Читать книгу The Viscount and The Virgin - Valerie Parv - Страница 11

Kirsten Bond took a deep breath, tried to ignore the complaints her feet were making about the new shoes she had foolishly chosen to wear, and smiled broadly at the group clustered around her. This was the last tour of the day. As soon as it ended, she would close the door of her office, kick off the shoes and reward herself with a cool drink, she promised herself. She sneaked a glance at her watch. Only fifteen minutes to go.

She resisted the urge to groan aloud. Served her right for being seduced by five-inch heels and teensy black ankle straps that the sales person had assured her made her legs look fabulous. At five foot three, she wanted all the help the heels could provide, and had bought the shoes on impulse. She should have had the sense to break them in at home before wearing them to her job at the castle, where she was on her feet for a good part of the day.

Nevertheless, she was managing, managing, that is, until a tall, good-looking man attached himself to the back of the group. Of itself, there was nothing wrong with him choosing to participate. Tours of Merrisand Castle were free and people often joined in after the start if they’d arrived late. Normally Kirsten nodded a welcome and kept on describing the castle and its wonderful art treasures. The collection belonged to the Carramer royal family, but Kirsten, as enthusiastic as the most ardent collector, looked on the beautiful objects almost as her own.

With the arrival of this particular newcomer, her normally fluent spiel faltered and she felt her mouth go dry. What was Romain Sevrin doing here? He never came to the castle, or she wouldn’t have risked taking a job here. The last time she’d seen him on television, he was driving ridiculously fast cars around the racing circuits of Europe, collecting trophies at about the same rate as he collected supermodels.

The attraction wasn’t hard to see. Romain, or Rowe as he was usually called, was a little over six feet tall with the dark coloring, brooding good looks and thick glossy hair shared by many male members of the royal family. The gaze he directed at her was a brilliant sea-green under lush dark lashes. When he turned his head slightly, he displayed an aristocratic profile that wouldn’t have been out of place on a classical sculpture.

She, on the other hand, did not have the sort of supermodel beauty to deserve his steady scrutiny, a scrutiny that made her feel as if he was committing her features to memory. Apart from being only average height, she had shoulder-length red hair shot through with gold highlights so it looked like dancing flames. Left to itself, it curled in all directions, so she usually wore it caught by a clasp at her nape, although a few tendrils invariably escaped to make her features look even finer-boned than they were. Large, silver-gray eyes completed a picture she would willingly have exchanged for blond hair and blue eyes any day.

According to her friends, her temper was the equal of her fiery hair although she was sure this was an exaggeration. Well, maybe she was just a little quick-tempered, but she didn’t have the hair-trigger temper usually thought to go with being a redhead. If she had, she would have demanded to know what Romain Sevrin wanted.

He rarely used his title, but as Viscount Aragon, he surely had no need to tag along, listening to her describe works of art he must have grown up around. And he certainly had no need to look at her with such blatant interest. He made her feel as if she, and not her commentary, was the focus of his attention.

She shifted from one foot to the other, eliciting a fresh wave of complaint from her poor feet. This time she barely noticed. She was too busy dealing with the primitive emotions his inspection stirred within her.

Suddenly she was aware of every throbbing beat of her pulse, and the air in the baronial hall, temperature-controlled to protect the valuable contents, felt stiflingly hot. She resisted the urge to mop her brow, sure that the perception was as much a fantasy as her interpretation of his gaze. What was he doing here?

One of the visitors claimed her attention. “Does the legend apply only to members of the royal family?”

With Rowe listening intently, Kirsten wished she had left out her usual mention of the Merrisand legend. Too late now. She cleared her throat. “The legend says that anyone who serves the Merrisand Trust will be rewarded by finding true love, so it doesn’t only apply to royalty.”

Rowe looked distinctly interested in the subject. She avoided his eyes, recognizing another man in the group. “How large is the Merrisand estate?” the man, an American, asked.

