At the French Baron's Bidding Read online

  'Natasha is certainly attractive,' Gaston countered. 'And I'm glad to know you've no interest in that area.' He took a last swig and rose. 'Because I find her delightful. Really rather alluring. Au revoir, man ami. A bient.'

  Gaston nodded briefly, then turned on his heel and ambled up the street, a smile hovering as he made his way thoughtfully towards the Town Hall. Was his old friend Raoul more smitten than he cared to let on? Why, that would be something. Particularly in view of his family history. Of course it was to be hoped that if he did fall for Natasha the outcome would be more satisfactory than his ancestor's.

  Gaston stopped a moment in the Pl du Village. It was here, in the 1790s, where the guillotine had been erected on which his ancestor, Benoît, had nearly managed to have the Baron Regis d'Argentan beheaded. It always sent a weird sensation coursing through him to think of it. And it was the famous Natasha who had saved the two men from one another. He shook his head. What women did for the sake of a man they loved. And how stupidly men interpreted their actions, he reflected ruefully.

  With a shrug and a sigh he turned and made his way into the Town Hall. All that was ancient history. Had nothing to do with today's world. Yet a funny feeling told him that history was repeating itself in a different manner.

  But one which could prove just as fascinating.

  Natasha paused at the door of the Rectory, then, lifting her right hand, banged the knocker several times.

  Soon she heard shuffling footsteps in the corridor beyond and the door opened.

  'Ah, mon enfant, it is you.' The old Curé, his white mane gleaming, beamed at her. 'Come in, come in, my dear. It is a pleasure to have you in my home.'

  'Thank you so much. I hope I'm not disturbing you at a bad time?'

  'Not at all. I was just trying to come up with an idea for Sunday's sermon. Perhaps you will inspire me.' He winked and smiled, and ushered her down a tiled corridor into a long beamed room that looked out over an attractive orchard.

  'What a pretty room,' she remarked, gazing out of the window, enchanted. 'This is a very special house.'

  'Yes, it is,' the Cure agreed, motioning to the sofa. 'Sit down, my dear, and let me order a cup of tea for us from Madame Sarasin.'

  'Thank you.' Natasha didn't like to say that she'd just had coffee and cognac with the maire.

  'So. You have come to discover more about your family. That is good. I'm glad to see what an interest you are taking in your inheritance. Such a shame that your father was unable to assume his duties as Comte. But we must not regret the past. It is God's will that things should have happened in this way.' He shrugged in a Gallic manner and came to sit opposite her. 'Now, tell me, my dear. What exactly would you like to know? There is so much—so many stories. Perhaps you should be specific'

  'Well.' Natasha clasped her hands, suddenly nervous. 'I wondered if you knew something of what happened to Regis d'Argentan and Natasha de Saugure, after whom I believe I must be named?'

  The Curé's fingers steepled and he looked thoughtful. 'That is most interesting. And why, I wonder, would you be so intrigued by their story?'

  'Oh, just general interest,' Natasha prevaricated.

  'I see.'

  Natasha got the feeling that this man saw a lot more than he made out, and she hastily continued, 'I am, of course, interested because of my name.'

  'Why, naturally. And then you know Raoul. I heard you have been seen together dining, and at the races.'

  A dull flush rose to her cheeks. 'Yes. Well—actually, we were. I went to the races with the Morrieux, but then—'

  The Curé raised his hand in a peremptory gesture.

  'You have no need to furnish me with any kind of explanation. It is not my business who you see or don't see. Raoul is a good young man, if somewhat lost. He suffered a bad experience in his youth, you know.'

  'No, actually I didn't.'

  'Yes, it was a shame. When he was nineteen he met a girl who played fast and loose with his heart and his hopes. Raoul was very fond of her. But she—well, she had a liking for adventure and wealth. She left him for an Arab sheikh. I don't think his pride has ever quite recovered.'

  'I see.'

  'I thought you would. Now, as for your Natasha—well, let me see. She began her career as any young aristocrat of her time would have. But that was cut short by the Revolution. They were terrible times that affected everyone's lives. Nothing would ever be quite the same again.'

