Читать книгу The Garden Of Dreams - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 7

TO Lissa’s amazement, Raoul Denis seemed to undergo a kind of sea-change as the taxi drew away from Fontaines. He did not plague her with any more barbed remarks as they sped through the West End, and when he mentioned the play he had selected for them to see, she was delighted.

‘That’s wonderful!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve been wanting to see that for ages.’

She had tried to persuade Paul to go with her on several occasions, but he claimed that straight theatre bored him, and he preferred the intimate cabarets in the night clubs to which he usually took her.

It was an excellent production and the play itself was stimulating and thought-provoking. During the interval, Lissa found herself in the bar and realised with a start that she and Raoul Denis had been arguing for fully ten minutes about the effectiveness of the confrontation between two of the major characters which had led to the first act curtain. She also realised that during this argument she had totally forgotten how much she disliked him. She faltered with what she was saying and looking up, found he was laughing, and wondered uneasily if he could read her thoughts.

‘Have another drink,’ he said. ‘Yes, we have time. The bell hasn’t gone yet. I think that little one who plays the daughter has a future, don’t you?’

Lissa, sipping her vodka and tonic, agreed.

‘Do you go to the theatre much in Paris, monsieur?’ she asked.

‘Very little, I regret,’ he replied. ‘Most of my spare time is spent in the country at my house there. My mother is to some extent an invalid, and I like to be with her as much as I can. Tell me,’ he added unexpectedly, ‘does your English reserve and conventionality insist on this formality, or could you not bring yourself to call me Raoul?’

Lissa nearly choked on a mouthful of her drink. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him that the formality of the evening to date had been imposed by him, but she overcame her resentment.

‘I’m not as prim and conventional as all that,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘I’ll call you Raoul.’

‘Splendid,’ he approved. ‘And I call you what? Lisse?’

‘It’s Lissa—short for Melissa, actually. My mother felt very poetic when I was born,’ she said, talking nonsense to cover her embarrassment as he gave her another of his searching looks.

‘And have you inspired no poetry since? I cannot believe Englishmen are so lacking in soul,’ he said.

Lissa, feeling herself blushing again, was thankful when the bell rang at that moment signalling them back to their seats.

During the second act, she knew he was watching her most of the time, and she concentrated all the more fiercely on the stage. It was this scrutiny and the general oddness of his behaviour during the evening that was making her so nervous and on edge, she told herself.

As they moved through the crowded foyer after the performance, Raoul Denis asked, ‘Have you any particular preference in restaurants, or are you prepared to leave the choice all to me?’

‘Quite prepared,’ Lissa smiled at him. ‘I warn you, I enjoyed that so much that I shall expect nothing but the best.’

‘Soit.’ He sent her a swift glance. ‘I trust you will find the remainder of the evening even more enjoyable.’

Again Lissa had a sense of vague unease, but as she looked inquiringly at him, he began once more to talk of the performance they had seen, and they were soon involved in a discussion which occupied the taxi ride to the quiet but very expensive restaurant he had chosen. The tables were set in alcoves round the walls, and the entire room was lit by candles, which lent an air of mystery and intimacy which immediately appealed to Lissa.

‘Though it makes me feel as if I should whisper all the time,’ she said, leaning back on the luxuriously upholstered bench seat.

‘Why?’ Raoul, sitting close beside her, sounded amused.

‘Well, you can’t really see who else is here,’ she explained. ‘It’s the sort of place where people have trysts and exchange secrets.’

Raoul bent towards her until his mouth brushed her ear. ‘If you have a secret to confide, ma belle, consider me your confident.’

Lissa, disturbed by his proximity, moved hastily, and her hand caught a glass, sending it clattering across the polished table on to the thickly carpeted floor. A waiter hurried to retrieve it—luckily unbroken—and brought her another glass, while she sat, flushed and angry at her lack of poise.

He did that deliberately, she thought, but why? And she wished with all her heart that the evening was over.

As the meal proceeded, Lissa realised that Raoul Denis’ knowledge of food and wines far outweighed even Paul’s, whom she was used to regarding as something of an expert. The meal was delicious, and the service was swift and unobtrusive. Lissa leaned back in her seat feeling warm and relaxed, as coffee and brandy were served.

‘A cigarette?’ Raoul asked.

‘No, thanks. It would spoil that wonderful food.’ She turned to smile at him and found to her surprise that he seemed to have withdrawn to a distance. But that was idiotic. He had not moved. She closed her eyes momentarily, and when she opened them again he was watching her.

‘I think the time has come for our departure,’ he said softly, and signalled to the waiter.

‘This is the perfect place to end an evening,’ Lissa said dreamily.

‘Or even to begin it,’ he said, helping her to rise and putting her coat round her shoulders.

As they crossed the pavement to a waiting taxi, Lissa stumbled slightly, and Raoul’s hand was instantly under her elbow.

‘Take care,’ he warned, and helped her into the cab.

Lissa collapsed on to the seat and again closed her eyes. The cab felt stuffy and the list of fares and regulations which faced her was oddly blurred.

‘Oh, God,’ she thought. ‘I’ve had too much to drink. This is terrible!’

‘Are you all right?’ he asked as she pulled herself together and sat up.

‘Fine,’ she lied, smiling carefully. As her mind raced back, she realised she had unwittingly drunk far more than her usual modest amount—sherry before dinner and a glass of wine with a meal. There had been drinks at the party, she recalled, and the vodka at the theatre, and wine in the food at the restaurant as well as with it, not to mention that last brandy.

Coffee, she thought. Black coffee and bed as soon as possible.

Maggie would certainly look a little askance if her secretary turned up for work the next day with an obvious hangover.

The taxi drew to a halt in front of the terraced house where the girls had their flat, and Lissa quailed at the thought of the two flights of stairs to her front door. Raoul paid off the driver and glanced up the street.

‘My car does not appear to have arrived,’ he remarked. ‘Is there perhaps a telephone in the house?’

‘Mrs Henderson doesn’t have one, but there’s a call box just round the corner.’ Lissa hoped that she was not slurring her words. She waited for him to say goodnight and go and look for the phone box, but he showed no signs of leaving. Eventually, she felt forced to ask, ‘Would you—er—like some coffee?’

‘Merci bien.’ He took the latchkey from her unresisting hand and fitted it into the lock. ‘En avant!’

Lissa was thankful to find herself at last alone in the peace and quiet of the kitchenette. Raoul had left her to make the coffee while he telephoned. She set out pottery mugs on a tray and plugged in the percolator. Her head was beginning to clear as she carried the coffee through and set it on the table in front of the gas fire.

‘I lit the fire. I hope you don’t mind.’ Raoul Denis was standing by the table. He was holding Mrs Henderson’s magazine, but as Lissa started pouring the coffee, he put it down and came to sit on the sofa.

‘No, it was a good idea. It always gets chilly up here late at night, even if it is officially supposed to be early summer.’ Lissa helped herself to sugar and passed the bowl to Raoul, who declined it with a slight gesture.

‘Did you arrange about your car?’ she asked.

‘Yes, a tiresome misunderstanding. It will be here presently.’

‘That’s good,’ she said, without thinking.

‘Je suis désolé. Do you wish the evening to end so soon?’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ Lissa began, leaning forward to put her mug back on the table. She was determined that he should not needle her again. Certainly he seemed very much at his ease, stretched out on the sofa.

‘More coffee?’ she asked.

‘I thank you, but no.’ He replaced his own cup. ‘It was delicious, however.’

‘So I’ve been told,’ she smiled, thinking of Paul, who invariably expressed his appreciation in extravagant terms.

It was as if that smile lit a fire in Raoul.

‘Mon Dieu!’ His voice sounded suddenly hoarse, but whether it was anger or some other emotion, she could not tell. Before she had a chance to protest, he had reached for her, drawing her roughly into his arms and silencing her with his mouth.

When at last he raised his head, his eyes burned down into hers, as she lay bruised and breathless in his arms.

‘Bon Dieu, Lissa, do you know what you are doing to me?’ he muttered. He bent to her again, but this time his mouth caressed a feverish path down her throat and searched the soft hollows between her neck and shoulders.

Lissa’s pulses were pounding violently. The room swam, and she felt every nerve ending in her body throbbing insistently. Slowly her hands, which at first had been braced against his chest, crept up to clasp his neck, and her fingers twined in his hair. Murmuring endearments in his own language against her parted lips, he began to slide the chiffon from her shoulders. Her body arched towards him instinctively, welcoming his touch. His grip tightened, and the soft chiffon tore beneath his hands.

Something hard and metallic tinkled to the floor and rolled a little way. The brooch—Paul’s brooch.

Lissa was suddenly, sickeningly aware of what was happening to her.

‘No!’ She tore herself out of his arms, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the fireplace, her hair falling round her bared shoulders, her dress torn almost to the waist.

‘Oh, you brute! You devil … how dare you!’

‘Dare?’ He stared up at her. His eyes glittered and he looked as dangerous as a black panther. Lissa was horribly aware of her complete isolation. The couple in the flat below were on holiday and Mrs Henderson was too far away to hear any cries for help. And he knows Jenny won’t be back tonight, she thought helplessly. He must have planned all this deliberately.

‘I was under the impression, ma belle, that we had come to an understanding. Surely you are not trying to pretend that I am the first to avail myself of your—services?’

‘Services?’ Lissa almost choked. ‘You don’t mean—you can’t imagine that I … that I would let you …’

‘Until a moment ago I had every reason to think so.’ His eyes went over her in insolent appraisal and she felt naked under his gaze. ‘As far as I am concerned, ma belle, by accepting my invitation tonight, you placed yourself at my disposal. I regret that you do not see fit to keep your part of the bargain. I am still more than ready to keep mine.’

‘Get out,’ Lissa said between her teeth. ‘Get out now before I call the police!’

‘How do you propose to do that?’ he asked. He laughed harshly. ‘I would not be so ill-advised as to call the police if I were you. The English police are not fools, and they would know what to make of a young woman who allows a man to wine and dine her for the evening and then calls “Rape” in her appartement. Besides, you are unharmed, except perhaps for your dress—and your pride.’

He picked up his light overcoat from a chair and walked to the door.

‘Bonne nuit,’ he said, with a slight bow, and was gone.

Lissa rushed to the door and locked it, then leaned her forehead against the cool white-painted panels, listening to his footsteps going downstairs. Her breath came in great shuddering sobs, and she shivered violently.

Eventually, as her self-control returned, she walked slowly to the bedroom and threw herself across her bed. She felt numbed, yet her throat ached fiercely and her eyes pricked with tears.

Bitterly she blamed herself for agreeing to go out with him in the first place. Yet Paul knew him and obviously trusted him.

The most shaming part was that she herself had allowed it. She had made no effort to resist—had not even wanted to resist, until the memory of Paul had been forced back into her mind, almost by accident.

Paul! If he knew! She shuddered and buried her face in the ivory-coloured quilt. Would the Denis man tell him? Somehow she doubted it. But he must never find out. He would be incredibly hurt, and rightly so, that she could behave like that with a man who was not only a stranger, but whose whole manner from the beginning had betrayed a strange kind of contempt for her.

The worst of it was that she was still conscious of him. It was as if the pressure of his lips and hands was a lesson that once learned, she could never forget. She sat up slowly, raking the silky mass of pale hair back from her face, her eyes brooding. She looked down at her torn dress with revulsion, then jerking at the fastenings, stripped it off and flung it to the floor. She would throw it away and make some excuse for its disappearance. It had been her favourite, but now the sight of it was unbearable.

It was chilly in the bedroom, and she put on her black and silver housecoat before wandering restlessly back into the warmth of the living room. She looked round, wishing with all her might that Jenny was not staying the night with Roger and his parents. Normally Lissa had no objection to being on her own, but now she desperately needed to hear a friendly voice, and not have to sit alone with her thoughts.

A hot drink of milk and a couple of aspirins. That was the answer—and some noise. She picked up the transistor radio, twisting the controls until she found some quiet, rather sentimental music, and carried it into the kitchen with her while she heated her milk.

She returned to the living room and set the milk down on the coffee table, still littered with the cups she had used for coffee with Raoul. Then she went over to the sideboard for the aspirin. Her eye was caught by a message on the pad there in Jenny’s writing. ‘Maggie popped in just after you went, full of beans, full of mystery too. Something wonderful has happened, but she’s going to tell you herself tomorrow. Be good. Love. J.’

Lissa frowned a little. This was getting to be a night for mysteries and she would welcome a little plain speaking from now on. She put the pad down and picked up Mrs Henderson’s magazine.

It might not be the most stimulating reading in the world, but that was all the better if it helped her put the evening’s events out of her mind and helped her get to sleep. As she sat down on the sofa with it, it fell open on her lap, and she saw a corner of one of the pages had been deliberately turned down. Not only that, but someone, presumably Mrs Henderson, had carefully outlined one of the pictures on the page in blue ballpoint pen.

‘What in the world …?’ Lissa looked down unbelievingly. The occasion that was being reported was a dance at the French Embassy some weeks ago when she had first started going out with Paul. And there they both were, standing together at the foot of a staircase, quite oblivious of the fact that they were being photographed. There was a paragraph about them too, referring to Paul as a ‘playboy diplomat’ and describing Lissa as ‘his latest girl about town’:

As if she was something rather nasty in the City, Lissa thought, her sense of humour reasserting itself. So this was what Mrs Henderson meant by her cryptic note! How awful, she thought, hoping that no one else she knew had seen it.

Her thoughts stopped there with a vivid memory of searing anger in a man’s eyes, and the magazine being thrown down contemptuously.

That must have been what made him so angry, Lissa realised, but it certainly did not explain why it affected him like that.

It was beyond her, she decided, as she drank the last of her milk. She could only be thankful that she would never have to see that Denis man again as long as she lived. And if Paul mentioned him, she would just have to change the subject.

But the thought brought her surprisingly little comfort, either then or in the long hours that followed before she finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Lissa did not feel particularly refreshed when the buzzing of the alarm brought her unwillingly back to wakefulness the next morning. As she sat up to switch it off, she sniffed experimentally. There was an unmistakable odour of coffee, and even as she threw the covers to go and investigate, the bedroom door opened and Jenny walked in smiling with two cups on a tray. It was then for the first time that Lissa realised that the other bed was crumpled.

‘So you didn’t stay at Roger’s after all?’ she exclaimed.

‘No, his mother wasn’t feeling too well—some virus thing, I think, so he brought me back here late. You were dead to the world. By the way, you owe me thanks for doing the washing up.’

‘Washing up?’ Lissa stared at her, puzzled, then remembered, crimsoning, last night’s debris still left in the living room.

‘And you’d left the gas fire on,’ Jenny said reprovingly. ‘Whatever was the matter? Surely the Pirate King didn’t have that much effect on you?’

Lissa sipped her coffee, trying to avoid Jenny’s gaze, but it was no use. Jenny came and sat on the edge of the bed, and gave her a long, even stare.

‘Come on, tell me all about it. Was it lucky or unlucky that I returned last night?’

Lissa put the cup down on the small chest of drawers that separated the twin beds, and her lips trembled.

‘Oh, Jen,’ she mumbled, ‘it was awful!’ And in brief, staccato phrases she outlined the events of the evening, leading up to his attempted seduction.

Jenny sat open-mouthed with astonishment. ‘But he was a friend of Paul’s! He brought that note. What kind of a man is he to behave like that to his friend’s girl?’

‘He didn’t actually say they were friends, but old acquaintances,’ Lissa said miserably. ‘Perhaps he dislikes Paul and was trying to do something to hurt him.’

‘Are you going to say anything to Paul?’

‘Oh, no!’ Lissa gave a quick shiver. ‘What could I say? That … creature was right—he could have had me. He nearly did, if it hadn’t been for that brooch. Oh, heavens, I’ve just remembered! It fell off, and I’ve probably lost it. He probably took it with him for spite. Oh, Jenny, what am I going to do?’