Hoping her relief at the change of subject wasn’t too obvious, she turned her attention to the questioner, although awareness of the viscount hovered at the fringe of her consciousness. She could even smell traces of his aftershave lotion, something foresty and fresh, and utterly masculine.

She really was imagining things, she told herself as she gathered her thoughts. The room they were in had thirty-foot ceilings and walls a dozen yards apart. Any lingering scent should quickly dissipate in this space.

All the same, she could smell a woodsy fragrance that hadn’t been present until Rowe arrived. When he’d opened the great double doors to let himself in, the aroma had probably drifted in on the breeze from the forest surrounding the castle. Or so she tried to convince herself. It didn’t explain why her every sense felt magnified in his presence.

She cleared her throat. “When the castle was built in 1879, the original estate granted to Honoré de Marigny, the first Marquis of Merrisand, consisted of about two thousand acres of hill, forest and small tenant farms. Over the years the land has been expanded to about eight thousand acres, including a sanctuary planted with trees to provide breeding grounds for the native sun deer, the faunal emblem of Carramer.” Honoré would have been Romain’s great-great-grandfather, her one-track mind insisted on supplying.

The questioner nodded thoughtfully, digesting the information. A teenage girl raised her hand. “How do you get a job working in the castle?”

It was a fairly common question. “Merrisand Castle is like a city on a small scale, with career opportunities in everything from land management and animal husbandry to historical research and media. It’s best to qualify in your area of interest first, then ask the controller of staff to advise you if an opening arises in your field.”

“Did you always want to be a tour guide?” a resonant voice asked.

Without looking, she knew that it belonged to Rowe Sevrin. She directed her answer to the group, although her voice came out annoyingly husky. “I’m not strictly a tour guide, although like many of the staff, I conduct tours when needed. My title is art curator to the Merrisand Trust. I studied fine arts at university, majoring in the conservation of cultural materials, and interned at the castle while I was studying. When a job became available looking after the royal collections, I applied and was accepted.”

“Just like that,” he drawled.

She met his gaze directly this time, well aware of some cat-and-mouse game taking place. But why? And how had she become cast in the role of mouse? She decided that the best defense was offense. “Is there a problem, Viscount Aragon?”

As she had intended, her use of his title caused a stir within the group. Murmuring, they turned to regard Rowe curiously. His frown deepened, his face taking on the look of the sky before a thunderstorm. Determinedly, she sailed on. “Ladies and gentlemen, since we have the rare privilege of having the viscount among us, perhaps you have questions you’d like to ask him. I’m sure you’ll be happy to answer them, won’t you, Your Lordship?

Too late and too bad if he didn’t, she thought as he shot her a glare that would have melted ice. If he didn’t want to be recognized, he shouldn’t have joined the group and thrown her off stride. Just how he could have done so with such ease, she wasn’t sure. For now she had turned the tables and he was the one on the defensive.

“I’ll be delighted,” he said smoothly, his honeyed tone belying his thunderous expression. The gaze he shot at her plainly said, Later, for you.

She swallowed hard, wondering what she had unleashed, and why she’d felt so moved to challenge him. Normally if members of the royal family appeared while she was giving a talk, she accorded them their privacy unless they made it obvious that they wished to contribute. Why had she felt the need to assert herself with him?

The members of the group had no such concerns. When the time came to end the tour, they were still besieging him with questions. One or two of the younger visitors had asked him to autograph their guide books. As Rowe Sevrin, former champion Formula One racing driver, or Viscount Aragon? she wondered. She debated whether to leave him to it, but her conscience wouldn’t permit it. She already felt badly for dragging him into the spotlight. No matter how she felt about him, she had no right to subject him to such an ordeal. She resolved to tell him so as soon as the group had gone.

“I’m sure we’re all grateful for the time Viscount Aragon has spent with us, but we mustn’t monopolize him any longer. Some of you have transportation waiting for you at the east gate, so please join me in showing your appreciation before you leave.”