  'I can imagine that it must have been awful.'

  'Yes. I believe it was. There were many rivalries settled in a dishonest fashion. Love affairs were avenged, jealousy and pain assuaged by the elimination of a rival.' The Curé folded his hands and sighed sadly.

  'You mean that someone took revenge on Natasha?'

  'Not on Natasha herself. But Benoît Mallard was in love with her. He knew she was out of his reach, she being an aristocrat and he a revolutionary. She'd been promised since childhood to Regis d'Argentan, with whom she was in love. But he was a flighty one. He had many mistresses and enjoyed life.'

  'But weren't he and Natasha in love? I thought—'

  'Yes. I believe that deep down they were. But they were two proud young people, caught up by events. Natasha didn't want to be one more notch on Regis's belt. And his wife, to boot. She knew Benoît loved her passionately. And frankly, from all I can gather, she encouraged him to believe that she would look favourably upon his suit simply to provoke Regis's wrath. Now, you can imagine how that must have affected the poor young man. Here he was, a simple merchant, with no hope of aspiring to the hand of such a wealthy noble lady as Natasha. And all of a sudden she lures him on, and the revolutionaries tell him that everyone is now equal.'

  'Go on,' Natasha urged when he paused.

  'Well, during the Revolution Mallard was given a position of power in the Nouveau Regime. It was too tempting not to use it. He had d'Argentan tried for treason, imprisoned, and sentenced to the guillotine.'

  'So he was guillotined?'

  'No. He escaped.'

  'My goodness, how?' Natasha sat on the edge of her chair as history unwound before her.

  'It was Natasha who saved him. But at a price.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'She slept with the enemy, so to speak.'

  'You mean with Beno?'

  'Yes. Realizing that even now he still had no chance of marrying her, and that what would most hurt Regis would be to dishonour her, Beno offered Natasha a pact: her virginity for Regis's life.'

  'And she agreed?'

  'Yes, she agreed.' The Curé nodded, raised his hands and sighed.

  'And what happened?'

  'Regis escaped with his head but never forgave her. He would have rather have lost it than see the woman he was promised to sullied by another. Particularly one he considered his enemy.'

  'You mean he rejected her after all she'd done for him?'

  'I'm sad to say that, yes, he did. Outwardly, that is. The two of them escaped to England together, but he refused to marry her, considering her a traitor to France and to the Royalist regime.'

  'But that's absurd,' Natasha exclaimed angrily. 'She gave up what at that time was a most precious part of her life.'

  'I know. But Regis was young and proud and stupid. He died an angry, bitter old man. Oh, they were able to return after the Revolution. Napoleon gave them back their lands and their castles. But they lived side by side for sixty years, married to other people without ever talking to one another again publicly.'

  'Goodness, what a story.' Natasha swallowed and shook her head. No wonder the young girl in the portrait looked sad. She had given up everything for the man she loved and this was what she'd received in return. 'Was the Mallard in question Gaston Mallard's ancestor?'

  'Yes. He was.'

  'Yet Gaston and Raoul seem to be good friends.'

  'Well, let us be thankful for the healing of time,' the Cure said benignly. 'After all, over two hundred years have elapsed since the events we speak of.'
<
br />   'True. But tell me, there is a cottage I've heard about somewhere in the countryside where Natasha and Regis met.'

  'Ah, so you've heard about that,' the Cure said, looking at her curiously. 'Not many people know that version of the story. I wonder— But, no—forgive me, that is none of my business.' He waved a hand. It is said that despite their public rejection of one another the lovers did in fact meet secretly in that cottage. It is on the Argentan estate, you know. The old Baroness, Raoul's grandmother, had things tidied up, but kept the original furnishings. It is said that the bed there is the same one the couple slept in. She apparently found the tale most romantic.'

  'It is. Very.' Natasha swallowed. 'Well, I've taken enough of your time, mon p. I had better be on my way.'

  'What? No tea?'

  'No, thanks. Another time, with pleasure, but I think I'd better be getting back to the Manoir.'

