'Just relax, ch,' he whispered, his fingers caressing her now, causing tiny gasps to escape her lips as his thumb grazed and his fingers penetrated. 'Ah, you are delicious, my Natasha, as delicious as I thought you would be.'
'Raoul,' she whispered, between a plea and a protest. Then, when she least expected it, something extraordinary happened. The tight, anxious throbbing and the incredibly tense build-up that she'd thought she could stand no more gave way, and she let out a long gasp of sheer satisfaction, laced with utter amazement.
It was staggering.
Blissful.
Incredible.
As though a window had opened in her life.
And as she leaned against him, caught in the throes of her first orgasm, Raoul smiled and held her close, pride and triumph rushing through him as he sensed her utter surprise. So she had never experienced this before. He leaned her head against his chest and held her close, feeling the fast throbbing of her heart, quelling his own intense desire as he gazed out over the sea, breathed in the scent of lavender and listened to the crickets' endless chorus filling the night.
'Come,' he said softly, when he felt she'd regained her equilibrium. 'We must finish this off properly, ma mie.' He slipped his arms under her and swept her into them.
'But Raoul, please—this isn't—I mean, I don't want—'
He stopped a moment, looked at her with eyes brimming with humour. 'Are you seriously telling me you don't want me, Natasha?' he asked, gazing down at her amused.
'I—it's not that I don't want you,' she whispered hoarsely. 'I just don't feel ready to.'
How she'd managed to retain enough sanity to utter those words she had no idea. But somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice told her that were she to allow Raoul to make love to her tonight it would in some way destroy her.
He hesitated a moment. 'You are talking nonsense,' he said, holding her firmly in his arms. 'Why can't you just close your eyes and enjoy all the pleasure I can give you? Surely you have not had such a bad time this evening?' he coaxed, the knowing smile still playing about his lips.
'Please. Let me down.' It was impossible to reason with him being held in his arms.
Reluctantly Raoul conceded. Once she was standing, Natasha raked trembling fingers through her hair and tried to regain some composure. 'Raoul, I can't. It's not that I don't want to. It's just that I don't feel confident enough.'
'Leave that to me, ch. I realize that you are new at this game, that you have little experience in matters of love. But have no fear, ma belle. I have enough for both of us.'
'That's exactly what bothers me,' she retorted, suddenly recovering some of her lost poise. 'I don't plan to be an amusing pastime for you. I'm well aware that it must be intriguing for you to come across an inexperienced bumpkin like me. It may even amuse you to teach me a few things. For a while.'
'And what is wrong with that?' he asked, dropping his hands possessively on her shoulders. 'Think of it as part of furthering your education. Learning the art of lovemaking can be deliciously satisfying, and it will serve you well in the future,' he replied confidently.
'Really?' Natasha pulled away, suddenly clear in her mind as to why she did not want things to go any further. 'Surprising though this may seem to you, Raoul, I don't think of lovemaking either as an art-form or a game. You said you were leaving for Paris tomorrow. I think it's a good thing that you are. We obviously have far less in common than our conversations of the past few days have led us to believe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll say goodnight.'
Before he could stop her Natasha had turned on her heel and hastened up the stairs, head high, leaving Raoul fuming in the hall, wondering how what had appeared to be developing into a deliciously seductive evening had so suddenly turned sour.
'Damn her,' he muttered, returning to the terrace, where he downed the rest of his cognac. 'Damn all women.'
And this one was nothing but a little teaser.
Well, he'd had enough. Had wasted too much time on her already. He had a life to live, a business and an estate to run, didn't he? It was high time he got back in gear and stopped fooling around like a raw teenager.
In a few masterful strides he marched to his bedroom on the ground floor, threw his belongings into his Vuitton luggage and, closing the door behind him, made his way to his Ferrari. He would leave not tomorrow morning but right now. He'd had enough of Mademoiselle de Saugure and her silly infantile games, thank you very much.
Natasha sat trembling on the edge of the large canopied bed. Her head shot up when she heard the sound of the engine and the crunch of wheels on the gravel.
So he'd left.
Her hands dropped in her lap and she let out a sigh of mixed relief and regret. But it was better like this, she argued, and she was right to have held back. No good could come of a hot, passionate affair with Raoul. He'd become bored with her as quickly as he'd become attracted. Clothilde's words still lingered in her ears. 'He's the biggest bastard in town.' She had no doubt that Clothilde was right. So why, when she should be feeling nothing but relief at her escape, was she feeling so down?
Probably because they'd got on so well these past few days, she justified, slipping off her dress and underwear and reaching for her nightgown. Still, as she lay between the cool linen sheets it was impossible not to recall the overwhelming sensations she'd experienced. Natasha sighed, turned on her side, and tried to sleep. But her dreams were fraught with images of a tall dark man on a chestnut horse, swooping her up into the saddle, his hand poised possessively on her breast.
And her sleep was troubled.
CHAPTER SEVEN
'So, AS I was telling you, Monsieur Dubois, I have decided to remain here in France and assume my grandmother's responsibilities.'
'This is wonderful news, mademoiselle,' Monsieur Dubois replied, beaming. 'The people on the estate will be thrilled to know that they will not be dealing with an absentee landowner.'
'No, they won't. I plan to learn as much about the estate as possible,' Natasha supplied with a smile as, seated behind the large desk in the Manoir's office, she flipped through some papers. 'And I also want to learn as much as possible about the history of the place. It is, after all, my heritage. I feel I should be familiar with every aspect of it, both historical and practical.'
'But of course, of course, ch mademoiselle. We shall be only too glad to inform you. I personally can tell you about the legal ramifications of the estate, but you must meet with Evreux, the factor. He will be able to fill you in on the happenings on the land. And as for history—well, I can think of no one better than Monsieur le Curé, down in the village. He is a very learned man, and a historian as well as a priest. He has spent thirty-five years in our parish and knows more about the place than anyone 1 know. Excluding Madame Blanchard, of course.'
'Madame Blanchard?' Natasha asked curiously, the name seeming familiar.
'Yes. She is the housekeeper over at Argentan. She works for the Baron, you know. Has done so all her life. I believe she went as a young kitchen maid before the war. She knows all the anecdotes there are to know. Particularly about yours and the Baron's families.'
'Why is that?' Natasha asked, frowning.
'Well, it is said…' Monsieur Dubois looked furtively about, then lowered his voice as though the walls might hear what he was about to say, 'that madame's father was the issue of an affair between the Baron's grandfather and a village girl. So in some way she is related to the Argentans, and rather proud of it.'
'I see.' And she did—only too well. The Argentans certainly didn't waste their time, she reflected dryly, thankful for her moment's sanity in Eze, which had stopped her from failing victim to the present Baron's ploys. 'I shall look forward to meeting all these people. But first we must go over the details you have prepared for me.'
'Avec plaisir, mademoiselle.' Monsieur Dubois smiled broadly and took out a thick sheaf of papers, and Natasha prepared to begin her first lesson in how to run an estate.
> So she'd decided to stay in France after all.
Raoul felt both elated and annoyed. Her presence represented both a challenge and a source of failure. He was surprised that she had assumed her role as chatelaine of the Manoir. After all, she'd appeared very hesitant. But he was fast learning—to his exasperation—that there was a hell of a lot more to Natasha de Saugure than met the eye.
Well, so much the better. At least he'd learned in time. By now Raoul was thoroughly convinced that it was he who had extracted himself from Natasha's wiles. The fact that she had summarily dismissed him had been relegated to the confines of his brain, where it remained safely secluded and could not damage his ego. Still, the thought that he was driving back to Argentan this weekend, and would spend the whole three days there without knowing what she was up to, was profoundly irritating.
Never mind, he reflected, banishing the thought, he had the races to attend this weekend. After all, it was mid-August, and the Prix Morny was being run in Deauville on Sunday. He had other fish to fry instead of worrying about Mademoiselle de Saugure. And he had a horse running. A pretty serious contender, too, for that matter. He just hoped the terrain wouldn't be too soft, as it had rained most of the week. