At the French Baron's Bidding Read online

  Hadn't he?

  Raoul swung off the windowsill and stood a moment in the darkness. Then with an impatient gesture he grabbed his clothes from the floor and began to dress. He couldn't analyze all this right now. He would think about it some time tomorrow. If at all. The best thing was exactly what was occurring. And the sooner he dropped Natasha at home the better it would be for both of them.

  Half an hour later they were driving in silence through the cool Normandy night. Soon they had reached the gates of the Manoir and were rolling up the drive.

  It was five in the morning, Natasha realized, suddenly embarrassed at what Henri and the servants might think of her appearing home in the middle of the night with Raoul. But, after all, they'd been away, which made it simpler to explain.

  When the car rolled up to the front door, she summoned up her courage and prepared to bid him a cool, disinterested goodbye, but was impeded from saying it when he slipped from the car and took her case out of the back. Reluctantly Natasha followed suit and exited the vehicle.

  'Thank you for a very pleasant dinner,' she said coolly as he deposited the case on the large stone step.

  'You're very welcome,' he answered, eyeing her closely as she fiddled in her bag for her key. Soon it was inserted in the lock and she turned it.

  This was it, Natasha realized, gathering all her dignity. 'Well, goodnight, Raoul. I'm sure I'll see you around some time. Our paths will inevitably cross, I imagine.'

  'Natasha—' He cut himself short, taken aback by her coolness, the way she was brushing him off. It was unheard of. Nobody brushed off the Baron d'Argentan in this offhand manner.

  'Goodnight,' she said again brightly, picking up her case and standing with her hand on the door, clearly meaning to close it.

  'Goodnight,' he muttered finally, unable to decide whether to kiss her or not. As the door closed firmly on him Raoul swore under his breath. Never, in the course of his active life, had any woman closed the door in his face. Except in a flaming row. But that was different, he reflected, gunning the engine and heading off angrily down the drive. Flying crockery and slamming doors were fine when you were in the middle of a passionate row that would likely end up horizontally.

  But this… This was unheard of.

  Grinding his teeth, he swerved onto the country road, barely missing a milk van.

  He would teach Natasha a lesson, he vowed. Damned if he would take her impertinence lying down.

  Leaning back against the front door, Natasha let her head drop and sighed shakily. It had taken all her courage to act the way she had. But there was no doubt inside her that it was for the best. Raoul was history. And although part of her regretted tonight's tryst—for that was what it had been, if truth be told—at least she'd know what it was like to feel truly wonderful in a man's arms.

  But at what cost? she wondered, picking her case up and making her way silently up the large staircase. When she reached Natasha's portrait she stopped for a moment and peered up at her in the half-light. Had she too experienced similar sensations in the arms of Raoul's ancestor? And what had happened to make Raoul so loath to talk about them? For a moment she lingered, then proceeded on to her bedroom. She simply must unravel the mystery, find out why Raoul felt so strongly about her ancestor. Something very serious must have happened for it still to affect someone of his generation.

  Tomorrow, she vowed, undressing, her fingers smoothing her skin softly, recalling his touch and the scent of him, she would call the Curé and try to discover more.

  But for now she must try, despite her pain and her agitation, to get some sleep.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  'MADEMOISELLE, you have a visitor,' Henri announced as she sat, several days later, going through the household accounts.

  'Oh? Right. Who is it?' She brushed her hand through her hair and wondered why the numbers never tallied. Arithmetic wasn't her best subject.

  'It is Monsieur le Maire,' Henri said proudly. 'He was away on holiday all this time, visiting his relations in America. But now he has returned and has come to pay his respects.'

  'Good. Well, show him into the salon,' she said with a smile, aware that another morning was blown. Not that she really cared. In fact, quite the opposite. Lately it had been hard to concentrate on her duties, and any excuse to avoid them was welcome.

  She glanced in the mirror. It was impossible to hide the wan look on her face, however hard she tried. Eating had been somewhat difficult of late. And she couldn't help her pulse leaping every time the phone rang.

  Just in case it was Raoul.

  But of course it never was.

