliterating everything else.

While she was investigating the bathroom, Hope heard the bedroom door open and then close again and guessed it must be Pierre with her cases and boxes. The bathroom was obviously a modern addition and rather breathtaking. The walls, floor and sanitary ware were all made from creamy white marble, the huge bath sunk into the floor, and one entire wall mirrored. Hope wasn’t entirely sure that she cared for it. It rather reminded her of something she had once seen in a film the nuns had taken them to see in Seville.

The dressing room which she had to pass through to reach the bathroom was lined with wardrobes and cupboards, all of which were mirrored, and thinking that she could hardly expect Pierre to unpack for her, Hope returned to her cases and started to remove the clothes she would need for the morning. She didn’t plan to change for dinner—she would simply wash and re-do her make-up.

Just when would her father arrive? She quelled a feeling of disappointment that he hadn’t been there to meet them, but then she had guessed that this would be the case, for if he hadn’t been busy, surely he wouldn’t have sent the Comte to collect her. Rather like an unwanted parcel, she thought wryly as she stripped off her suit and returned to the bathroom to wash.

Half an hour later, her hair brushed and her make-up fresh, she opened the bedroom door and walked across the landing. Her shoes seemed to clatter loudly on the marble stairs. As she reached the hall a door underneath the stairs opened and a man walked through. Hope guessed immediately that he must be Pierre. His face bore several livid scars, his dark hair streaked with grey, but there was more curiosity than embarrassment in the look he gave her, and trying not to feel too self-conscious, Hope said warmly:

‘You must be Pierre. I am Hope Stanford and …’ Her voice faded away as she remembered that the Comte had told her that Pierre had been rendered both deaf and dumb by the bomb blast and, suddenly feeling awkward, she was relieved to see the Comte coming downstairs.

Unlike her, he had changed and her eyes widened a little as she took in the thick silk shirt and tightly-fitting dark trousers. Gold cuff-links glittered at his wrists, and she was suddenly and overpoweringly aware of him—not as her father’s friend, but as a man. Her heart started to thud with heavy, suffocating strokes, her body turned to marble, as stiff and unresponsive as the stairs, as she stared at him, barely noticing the signs he made to Pierre, or the comprehension burning to life in the servant’s dark eyes as he turned back to the door.

‘Dinner is almost ready. You need not look like that,’ he assured her, obviously misunderstanding the reason for her shocked expression. ‘Pierre is an excellent chef.’ He opened the door that Hope vaguely remembered belonged to the dining room, her eyes dazzled by the sea of polished wood and glittering glass and silver that swam before her, mentally contrasting the magnificence of the château to the refectory at the convent.

Two courses were served and eaten in silence, Hope merely sipping the wine the Comte had poured for her. She refused any sweet, watching instead while the Comte helped himself to some cheese—a local cheese called Chaource, he told her, offering her some. Again Hope shook her head. The long journey had tired her, her mind exhausted by so many new impressions.

A portrait on the wall behind the Comte caught her eye and she studied it. It looked relatively modern and depicted a dark-haired woman, proud and faintly arrogant so that Hope sensed a wildness beneath the conventionally elegant mask.

‘Is that … was that your mother?’ she asked hesitantly.

The Comte turned his head and studied the portrait for a while in silence, his voice harsh as he said, ‘No. My sister, Tanya. She is dead now, she committed suicide.’

For a moment Hope thought she must have misheard him, the words seemed to hover between them, and Hope looked again at the portrait. What could have driven a woman as beautiful and proud as she was to take her own life? She hadn’t realised she had spoken the words out loud until the Comte said bitterly, ‘A man, of course, mon petit; a man, and the shame of knowing herself discarded.’

Hope shivered, unable to tear her eyes from the portrait. ‘It happened six months ago,’ the Comte continued. ‘I was in Paris at the time, Tanya was in the Caribbean with her lover. I suspect she had hoped that in the end he would marry her, but I knew he never would. I had warned her, but she would not listen. In the end, she preferred to take her life rather than face his dismissal of her.’

‘Had he … had he fallen in love with someone else?’ Hope asked huskily, hardly knowing why she asked the question.

The Comte’s mouth tightened. ‘Hardly. No. Tanya was simply a diversion who no longer fitted into his plans, and so she had to go. She, poor girl, went on deluding herself up to the last that he genuinely cared for her. However, her death will be avenged. He shall not be allowed to shame our family unpunished.’ He said the words so quietly that Hope barely caught them.

‘Tanya,’ she pronounced wonderingly. ‘It is surely a Russian name?’

‘As is my own,’ the Comte confirmed. ‘My mother insisted upon it. She could not hand down to her children her own birthright—she was a Princess; Princess Tatiana Vassiliky—but she gave us her family names. Mine is Alexei, after her father.’

It was his Russian blood that demanded reparation for what had happened to his sister, Hope guessed intuitively, sensing as she had done before the savagery and pride that lay so close to the surface of his French sophistication—a sophistication which was barely more than a cloak.

‘Tanya’s lover?’ she pressed, scarcely knowing why she asked the question and yet somehow compelled to do so.

‘I think you can guess,’ the Comte said slowly, forcing her to meet his eyes and holding her gaze as he stood up and came to stand beside her. ‘Your father was Tanya’s lover, Hope,’ he told her softly, so softly that for a moment she didn’t sense the danger surrounding her.

‘My father?’ She stared up at him in bewilderment. ‘My father … but … You and he are friends … Why did you come for me when … ?’

‘How naïve you are, little one. Your father knows nothing of me apart from the fact that I am Tanya’s brother, but I know a great deal about him. I made it my business to know. I discovered, for one thing, that he had a daughter—a pious, innocent child, who was kept secluded from the world, brought up to be innocent in mind and body; a child who he intended to use as a pawn to secure for himself the power he has always wanted. You are that pawn, Hope,’ he told her softly. In the half-light his eyes glittered dangerously, hard and green as emeralds, and fear choked Hope of breath as she fought to take in what he was saying.

‘I swore when my sister killed herself that she would be avenged,’ he told her slowly. ‘The Russian blood in me demands that she is, even while the French mocks me for my passion, but on this occasion the Russian wins out, although I must admit that the French side of me has helped me to plan my campaign with care and thought. My first instinct was to deprive your father of life as he had deprived Tanya of hers.’

Hope, listening, shivered. She could well imagine this man killing her father, the lean fingers fastening round his throat, demanding that he suffer as Tanya had suffered.

‘But, on reflection, I decided that that was not enough. Besides, I have no wish to spend the rest of my own life languishing in prison. No, there had to be a better way. A way in which your father was vulnerable, and then, quite by chance, at a dinner in Paris, I found it. You will be surprised to know, mon petit, that you were the subject of the dinner-table conversation on that occasion.

‘My female companion, I shall not bore you with her name, was telling me of the marriage your father had planned between the Montrachet heir and his carefully reared daughter. It seems your father has been foolish enough to borrow money on his expectations of becoming the grandfather of the new heir-to-be. The Montrachet name is an old and powerful one, and Montrachet brides are always carefully chosen and vetted. Normally, they are also rich, but the numbers of rich young women who are also virginal in body and character are quickly dwindling.

‘However, your father has taken care to make sure that you fulfil both those latter two requirements. His name is also an old one—you have no fortune, of course, but Isabelle Montrachet, Alain’s mother, prefers a bride for her son who is easily moulded and taught. A healthy young bride, moreover, who will provide her son with children; a bride whose virtue is unimpeachable—and who better than her business partner’s daughter; a girl who can bring as her dowry, all these things. In return for your innocence, your father will receive an increased share in the Montrachet business, provided it and his own share is willed to you, and your children after you, upon his death.

‘As I have just said, he has already gambled heavily on his expectations, investing in a holiday complex in the Caribbean, which is not paying off as it ought. Before the summer is out, Sir Henry intends to capitalise on his only remaining investment—you—or at least he did.’

