At the French Baron's Bidding

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  As he drove off down the hill Raoul cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror. The mourners were leaving the graveyard and he glimpsed the woman once more. Whatever else she was, she was damn lovely, that was for sure.

  Telling himself to stop being ridiculous—the last thing he needed was to find himself attracted to a Saugure—he pressed his foot on the accelerator and made his way back to his estate, determined not to think about the lovely wan face and that pair of limpid green eyes, which, despite every instinct, he'd felt strangely attracted to. He consoled himself with the fact that she was unattractively dressed, had no chic at all. In fact, he would go as far as saying she looked frumpy. With a shake of his head he headed back to his chateau and thought about the upcoming telephone call to New York that he needed to make.

  'Mademoiselle ?'

  'Yes, Henri?' Natasha looked up from the desk where she was going through some of her grandmother's papers and smiled.

  'The Baron d'Argentan is here to offer his condolences.'

  'Right.' She sighed, laying down the missive. Rising, she straightened her one black dress, realizing she simply must go into Deauville and acquire some suitable clothes. This was not the first neighbour come to pay their respects and satisfy their curiosity regarding the new owner of the Manoir, and she needed to dress accordingly. Better get used to it, she realized, following Henri across the hall to the formal drawing room where the butler liked to install the guests.

  But, on stepping inside the room, Natasha felt her pulse leap when she recognized the tall figure silhouetted against the window. She was about to speak, then stopped, and swallowed.

  'I come to present my condolences,' he said, in a haughty, rich baritone that seemed to resonate through the elegant room. Then he stepped forward and, raising Natasha's fingers to his lips, bent his head towards them.

  'Thank you,' she murmured, feeling her pulse pick up speed. His fingers felt strangely vibrant, as though an electric current were coursing through them. 'Uh, do sit down,' she said hurriedly, taking a step back and indicating the Louis Quinze chair opposite.

  'Thank you.' He waited for her to sit, then followed suit. Natasha was relieved when the door opened and Henri entered with a bottle of champagne, which he proceeded to open.

  'I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance,' the Baron remarked, placing one leg over the other. 'I wasn't aware that the Comtesse had a granddaughter.' He raised a quizzical black brow at her, as though questioning her authenticity. 'I don't seem to recall meeting you in the past.'

  Natasha bristled and felt her cheeks flush, a flash of anger take hold. 'That is because I haven't been here for many years,' she said coldly.

  'Aha. That would explain it.'

  'Yes.'

  Natasha felt irritated with herself. Why was she allowing this stranger to make her feel ill at ease? She was, after all, in her own house now, for whatever that was worth.

  They each accepted a glass of champagne from Henri and the Baron raised his. 'To a very great lady. The Comtesse will be sorely missed in the region—won't she, Henri?' he said, addressing the butler.

  'Ah, oui, Monsieur le Baron, she most certainly will.' Henri nodded in agreement. 'But of course we are blessed to have mademoiselle,' he added quickly.

  'Very true. This has come as rather a surprise to the community.' The Baron twiddled his flute and studied her lazily.

  'I hope not an unwelcome one?' Natasha retorted, her chin tilting upwards, anger at his high-handed manners and the idle way his eyes coursed over her increasing by the moment.

  'Unwelcome? Not at all. In fact, quite the opposite. You will be a breath of fresh air. That is if you plan to stay here?' Again the brow flew up. It was as though he were searching for something amiss, something untoward.

  'It is far too soon for me to decide what to do. I haven't made up my mind yet,' she responded, hoping her tone would dampen any other questions. Yet part of her wanted him to believe her, resented that he should find anything suspicious about her. For it was true. She hadn't decided what to do with her new inheritance. Part of her wanted to run back to Africa, to the safety of her job. Yet another part, a part she hadn't known existed before, was struck by a new sense of loyalty to her lineage and the duties that came with the inheritance. It was her grandmother's personal letter to her that had struck a chord. You are the only Saugure left to continue the line… Incredibly, the old lady had expected her to assume all her responsibilities.