  'Very well.' The old gentleman rose and, taking her hand in his, held it a moment. 'You know, history need not necessarily repeat itself,' he murmured, in a low gentle tone. 'Raoul is a good man, despite his blindness. Maybe some day he will wake up.'

  Then, before she could answer, he turned and conducted her back to the front door, and after a quick and warm goodbye Natasha was on her way.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT WAS high time he returned to Paris, Raoul realized, staring in annoyance out of the mullioned window at the rain, pouring steadily as it had all day. But although he'd been tempted to get in the car, drive off and forget the whole matter, Raoul found himself incapable of blotting out the image of Natasha and Gaston cosily ensconced at the Café des Sports, chit-chatting very comfortably.

  And perhaps more.

  It was this perhaps more that was the crux of the matter. He didn't mind her dining with his old pal, not in the least, he told himself repeatedly. But the idea that she might submit to his caresses as she had to his was infinitely more disturbing.

  He glanced at his watch. Five o'clock. In a couple of hours Gaston would be picking Natasha up to drive her over to Honfleur for dinner. Or perhaps they'd changed plans since the weather was so rotten and were staying closer to home. Worse, maybe Gaston had invited her to dinner in his extremely charming low-beamed thatched farmhouse, which was, Raoul realized, eyes narrowing, an ideally romantic spot for seduction.

  'Bon sang!' he exclaimed, bringing his list down on the ancient stone parapet against which he'd been leaning. He would not allow this to happen—wouldn't let her slip through his fingers. He'd been a gentleman, hadn't he? Had not taken advantage of her inebriated state the other night, which he quite easily could have. Instead he'd respected her, waited for the right moment. Now she should jolly well respect him too. And anyway, what business did she have going to dine with another man? A man who, although he was his friend, was the descendant of one who had already sullied the family reputation. No, he decided, walking determinedly down the ancient worn steps to the Baronial Hall, he would not allow this to happen just like that.

  Grabbing his Barbour jacket in the hall, Raoul banged the heavy front door behind him and, ducking from the rain, hurried to the Range Rover. It was time to take action. Before things got out of hand, he reflected, gunning the engine.

  Time to show her he meant business.

  Curled up in the petit salon, Natasha was enjoying the end of a riveting novel which had helped take her mind off the images of Raoul that lingered, however determinedly she set them aside. It seemed that however hard she tried to banish him from her thoughts he kept creeping back in, the impression of his dark, windswept countenance hard to shake off. But the good news was that she was having dinner with Gaston, she reminded herself, laying the book down and staring into the flames. Gaston was charming and handsome, gallant and gracious. The perfect antidote to Raoul, who was arrogant, selfish, autocratic and odious.

  Bracing herself, and for the hundredth time telling herself she was well rid of him, Natasha glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. It was five-thirty. Soon she needed to go upstairs, have a bath with some of the delicious lavender bath essence she'd bought the other day in Deauville, and prepare for the evening's outing.

  As she prepared to unfurl her long legs from under her Natasha heard the sound of a car in the drive. Who on earth could it be? Someone to see Henri, perhaps?

  But her heart stood still when, stepping over to the window, she spied the familiar figure of Raoul getting out of the vehicle. Natasha swallowed and closed her eyes for a second. She should get Henri to say she wasn't at home. But as the doorbell clanged she knew she was not capable of doing that: the desire to see him, speak with him, feel him close was too tempting to resist.

  'Stop it,' she admonished herself out loud. She was acting like a gooey teenager when she was a grown-up woman. Just because he was the first man to make her feel those wondrous sensations she'd experienced in his arms it didn't mean she was spineless.

  Pulling herself together, Natasha marched out into the hall, determined to give him a set-down. Henri had already let him in and he was taking off his jacket.

  'Ah. Natasha. I'm glad I found you at home. I have a problem I wish to discuss with you.' He sounded friendly and businesslike, and she wondered suddenly if she'd misread his sudden visit.

  'Right. Well, I haven't much time.' She glanced pointedly at her watch. 'I have a dinner engagement.'

  'This won't take very long. But I need to have your agreement,' he said, moving towards her and taking her hand in his.

  Again the deadly tingling magic coursed up her arm and throughout her body. She swallowed and smiled coolly, despite her inner turmoil.

  'We'd better go into the office,' she murmured, hoping that the austere atmosphere of this workspace would help her regain control.

  'You mean you aren't going to offer me a drink on a filthy evening like this?' he cajoled, eyes meeting hers full-on.

  'Uh, well, yes—of course. Henri, could you bring a bottle of wine to the petit salon, please?' she said, turning quickly and leading the way to the room she had just abandoned, hoping he couldn't read her mind, that the desire churning inside her was hers and hers alone to witness.

  'Ah, it is good to be inside on such a miserable evening,' Raoul said, rubbing his hands and approaching the unlit fireplace. 'I hope Henri has seen to it that you have wood in for the winter. You'll need it. It gets quite chilly in these parts, and the central heating in this place isn't the most modern. Your grandmother refused to have a new unit installed. Said that anyone who was cold could damn well put on another sweater.' He rose and stood over her, eyes laughing. 'So, Natasha, ma belle, you look put out. Have I done something I shouldn't?'

  'Not at all,' she dismissed coolly, perching on the arm of the sofa and crossing her legs protectively. 'But perhaps you'd like to state your business. I don't have much time.'

  'Of course. But let's wait until Henri has brought the wine.'

  'Very well. Do sit down,' she added formally, glad that her voice sounded chilly even to her own ears. 'How was Paris?'

  'Fine, I imagine.' He shrugged and sat comfortably on the armchair opposite, slinging one corduroy-clad leg over the other while his arm rested elegantly over the back of the cushion.

  He was too damn at ease, Natasha thought, quelling the images of him that night in the abandoned cottage, too damned at home for his own good. She simply had to put an end to these ridiculous fantasies.

  A knock on the door announced Henri and the wine. Soon it was uncorked and Raoul was handing her a glass. When the door closed behind the manservant Natasha peered at Raoul over the rim of her glass.

  'So. What brings you here this evening?' she asked frostily.

  'Ah, yes, the reason for my visit. Well, you see, there is a fence that divides our properties on the southern boundary. There is some slight damage. I want to have it repaired but need your consent to do so.'

  Natasha frowned. It sounded rather a weak excuse, and she wondered suddenly, her pulse picking up, if he'd
come because he wanted to see her.

  'I'm sure there isn't any problem. Is the fence my responsibility or yours?'

  'Mine.'

  'Then why would you need my permission to repair it?' she queried, her chin coming up. 'I really don't know why you bothered to come out on a rainy night to tell me this, Raoul. Surely our factors could have dealt with it?'

  'Bien's,' he agreed smoothly. 'But as it is the first time that something has come up between the properties since you've become mistress, and because you left the other day in perhaps not the best of moods…' his brow rose and a smile twitched around his well-shaped lips '…I thought it would be more courteous to come personally.'

  'Very thoughtful,' she answered dryly. She would not let him get the better of her. She could feel the tentacles of his influence reaching out, creeping around her, pulling her towards him in that mesmerizing manner she found so hard to resist. 'Well,' she continued, letting out a deep breath she'd been holding, 'that's fine. Do whatever has to be done. I really don't mind. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave soon. Gaston's picking me up in forty-five minutes.'

  'So soon?'

  'Yes.'

  'I see. Well, let us finish this glass of wine and then I shall leave you to prepare for your date.'

  Despite her nervousness Natasha caught the edge to his voice and her heart leapt once more.

  He was angry.

  Serve him right.

  Let him stew in his own juice for a while. She would not succumb to him to be abandoned, thrown out like an old rag, or treated like her ancestor. The mere thought of what the previous Natasha had sacrificed for his forefather only to be humiliated for the rest of her life was warning enough, surely?

  'I shall be going to England for a few days soon,' she remarked. 'I have a number of loose ends to tie up and friends to see. Everyone is very surprised at my decision to stay in France.'