The Comte walked away, standing by the fire with his back to her while Hope watched him in stunned and appalled silence. Was it true? Had her father intended such a marriage for her? She supposed she ought not to be shocked, after all she knew that was what many of the girls were at the convent for; to be prepared for such marriages but, somehow, she had never imagined it happening to her—and to suggest that her father was responsible for his sister’s death! It was preposterous! Struggling with her feelings, all she could manage was a husky, ‘I don’t believe you, my father would never …’

‘Make love to my sister? Discard her like an unwanted toy? Destroy and humiliate her publicly by telling her he no longer wanted her, so that she was forced to take her own life. I assure you that he did. The newspapers were full of the story—I haven’t kept the cuttings, but I could obtain them for you, I’m sure.’

‘No!’ Hope rejected the suggestion immediately, nausea building up inside her. Could her father have behaved so callously? Hadn’t he in many ways behaved equally callously to her? an inner voice asked. Hadn’t he left her at the convent, more or less ignoring her? He hadn’t told her anything about his plans for her.

She shivered suddenly, wondering if that was why she had never been allowed to holiday with her friends, in case she became involved with someone; a boy to whom she might have given her body and thus de-valued herself in the eyes of the Montrachets. It seemed incredible, and yet Hope sensed that what the Comte said was true.

‘I don’t understand,’ she managed huskily at last. ‘If you are my father’s enemy why did you …’

‘Take you from the convent?’ he supplied for her, turning round to study her pale face and enormous eyes, her expression fearful and yet resolute as she tried to understand what was happening to her.

‘You must understand that I mean you no personal harm,’ he told her quietly. ‘But it is only through you that I can harm your father as much as he harmed Tanya. Oh, I don’t mean to kill him,’ he assured her, seeing her pale. ‘Nor will he end his own life as my poor sister did—he is not that kind of a man. But if this marriage does not go ahead, he will be ruined financially. He will not be able to live the jet-set life to which he has grown accustomed. He will no longer be the darling of the Côte d’Azur; permitted entry into every Casino, the escort of models and actresses, and that will destroy him as effectively as he destroyed Tanya. To see his world turn its back on him—as it surely will—will be all the revenge I need.’

‘But how are you hoping to accomplish this?’ Hope protested. ‘You cannot keep me here for ever, and once I leave …’

‘Your marriage can take place.’ He shook his head and the look in his eyes sent a chill curling icily all the way down Hope’s spine. ‘You haven’t been listening to me, Hope,’ he chided almost softly. ‘I have already told you what Isabelle Montrachet looks for in a bride for her son, and she will accept no less. Alain is a young man who has sown more than his fair share of wild oats, and it is rumoured he is looking forward to the piquancy of a virgin bride. My dear, no matter how lovely you are, without your virginity all you can ever be to Alain is simply another pretty diversion.’

As Hope stared up at him, the implications of his words finally struck home, her eyes widening with shocked comprehension, her husky, ‘No!’ trembling on the air between them.

‘I’m afraid “yes”,’ the Comte corrected gently. ‘And that is not the worst of it. You see, I never liked your father, Hope, and I hated him for what he did to Tanya. She was twenty-one when she met him, young and full of hope. She thought he would marry her and gave herself to him willingly, but once she had done so he let her know that the only place he had for her in his life was as his mistress, and loving him as she did, she accepted it. I had to watch as her pride and respect were slowly stripped from her as he paraded her before the world as his whore. I think it a fitting punishment for him that I do the same to his daughter, don’t you?’

She was going to faint, Hope thought hysterically. She couldn’t really be hearing this; she couldn’t really be listening to the Comte telling her calmly and emotionlessly that he intended first to rape her and then to flaunt her publicly as his mistress. For a moment she contemplated telling him that he was too late and that she had already given herself to someone else, but his voice forstalled her.

‘It’s no use, Hope,’ he told her calmly. ‘You have already betrayed to me in a thousand ways that you are an innocent. You cannot leave the château—Pierre will not help you—and by morning …’ He shrugged, and her appalled senses struggled with the knowledge that he intended to start taking his revenge that night. ‘You need not fear that I shall hurt or abuse you—it is not my intention to punish you personally, and indeed in many ways I am sorry that it has to be accomplished through you. Certainly you will suffer no worse at my hands than you would at Alain’s …’

‘Except for the fact that I would be his wife,’ Hope reminded him bitterly. All her life she had heard the Sisters telling her that sex outside marriage was a sin and never for a moment had she contemplated indulging in it with anyone other than her husband. Even if she was married and in love she would still be dreading what now lay ahead of her, she acknowledged inwardly, but to contemplate the Comte’s hands on her flesh, his body … She shuddered deeply, her panicky ‘No!’ bringing a brief grimace of understanding to the Comte’s mouth.

‘I’m afraid your protests only make it all the more difficult for you, mon petit. Here, in this château, it is my will which prevails. We shall stay here for a week,’ he told her, as though they were discussing something mundane. ‘By that time it is my hope that you will have lost that look of undeniable innocence.’ His eyes mocked her pale face and bruised expression. ‘Then we shall fly out to the Caribbean. I have a villa there, and the crowd your father mixes with will be at his hotel at this time of year. No doubt your father will be in a benign mood, contemplating the wedding he believes is to take place later in the summer. Your appearance at my side, so incontestably mine, will surprise him.’

‘I shall tell him what you have done,’ Hope cried out. ‘You can’t force me to stay with you then, I shall leave you …’

‘And your father will take you in?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, mon petit, he won’t.’

‘How long … how long will I have to stay with you?’

‘As long as it takes.’

‘And afterwards?’ Hope shivered again. The nuns had always stressed to their pupils that once a girl sinned, once she lost her innocence, the downward path was a very steep and slippery one indeed, and a hundred lurid pictures tortured Hope’s mind. ‘After you have … finished with me, what becomes of me? No man will want me as his wife …’

‘I did not say that, nor is it true. You cannot really believe that all men marry virgins—or indeed want to. You are a beautiful girl, Hope, many men will be attracted to you. You have intelligence, and depending on how much you use it, you can be happy and content in your life or not.’

‘Would you marry a girl who has … has had other lovers?’ Hope flung at him bitterly.

‘I would—if I loved her; if she had other assets that I wanted. The confines of your upbringing have been very narrow, Hope. If the Montrachets were not as they are, if your father had not callously traded in your innocence for their wealth, my plans could not come to fruition. In many ways you are an artificial product. Had you been left to grow and develop naturally I doubt you would be a virgin. It is as acceptable for girls to experiment these days as it is for boys.’

‘But you intend to … to ravish me because …’

‘It will not be a ravishment in the terms that you are thinking of,’ he told her calmly. ‘I have no desire to inflict pain or degradation on you. On the contrary, I want your father to see that you come to me willingly.’ He smiled at the expression in Hope’s eyes, and her bitter:

‘Never—I could not. I do not love you!’

‘How little you know,’ he mocked her softly. ‘But you will see. Love is not always necessary for pleasure, Hope.’

She closed her eyes in mute agony, unable to understand what was happening to her. Could she really believe that this cool, sardonic man, talking reasonably, almost lightly to her, actually meant to despoil her body, to deprive her of her virginity?

She saw him glance at his watch. ‘It is getting late, and you must be tired. Why don’t you go to bed?’

Her eyes flew to his face, but he wasn’t looking at her. ‘I have some work I have to attend to. Don’t even think of trying to escape, Hope. The doors are all bolted, the drawbridge raised, and Pierre will not aid you—he was fanatically devoted to my sister. Would you like something to help you sleep?’

For a moment Hope was tempted. Perhaps if he came upstairs and found her sleeping he would … what? Change his mind? Hardly, having gone to so much trouble to bring her here. This wasn’t something done in the heat of the moment; his anger had cooled and hardened, and he wouldn’t be turned aside from what he intended.

‘No, thank you,’ she responded formally, wondering if it was admiration she had seen flicker briefly in his eyes, or if she had imagined it.