Thanks to the splendid acoustics in the hall, the applause she initiated echoed for some minutes. With a smile and a salute, the viscount swung around and started to walk away. As he passed Kirsten, he said in lowered tones close to her ear, “Report to me in the curator’s office as soon as you’re finished here.”

The summons was hardly a surprise after what she’d done, but she found it hard to keep her composure as she saw the group off. Rowe was a member of the board of the Merrisand Trust. Although he didn’t attend board meetings, technically he was her superior.

He probably intended to reprimand her for drawing attention to his presence in the group, and she knew it was no more than she deserved. She had her own issues with the viscount, but they were personal, and in no way excused her unprofessional behavior.

As she returned her portable microphone and the notes she rarely needed to her office, her mind spun back to the first time she’d heard of Rowe Sevrin. She’d been an intern at the castle, struggling to master her chosen profession while trying to keep her wayward teenage sister on the straight and narrow.

Neither had been easy, but she had no notion of how badly she was failing until Natalie came home and announced that she was pregnant.

Kirsten knew Nat had been frequenting the car races at nearby Angel Falls, where a leg of the international Grand Prix was being held. Kirsten had decided her sister’s interest was harmless and would wear off more quickly if she ignored it than if she made a fuss. Nat had never suggested that she was involved with anyone connected with the race.

“You’d better tell me what happened,” she’d said weakly, struggling to hold back the condemnation that hovered on her lips. Since their parents’ deaths two years before when Kirsten was twenty, she had feared alienating Natalie by being too bossy. Maybe if she’d laid firmer ground rules, this wouldn’t have happened.

It was too late by then. Natalie had confessed that the father of her child was the racing driver Rowe Sevrin. Kirsten had been fairly sure this was nonsense. What would a sophisticated man like Sevrin, a member of the royal family, to boot, see in a teenager like Natalie?

Only by making herself see her sister objectively had Kirsten realized how oblivious she’d been. Natalie might have been young in age, but she had grown up quickly since losing their parents. She’d dressed, spoken and acted much older than her years, and had had a coquettish way that was bound to attract men.

Even Rowe Sevrin? Kirsten had finally conceded that Natalie had no reason to lie to her and so had developed a powerful anger toward the viscount for his role in the affair. Even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two himself at the time, he should have taken more care. For although Natalie looked womanly and was legally an adult, she was still a vulnerable innocent, grieving for her parents.

Natalie had thrown a tantrum worthy of baby Jeffrey when Kirsten suggested she telephone the viscount. “Most women would be eager to be involved with a member of the royal family,” Kirsten had said by way of encouragement.

Natalie’s response had been totally unexpected. “Most women wouldn’t have given him a false name and told him they were on the pill.”

Under Kirsten’s gentle probing, Natalie had admitted that she had crashed a party to celebrate the viscount’s team winning the championship. When the viscount’s security people had demanded her name, she’d given them a false last name.

According to Natalie, Rowe himself had been watching the party from a shadowed terrace and had said she could stay. Intending to thank him for intervening on her behalf, she’d noticed how distressed he seemed, and they’d started talking, during which she shared with him some of her own deep unhappiness. He’d suggested she join him for dinner after the party and she had never gotten around to telling him her real name. One thing had led to another, and then she was expecting his child. He might well think, Natalie had protested, that she had pretended to be on the pill to trap him into fathering her baby.

He didn’t have to like it, he only had to take his share of the responsibility, Kirsten had insisted. She felt sorry for Natalie for getting herself into such a predicament, but Rowe was entitled to be told.

Natalie sister needn’t have worried. Rowe had already moved on to the next stage of the Formula One circuit and she was told he wasn’t available. He probably had no wish to be bothered by a girl he had used and abandoned on the previous leg, Kirsten assumed. Her sister’s calls were never returned.