  It was over, and the sooner she got the message the better.

  Moving across the hall, Natasha entered the salon, surprised to see a young, handsome Frenchman standing before her wearing corduroys, a cashmere jersey and a blazer. She'd expected someone bald and middle-aged.

  'Mademoiselle de Saugure—what a pleasure. I'm so sorry I was absent all this time. May I present myself? Gaston Mallard at your service.' He bowed over her hand, then smiled a handsome open smile that Natasha immediately took to.

  'It's a pleasure to meet you too,' she said, smiling back and inviting him to sit down. 'Would you like some coffee? Or something stronger, perhaps?' She glanced at her watch. It was almost midday. 'I think we could allow ourselves a glass of wine, don't you?'

  'I would be delighted.'

  'Then, Henri, please bring some white wine.'

  'Tr bien, mademoiselle.' Henri closed the door discreetly behind him while Natasha took the opportunity of studying her guest more closely. He was extremely good-looking, with chestnut hair and blue eyes, of medium height and well dressed. Most of all there was something frank and inviting about him. To Natasha, living in the aftermath of her unfortunate night with Raoul, he came as a breath of fresh air.

  'So, you've been maire of the village for a while?' she asked, sitting opposite him.

  'Two years. It was almost an inherited post,' he added, laughing. 'My father and grandfather were maire before me, back to the days of the Revolution, and so I suppose it was my turn to take over.' He laughed again and shrugged. 'I run a calvados business near here. We like to think that this old family tradition is very unique and that we make the best and oldest calvados in Normandy.'

  'And do you?' she queried, her face breaking into a small laugh at his open demeanour.

  'The truth?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'Well, I think we make excellent calvados, but whether it is the best or not I couldn't say.' He frowned jokingly.

  'But you must vow on your life that if you come across my grandfather or father you will never say that. They would disinherit me in the same instant.'

  'Goodness. I would hate for that to happen,' she exclaimed, laughing, relaxing for the first time in days.

  By the time they'd had a glass of wine and chatted some more Natasha felt very pleased to have made a new friend. Gaston was charming, friendly, and surprisingly unflirtatious—which, coming from a Frenchman, was something.

  'Why don't you stay for lunch?' she asked, on the spur of the moment.

  ‘I would love to,' he responded regretfully, 'but unfortunately I have a committee meeting early this afternoon. But…' he hesitated.

  'Yes?' she prompted.

  'I was going to suggest that, should you like, we could dine together. Perhaps tomorrow night?'

  'That would be very nice,' she agreed happily. This man's company would do her good, and help get Raoul out of her mind and system.

  'Good. Then I shall pick you up around seven-forty-five tomorrow. There is a very nice little restaurant in Beaumont that I think—'

  'Oh, no,' she cut in, before she could stop herself.

  'You don't like Beaumont? You already know it?'

  'Yes—no. What I mean is that perhaps it would be fun to try something else. I've already been to Beaumont.' She rescued herself hastily. 'I'd love to discover some of the other places around.'

&n
bsp; 'Very well.' Gaston opened his hands in a gesture of accord. 'Then I shall think of somewhere I am certain you have not visited previously. Goodbye, mademoiselle.' He lifted her hand gallantly to his lips.

  'Please, call me Natasha. It makes me feel as if I'm a hundred when everyone treats me so formally.'

  'Tr bien, then Natasha it shall be. And you shall call me Gaston.'

  They smiled in a friendly manner and Natasha accompanied him to the front door. What a charming man, she concluded, closing it after him. How nice that she'd met someone fun and engaging; someone, she reflected glumly, who could take her mind off Raoul's silence.

  After a light lunch, determined not to fall into the dumps—a frequent occurrence of late—she stepped out into the garden, where Andre the gardener was busy clipping the hedge. She took a deep breath and lifted her face towards the sky, watching the fast-moving cloud, the patches of blue interspersed with grey announcing possible rain later in the day. Perhaps she should take a walk down to the village and pass by the Curé's house—a plan she'd promised herself to carry out but still hadn't found the time to execute.

  Stepping back inside, Natasha picked up a jacket in the hall, that was fast becoming less formal than her grandmother would ever have deemed proper, and slipped outside. She began walking at a good pace towards the village, waving across a field at Rolland Hervier, one of the tenant farmers on her land, riding the knew combi-harvester that the estate had invested in. She liked seeing the people happy and busy, knowing that her actions were causing the place to become more productive. And she felt a deep sense of belonging.

  As she stepped into the cobblestoned village street several people smiled and said hello. Madame Blanc from the bakery, R from behind the bar at the café, Monsieur Lenoir at the tabac, who now ordered the English newspapers for her.

  'A nice day, mademoiselle,' he commented as she stepped inside the small cluttered shop.

  'Yes. It is. Did The Times arrive?'

  'I'm afraid only yesterday's. It's all due to this silly new distribution system they've implemented. Everything comes from Paris now.' He shook his grey head disapprovingly. 'But one can't do anything about it, I'm afraid. It's the way of the world. Change. Always change.' He shook his head again. 'I was saying to my wife only the other night that we are really quite lucky. Not much here has changed. Though of course when the Baron gets married things will probably take a turn. The new Baroness will want things her own way, no doubt.' He sniffed, and Natasha swallowed.

  'You mean the Baron d'Argentan?'

  'Of course. When we refer to the Baron here we mean him. The Marquise de Longueville, who lives over in Falaise, has been spreading the news around. Apparently the Baron has become very attentive to her only daughter, Camille. Though between you and me I can't see what he sees in her,' he added, leaning conspiratorially across the chocolate bars.

  'Well, I'm sure she's a very nice girl,' Natasha said weakly, trying to rid herself of a sudden dizziness that made her light-headed.

  'No doubt. And it may all be a figment of the Marquise's imagination. She's been trying to fob that girl off on someone for the past ten years. Of course the Baron would be a great catch.' He nodded sagely. 'A great catch indeed.'

  'I'm sure.' Natasha braced herself. 'Well, if the papers haven't arrived I'd better be on my way. Goodbye, Monsieur Lenoir, à bient? Hastily she retired from the shop, glad to be outside once more, afraid her sudden rush of emotion might show. So she was right. He'd merely wanted to bed her to prove to himself that he could. Well, he'd done a pretty good job, she recognized bitterly as she hurried down the street, anxious not to get caught in another round of conversation she didn't feel up to. Her mind was in turmoil, and her heart felt a strange stab of hurt. Which was ridiculous, of course, since there was nothing between her and Raoul except a strong physical attraction.

  'You look in a hurry.'

  She spun around to see Gaston crossing the road to greet her. Mustering a smile, she responded.

  'Hello, Gaston. How are you?'

  'Fine.' He took his hand in hers and studied her closely. 'But you, ma ch Natasha, do not look so fine.' His brows met. 'Is something the matter?'

  'No, no, I'm all right,' she protested, shocked that she could be so transparent. 'I just—' She stopped short, not knowing what to say.

  'Why don't we have a coffee and a brandy?' he suggested in a comforting tone. 'And you can tell me—or not, as you wish—what is wrong. It must be quite lonely for you to find yourself in a new community. I can perhaps be a friend?' He raised a brow and smiled that warm, friendly smile she'd felt so drawn to at their meeting earlier in the day.

  'Okay,' she said, smiling back. Together they walked back up the street to the cafe, where they settled at one of the small round tables on the pavement and Gaston ordered two caf filtres and two brandies.

  'Now. Will you consider me nosy if I ask what is troubling you? I barely know you, but friendship doesn't necessarily need time to develop.'

  This last was true. Natasha had made many good friends on her African travels, some of them in little more than a moment.

  'It's nothing. Just a piece of news that's left me a little off keel, that's all. But it's not important in the least.'

  'You're certain? It didn't seem that way a few minutes ago. In fact, I felt you'd been hit over the head with a baseball bat, as the Americans say.'

  'Not that bad.' She laughed, cheering up and feeling more her old self. 'Nothing to worry about.' She smiled, raised her brandy snifter, and they clinked glasses.

  They chatted a while, and Gaston tactfully dropped the matter of what was ailing her. But just as they were finishing their drinks a familiar vehicle in the form of Raoul's black Range Rover drew up and parked on the opposite side of the street.

  'Ah. There's Raoul. I think he was in Paris this past two weeks,' Gaston remarked, waving.

  Natasha watched, heart sinking, as Raoul, dressed in jeans and a loose navy sweater, made his way lazily across the street. She felt her cheeks burn and her pulse jolt. "Why did he have such an effect on her, damn it? Surely she could keep these feelings under control? It was ridiculous—shaming. The man had made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with her. Surely she' d got the message loud and clear?

  Determined not to lower herself by showing any of these thoughts, Natasha plastered on a social smile.

  'Gaston. Natasha. I see you two have met.' His eyes flashed over her. God, she was beautiful—though a little pale and flushed now that he looked closer. So Gaston had discovered the new local beauty. Well, well, well.

  'Why don't you join us? We were just having café and cognac'

  'Good idea.' He drew up a chair and sat down between the two, his presence immediately dominating. 'So, you two are getting to know each other?'

  Natasha caught the inflection behind the statement, the fleeting exchange between the two men, and wondered what was going on.

  'Yes. I had the pleasure of meeting Natasha this morning. As you know, I've been away for a while and wasn't able to attend the funeral.'

  Why did he need to justify his visit to the Manoir to Raoul? she wondered, annoyed at his high-handed air of owning the place. And there was Rémy, coming out solicitously from behind the bar to shake hands. She could have slapped Raoul at that moment for being so odiously larger than life.

  'I think it's time I was going,' she remarked. She was damned if she was going to sit here being surveyed as though she were under a damn microscope. He'd made it plain he didn't want her, hadn't he? She pushed back her chair.

  'So soon?' Raoul's brow rose and an amused smile hovered about his lips. Again the urge to slap him made her clench her fists into two tight balls.

  'Actually, I have some things to do. Including stopping by Monsieur le Curé's,' she said sweetly. 'He's going to tell me some of the history of these parts. Like how our ancestors interacted. Things like that.' She sent him a bright, brittle smile and rose.

  'I see. How about di
nner tomorrow night?' he asked suddenly, his eyes boring into hers.

  'That's very kind, but I'm otherwise engaged.' Natasha turned, flapping her eyelashes provocatively at the surprised Gaston. 'Thanks for the refreshment. And à demain? She waved her fingers and, turning on her heel, made her way down the pavement, letting out a triumphant sigh of relief. Serve you damn well right, Raoul d'Argentan. That should put him in his place. At least now he'd know that he wasn't the last Coca Cola in the desert. That she'd been invited out by someone else. And someone not to be sneezed at. Gaston was handsome, self-assured, and he held a position of importance in the area.

  With a determined nod she stepped past the church and moved towards the cure—the rectory—where she hoped to find the priest at home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  'So YOU'VE met Natasha. What do you think of her?'

  The question was delivered in a short, matter-of-fact manner that left Gaston in no doubt of Raoul's meaning.

  'Yes, I have, and I like her,' he replied immediately, swirling his brandy thoughtfully and taking a quick oblique glance at his friend. Even though they came from very different backgrounds, Raoul and he had played together as boys, had been given a similar education, and had courted the village girls as they'd grown up. Even after Raoul had taken his place in Paris society and Gaston had remained in the village where he belonged, their friendship had flourished. 'Do I get the drift that you're interested in Mademoiselle de Saugure?' he threw out casually, taking a sip of brandy.

  'Me? Interested? Why should I be interested in her? What an idea,' Raoul scoffed. 'I find her sympathique, at most. No.' He shook his head. 'I'm not interested in anybody right now.'

  'Really? There's a rumour going about that you might ask for the Longueville girl's hand in marriage.' Gaston grimaced. 'Rather you than me, mon vieux.'

  'What rubbish. I've known Camille all my life. God, I'd rather marry a jockey than marry her. All she can talk about is horses. Plus, she's hardly what I would think of as attractive. No, but I've been over there quite often lately, looking at some horseflesh.'