‘Drink the rest of that coffee before it gets cold,’ said Jenny calmly. ‘And stop worrying about the family heirloom. I found it on the rug. I just avoided stepping on it, and it’s safe and sound back in its little velvet box. I was right, you see, to persuade you to wear it. Otherwise think what I might have found when I walked in …’ She sighed and cast a pious look at the ceiling, and Lissa gave an unwilling chuckle.

‘Jenny,’ she said, after a slight pause, ‘how do you feel with Roger?’

Jenny put down her cup and gave her a straight look. ‘You mean when we’re kissing, and making love and all that?’

‘Yes.’ Lissa drank some more coffee. ‘It’s an awful cheek asking you, I know, but I can’t judge what I should feel with Paul. I thought everything was perfect—but last night …’ she paused and the colour came into her cheeks. ‘I didn’t know anyone could feel like that.’

‘Men like Raoul Denis should either be locked up securely, or be made more readily available to us all,’ Jenny said, grinning. She took Lissa’s hand. ‘I can’t tell you about Roger and me, because it wouldn’t mean anything. All I can say is that when you meet the right man, you’ll know. There won’t be any doubts. But don’t be deceived by some Continental Romeo who’s probably had more women than we’ve had hot dinners. That’s not love. Passion is a thing apart. Don’t mix the two until you’re sure of the first one.’

Lissa sighed. ‘I’m not sure of anything any more. Thank you for rescuing the brooch. I shall feel worse than ever about returning it now. What am I going to say to him?’

‘What you planned to say last night before the Pirate King took all the wind out of your sails. That it’s too expensive a gift at this stage in your relationship, and that you have to get to know him much better before you can even consider marriage.’ Jenny cast her eyes to heaven. ‘Would you like me to come along as prompter?’

Lissa laughed. ‘No, I think I’ll manage the words once the action starts. Now I’d better start getting dressed or I shall be late.’

She even managed a second cup of coffee and a slice of toast before, dressed in a light cream woollen dress with a matching coat, she set off for the underground. She felt more cheerful when she arrived at Maggie’s flat. Her godmother had been left a wealthy widow some years before, but even so she earned a more than adequate income from her very popular books. She was a tall woman with naturally waving grey hair, and still very attractive although well into her fifties. Lissa adored her, but often felt she could not have been the easiest person in the world to live with when her husband was alive.

Maggie, when she was engaged on a novel, had a habit of spending most of the night covering sheet upon sheet of paper in her small neat handwriting for Lissa to transcribe the following day. Trim in a bright red jersey suit, she swung round from her desk as Lissa entered. ‘My dear, thank goodness you’ve come at last!’

‘I’m not late, am I?’ Lissa asked, puzzled, and glanced at her watch.

‘No, of course not. Didn’t Jenny give you my message?’

‘Why, yes, she left it on the pad. What’s all the mystery?’

‘Firstly, is your passport in order?’

‘Yes.’ Lissa stared at her. ‘What on earth …?’

‘Not what, ducky, but where,’ said Maggie triumphantly. ‘How would you like to spend the next month or so staying in a French château that was actually looted at the time of the Revolution, and was only saved from being burned to the ground by a few loyal peasants?’ She got up smiling. ‘And that’s not all. Many of the papers relating to that time have been preserved very carefully, including a diary kept by the old Comte—until they marched him off to be guillotined. And we’ve been invited to make what use we like of all this material.’

‘Oh, Maggie!’ Lissa’s eyes sparkled. ‘It’s like a dream. What could be better? How did it happen?’

‘Aha!’ Maggie waved her finger. ‘The old Comte lost his head, but his son kept his and got away to England with most of the family jewels intact. He married a wealthy English heiress and when things returned to normal in France he went back and restored the Château, and had a son, who had another son …’

‘I suppose this family tree is leading somewhere,’ Lissa said, grinning.