  The Baron stayed for several more minutes, making polite small talk, then rose. 'If there is anything I can help you with, Henri has my numbers. As you've probably gathered,' he said, a sudden wicked smile curving his well-defined lips, 'I am your neighbour.'

  'That much became pretty obvious the other day,' she muttered dryly, smiling despite her initial desire to dislike him.

  'Yes, well, I'm sorry for the way I greeted you that day. It was rude and bad-mannered. I'm hoping that, to make up for it, you might come and dine with me one day. Perhaps I can bring you up to speed on the area.' He took her hand and squeezed it in his, holding it slightly longer than necessary, and again Natasha experienced that same pulsating tingle.

  'That would be very nice,' she accepted, surprising herself as she extricated her fingers from his.

  'Good. Then I'll expect you tomorrow.' He gave a satisfied nod.

  'I—I haven't got my schedule here,' she mumbled.

  'Oh? Your timetable is already very booked up?' He smiled down at her, his dark eyes brimming with mirth.

  Natasha blushed once more. 'That's not what I meant.'

  'Then in that case I'll expect you at eight tomorrow evening. Henri will drive you.' With a quick nod he turned on his heel and left the room.

  'Well,' Natasha exclaimed under her breath as she walked to the window and let out a long huff. The man certainly didn't lack nerve. Why, he was impossibly authoritarian. And, since she hadn't refused, she was now stuck with having dinner with him. Which reminded her of her desperate need to buy some clothes. Not that it mattered what she looked like, she qualified hastily; he was just a neighbour, and quite a rude one at that. But still, for some inexplicable reason she wanted to look her best. Perhaps it was part of her new-found duty to her name. After all, she must keep up the family reputation.

  What on earth had caused him to invite this dowdy-looking Englishwoman to dinner when he'd had every intention of leaving for Paris immediately? Raoul wondered as he drove down the driveway and out onto the country road beyond. It was nonsensical and stupid to delay his return to town. Particularly to dine with someone as un-chic as his new neighbour. The woman's hair looked as if it hadn't seen a hairdresser in years, and her clothes didn't bear mentioning! Perhaps, he concluded, shaking his head as he entered the castle gates, it was because he didn't want to go back to Paris, where he would have to deal with another of Clothilde's jealous rages.

  Slowing the car to a halt in front of his massive oak front door, Raoul glanced at his mobile. Just as he'd thought, there were several missed calls from her. He rolled his eyes and huffed, passing a hand thoughtfully over his bronzed chin. He really must bring this relationship to an end. Apparently staying away for longer periods of time than he usually did wasn't doing the trick. Raoul sighed and alighted from the car. Like most men, he hated facing disagreeable situations. And Clothilde was certainly that, with her hysterical scenes and childish moods. Why, he wondered, had he got involved with her in the first place?

  Stepping into the morning breeze, Raoul watched as the stable boys led two of his favourite horses across the cobblestoned yard, then stood for a moment on the edge of the well, dropping a pebble inside. Why not admit to himself that he'd succumbed to Clothilde's charm for the same reason he had all the others: because it was easier to date top models who shimmied in and out of his life than commit to anything more serious. At thirty-six he was a confirmed bachelor, and had no intention of changing his single status. Much to the disappointment of several mothers of suitable c
andidates to become the future Baroness d'Argentan.

  His mouth took on a cynical twist. Women were ambitious gold-diggers, as he'd found out to his cost several years earlier. He would not repeat the mistake of falling for one again. And, speaking of gold-diggers, he reflected, making his way towards the medieval castle that had been in his family for centuries, perhaps Natasha de Saugure was yet another one. After all, this sudden arrival of hers was too damned coincidental to be mere fluke. He just hoped she hadn't frightened her grandmother into having a heart attack.

  But as he walked through the great hall Raoul realized with a smile that this was probably a foolish thought. He had known Marie Louise de Saugure since he was a child. If anyone had done the terrifying it could have been her. Still, he felt wary of Natasha. As he would be of any Saugure. Which was obviously why he'd felt the need to ask her to dine: to delve deeper into her motives for coming here in the first place. The more he could glean about her, the better; for the past had taught every member of his family to be wary of Saugure women.