Through her contacts at the castle, Kirsten had obtained a postal address for him and insisted Natalie write and tell Rowe she was expecting his child. Natalie hadn’t wanted to send the letter, but Kirsten vowed that she would if Natalie didn’t. So the letter was sent, but no reply came.

Then they’d heard that Rowe had given up racing and had established an event-management organization. With his connections, Kirsten wasn’t surprised that the business was now reputed to be worth a fortune, quite apart from his royal inheritance.

She had debated whether to try to contact him again, but Natalie had stood firm this time, declaring that she wanted nothing to do with a man who ignored the birth of his own child. This time, Kirsten didn’t argue.

As a parent, Natalie hadn’t done much better, Kirsten thought with a wry twist of her lips. When the baby, an adorable little boy, was born, Natalie had been eager to have Kirsten take over most of his care. Natalie returned to the racing scene, making Kirsten glad that Rowe was no longer part of it, and couldn’t hurt her sister with his indifference more than he already had.

Kirsten knew she should have tried to make Natalie more accountable, for Jeffrey’s sake if not her own, but she hadn’t had the heart. Nat had lost so much, with her parents and then being abandoned by her baby’s father. Her sister had had so little time to be young that Kirsten willingly juggled her commitments so she could look after Jeffrey, telling herself that Natalie would settle down and resume her responsibilities if given enough time.

As things turned out, time was something neither of them were granted. Watching a qualifying race before a major event, Natalie had been killed when a tire flew off a car, bounced over a protective barrier and slammed into her.

Jeffrey had been six months old at the time. He was six years old now. Without him, Kirsten didn’t know how she would have survived the grief of losing her sister after her parents. Having the baby to care for meant Kirsten couldn’t afford to indulge her own feelings.

For Jeffrey’s sake she had battled through the dark aftermath of Nat’s death and had doggedly completed her studies by correspondence in time for Jeffrey’s first birthday. Although he was too young to appreciate her efforts, she had baked him a cake with a huge single candle, and they had celebrated together, her pleasure shadowed by memories of loved ones who were no longer with them.

Jeffrey had become her only family, as she had become his. She was the only mother he knew. By his silence, Rowe had forfeited any right to be involved in the child’s life. If he had answered Nat’s letter or shown any interest in Jeffrey at all, Kirsten would have felt duty bound to share the child’s upbringing with him, but he hadn’t called or written. Did he even know that Natalie had a sister who was now a mother to his child in every way that mattered?

He had been retired from racing by then, but he must have read about Natalie’s death, although she probably meant nothing more to him than a one-night stand, Kirsten thought, feeling choked. Her sister had written to him telling him her real name. Would he even remember her, given the number of women he was reputed to have been involved with? He hadn’t shown any interest in whether the child had ever been born, much less whether he had a son or daughter.

Kirsten felt her body begin to heat with remorse. She had actually allowed herself to feel aroused by his blatant appraisal, when he was the last man she should want to have anything to do with. It couldn’t be helped that he was a member of the Merrisand board, and as such, was entitled to demand her deference. She didn’t have to respond as if he was a divine gift to women.

With a start, Kirsten realized that twenty minutes had passed since she’d returned to the office and become lost in her memories. She had eased the new shoes off, and her feet looked red and sore, as indeed they felt. But she had no other shoes in the office, and Rowe was probably pacing the curator’s office even now. He didn’t strike her as a man who appreciated being kept waiting.

Reluctantly, she put the shoes back on and got to her feet, feeling as if her toes were being jabbed with pins. She hoped Rowe would keep this meeting short so she could collect Jeffrey from the Castle School and go home. With the head curator, Lea Landon, in Europe looking after a touring exhibition of treasures from the royal collection, Kirsten was carrying most of the load. She wished that Rowe hadn’t chosen today to put in his appearance.

There would never be a good time, she thought as she made her way to the curator’s office. Rowe’s history with her sister meant she was never likely to welcome his arrival. The sooner she got this meeting over with, the better.