‘Indeed it is, ducky. To one Monsieur Paul de Gue, whom we have to thank for this invitation. Darling boy! It was like a bolt from the blue.’

‘Paul owns a château?’ Lissa said incredulously.

‘Well, his elder brother, who is the present Comte de Gue, actually owns it, but of course it’s Paul’s home too. His mother lives there and Paul apparently wrote to her when he heard I was planning a book about the time of the Reign of Terror and suggested his great-great-grandpapa’s romantic adventures could make a marvellous book—and she agreed. I’ve had the most charming letter from her, endorsed by the Comte himself. Well, what is it, dear? I thought you’d be delighted.’

‘I am delighted—for you,’ Lissa said with a forced smile. ‘It’s just that … do I have to go as well?’

‘Of course. You’re my secretary. I couldn’t possibly manage without you. You’re used to my ways and you know how that beastly typewriter sticks or unravels its ribbon all over me every time I go near it. Besides, I thought that you and Paul—well, it seemed ideal.’

‘That’s the trouble.’ Lissa moved to the desk and began to straighten some of the papers that littered it. ‘It’s too ideal. I expect you’ll think I’m mad like Jenny does, but I haven’t made up my mind yet about Paul. I don’t know whether it will work. It rather seems as if this invitation is just more pressure on me to say yes.’

‘On the other hand, seeing him on his own ground and against the rest of the family might make up your mind for you. People are more themselves in their own homes. You might like him better with some of the foreign diplomat glamour knocked off him,’ Maggie said surprisingly.

‘I thought you liked him.’

‘I do. I think he’s a charming boy, but his biggest trouble is that he thinks so too.’

Lissa smiled a little wanly. ‘Perhaps you’re right, and after all, he won’t be there all the time. He has his work to do.’

‘I wouldn’t count on that keeping him away. He mentioned to me recently that he had some leave due. I think he intends to be guide, philosopher and friend on this visit.’ Maggie gave her a shrewd glance. ‘It’s getting you down, isn’t it? You have a peaky look. A few weeks abroad will do you the world of good, whether the handsome Paul is in attendance or not.’

‘Yes,’ Lissa sighed. ‘Oh, Maggie, why can’t life be simple and spelled out in black and white for us?’

‘Because it would be no fun if it were—and talking about spelling things out, why don’t you pop the coffee on while I try and sort some of last night’s stuff out for you?’

Maggie had spent a long and fruitful night, and Lissa typed steadily until noon. She had paused for a cigarette when the phone by her elbow rang. She picked up the receiver and gave the number.

‘Chérie!’

‘Oh, Paul, it’s good to hear from you!’

‘I am afraid you won’t be so pleased when I tell you what I have to say. I must postpone our date for this evening—something has come up. I am ringing to see if you are free for lunch instead. The little Italian place in—say, half an hour.’

‘That’ll be fine.’ Lissa tried to mask her disappointment.

‘Au revoir, then.’

Lissa replaced the receiver and finished typing the sheet she was engaged on. It was the second time Paul had broken a date with her, and she felt oddly disconcerted.

‘How funny,’ she thought wryly, ‘if all the time I’m wondering if I want to marry him, he’s wondering exactly the same about me.’

Paul was at the restaurant when she arrived.

‘I’ve ordered dry martinis. I hope that’s what you wanted,’ he said, helping her off with her coat.

‘Perfect,’ she assured him. A waiter arrived for their order and they spent a few minutes wrangling amicably over the respective merits of ravioli and lasagne.

‘Not that it really matters,’ Lissa said when the waiter finally disappeared with his order. ‘All the food here tastes marvellous.’

‘C’est vrai. This is one of the places I shall miss most when I leave.’

‘You’re leaving London?’ Lissa stared at him.

‘Within a week or so.’ He laid his hand on hers. ‘But you see how I arrange things. I must return home, so I pull strings and my Lissa comes with me.’

‘I wondered what lay behind this sudden passion for historical research of yours,’ Lissa said drily.

‘Do you blame me? Ah, I think you do a little. But think, chérie, I want you to see my home—the estate—and meet my family. I had hoped it would be as my fiancée, but I accept what you say, and will wait patiently for you. Maman knows nothing except that Madame Desmond, whose books she so greatly admires, is to stay with us and that her secretary will be with her. She is happy. Madame Desmond is happy, because she will have the Château to look over—and the papers. I am happy, so why should not you be a little happy too?’

Lissa laughed. ‘I’ll try and be a little happy, although actually I feel shattered,’ she confessed. ‘I had no idea you lived in a château. Has it got turrets and dungeons?’

‘A few,’ Paul said airily. ‘Much of the original building was destroyed at the time of the Revolution, you understand, and when Henri de Gue returned to France he decided he’d had enough of the style of the ancien régime, and so had the peasants, so he rebuilt the living quarters in a style he considered modern.’

‘A man of diplomacy,’ Lissa smiled. ‘Are you like him? Is this why you entered the Diplomatic Service?’

‘Non,’ Paul shrugged. ‘One has to do something, and the family business did not interest me.’

He broke off as the waiter arrived with the meal. When they were served and the wine was poured, he went on, ‘Anyway, that is all over now. It has been decided that I am to return to St Denis and learn how to manage the estate. Jacques Tarrand is growing old, and his only son was killed in Algeria during his military service.’

‘Will you like managing the estate?’ Lissa sipped her wine.

‘It will be better than being an office boy at the Embassy,’ he said, and Lissa felt a touch of compunction at the way she had criticised him to Jenny for his attitude to his work.

‘Perhaps this will steady him and give him a sense of purpose,’ she thought. ‘He really is very sweet, but so young for his age.’

As they ate, Paul told her a little about the Château, high on a wooded hill outside the village, which was situated on the banks of a small river.

Lissa wanted to ask about his family, but decided not to press the point when he did not volunteer any information. After all, she thought, she would be meeting them soon, and would be able to draw her own conclusions.

It was the thought of his family that brought the memory of the brooch to mind, and she hunted in her handbag for the flat velvet case.

‘Paul, please don’t be angry, but I can’t accept this from you. It’s a lovely present, but it’s too valuable to give me as things stand at present. If ever we come to—an agreement I’d be proud to wear it, but for the time being I think it would be best if you kept it.’

Paul’s fingers closed over hers as she handed him the case. ‘My lovely Lissa,’ he said. ‘You are the only girl I can think of who would have done that. You are very strong-minded, chérie. Many women would have kept the brooch, I think.’

Lissa’s eyes were stormy. ‘I am not many women,’ she retorted. ‘Are you in the habit of handing out expensive gifts like that to every girl you come across?’

‘Mais non,’ Paul smiled placatingly at her. ‘That was a very special gift, only for you, my Lissa. The brooch is very old. It is among the jewels that Comte Henri took with him when he fled the sans-culottes, and it is always given as a betrothal gift to the bride of the second son … what is it, chérie, are you ill?’

‘No,’ Lissa gulped down some wine, and the colour began to return to her cheeks. ‘Paul, that was unforgivable of you. You should have told me what the brooch was—its significance. You must have known I would never have taken it at all if I had the remotest idea …’

‘Précisément, and that’s why I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, chérie.’ Paul looked like a scolded child for all his sophistication and self-assurance. ‘As soon as I made up my mind I wanted you for my wife I wrote to Maman and asked her to send me the brooch. It arrived after you had told me that you wanted more time to consider, and I could hardly send it back without some explanation.’

‘Oh, no,’ Lissa said bitterly. ‘That would have meant a loss of face. I quite understand.’

‘You are angry with me.’ He stroked her cheek caressingly. ‘Don’t be angry with me, ma petite. What fault have I committed but wanting you too much?’

Lissa gave him a level look. ‘I meant every word I said, Paul. And when I come to the Château, it will be as Maggie’s secretary, no more. I’ll have to trust you not to make life too difficult for me.’

‘Difficult?’ Paul grinned at her disarmingly. ‘When you come to the Château, my Lissa, the sun will shine for you and a million roses will thrill the air with their beauty. I tell you now—you will never want to leave.’