  And he was no exception.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NATASHA tilted her head and took another satisfied look at herself in the gilded three-way mirror. It was a long time since she'd bothered about clothes and looking nice. The last few years, tucked away in the African bush with two pairs of jeans and a few faded T-shirts, had not helped her improve her fashion skills. Still, she'd spent time in Deauville that afternoon and taken the advice of a charming shop assistant who, seeing her in doubt, had helped her select a number of items, discarding others with a disparaging wave of her well-manicured hands, saying that beige did not favour mademoiselle.

  Now, as she looked at her reflection, Natasha had to admit that the woman had been right. Everything she'd chosen—from the pretty pink tweed Chanel suit to the sleek trousers and the attractive cream dress she now wore— spelled chic, smart, and made her look very different from the girl who'd stepped off the plane a few days before. Suddenly she'd been transformed from average to head-turning, thanks to the make-over that Martine, the shop assistant, had insisted on. Upon her excellent advice, Natasha had gone to the top hairdresser in town and had her long hair shaped, washed and blow-dried. The effect, combined with the new outrageously expensive outfit, was staring her right in the face, and she was finding it hard to reconcile the woman in the mirror with who she was inside.

  Oh, well, she conceded with a shrug, surely she could get used to improvement? Plus, she was damned if she was going to dine at Raoul d'Argentan's castle looking like something the cat had brought in on a bad day. Which made her wonder uncomfortably, as she turned away from the mirror and stepped into the bathroom to put on some makeup, why he'd asked her over in the first place. Perhaps it was curiosity. After all, everyone must be wondering who she was and why she was here. Although no doubt Monsieur Dubois, the notary, had dropped hints in his various clients' ears. She could imagine just how intriguing it must be for a small community such as this to have her as the new chatelaine.

  Which in turn brought her back to the problem of what she was going to do. Was she really prepared to turn her life around one hundred and eighty degrees and come and live in Normandy, away from the world she knew, to pick up a legacy left to her by a woman who'd denied her that same legacy all her life?

  Glancing at the ormolu clock on the pink marble mantelpiece, Natasha realized it was getting late and wasn't the moment for soul-searching. She'd think about her life later. Right now she needed to get downstairs, where Henri would be waiting to drive her over to the Baron's.

  After a last peek in the mirror, she picked up a smart evening purse and stepped into her new, amazingly comfortable high heels. She took a few tentative steps. Not bad, considering she'd only worn sandals and sneakers for the past three years.

  Hoping she wouldn't totter too badly, Natasha made her way to the grand stairway and accomplished her descent without mishap, glad to see Henri waiting for her in the hall.

  As the car drew up at the floodlit drawbridge Natasha caught her breath. The Baron's chateau was amazing. Her grandmother's Manoir was beautiful, but it was also stiff and formal. This place, in contrast, was a maze of twelfth-century turrets, built of heavy stone and obviously impregnable. The men who'd built it were not to be tampered with, was the message it conveyed. All at once she shuddered and wondered about its present owner.

  'It is very impressionnant, is it not?' Henri said, seeing her gaze up at the ramparts.

  'It certainly is. It must be very old.'

  'The Argentan family has lived here since before William departed to conquer England,' he relayed proudly. 'The Baron is a descendant of a long line of warriors. They fought many battles and have made many friends and not a few enemies. The first Baron was also named Raoul.'

  He drove the car slowly across the drawbridge, which creaked ominously.

  'Enemies?' Natasha asked, her brows knitting.

  'Yes. There are many tales in the region of the Baron's ancestors, in particular one Regis d'Argentan.'

  'Oh?'

  'Yes. But I must not go on. All that is in the past and better left buried there. Here we are, mademoiselle.' He drew up in the courtyard and quickly stepped out of the car to help her alight before she could ask any further questions.

  Minutes later Natasha was being conducted by a wizened butler up an ancient stone stairway illuminated by torches. Had he put on the full show for her, she wondered, or was there no electricity? The place felt strangely eerie, and an odd sense of dà vu assailed her. But she shrugged it off and, holding her head high as she passed ancient tapestries, braced herself for the evening ahead.

  Just as she was wondering where he'd got to, Raoul stepped out of the shadows.

  'Good evening,' he said, once more raising her hand to his lips. A curious gleam lit his eyes and he took a step back. 'Excuse me if I seem rude, but I barely recognize you.'

  'Is that a compliment?' she asked suspiciously, a laugh hovering.

  'I would like to think of it as one,' he confirmed, gallantly steering her into a huge hall with an imposing stone hearth, around which several high-backed velvet chairs were arranged. The fire was burning. Here the lighting seemed at least to be improved. In fact, she realized, it was terribly subtle, with ultra-modern halogens slipped behind the heavy oak beams, pinpointing tapestries and coats of arms which adorned the stone walls.

  'Your home is quite amazing,' she said sincerely, aware of his hand at her elbow.

  'Thank you, mademoiselle—it is mademoiselle and not madame, I take it?' he enquired smoothly.

  'Yes. Of course. I'm not married,' she returned, surprised.

  'You object to marriage?'

  'It's not something I think about.'

  'Really? Well, that is surprising. I thought most women did. How old are you?'

  'Twenty-three.'

  'Well, that is not a very great age, I admit, but I know a number of girls your age who have several children already.'

  'Really?' Natasha tossed her head defiantly. 'I thought women were marrying much later nowadays, and having children in their mid-thirties.'

  'Is that what you plan to do?' he asked, that same quizzical brow shooting up, this time with an air of disapproval.

  'I have no idea,' she responded tartly. This was not a subject she wished to enlarge upon.

  'Ah, so no fiancé dying to drag you to the altar?' he quizzed, motioning to one of the chairs.

  'Don't be silly,' she replied with an embarrassed laugh. Thank God he couldn't possibly know about Paul, and all the shame and embarrassment she'd been through at the age of barely nineteen, when he'd dumped her a week before their wedding.

  'Very well. Enough about marriage. How about champagne instead?'

  'Please.' She sat demurely in the high-backed chair and crossed her legs elegantly. It felt strange to feel so beautifully dressed and feminine, to feel Raoul's eyes devouring her not with the mere curiosity of a neighbour but with patent admiration. And a
ll at once Natasha realized that for the past few years, since her disastrous engagement, she'd been afraid of looking attractive, of facing another relationship, in case she was faced with another misadventure. Well, she was older now, and more mature, she reflected, taking the champagne flute with a smile. She could deal with a little attraction without getting burned or involved.

  Raoul settled in the chair opposite. He looked devastatingly handsome tonight, in black pants and a burgundy jacket, his raven hair swept back, his profile caught in the firelight. For an instant Natasha thought he looked just as she would have imagined a Norman Baron must look in his lair.

  'So, you are Mademoiselle de Saugure,' he murmured thoughtfully. 'At the risk of sounding nosy, were you expecting to become Marie Louise's heir?'

  'Actually, I had no idea. It never occurred to me. I hadn't seen my grandmother in ages. She—she and my father had a falling-out a few years ago,' she finished, not prepared to get into intimate details regarding her family.

  'I remember. The Comtesse didn't accept his marriage to your mother. Very foolish, since it made her into a lonely old lady. But understandable.'

  'You think so?' Natasha's hackles rose immediately. Her mother's background was something she defended tooth and nail.

  'Yes. Your father would have had problems whoever he married. Unless, of course, it had been someone of the Comtesse's own choosing. She was nothing if not authoritative. Liked getting her own way. We had a few tussles ourselves.' He smiled wryly and their eyes met, locking in the candlelight for a few interminable seconds.

  'You and my grandmother?'

  'Yes. Ever since my parents' demise several years ago I have been Lord of the Manor, so to speak. The Comtesse deemed it her duty to tell me how to run my estate. When I didn't follow her advice to the letter we had a few tiffs. But we got over them and remained fast friends. Strange that you should have arrived so suddenly and that her death should have ensued in such a precipitate manner.'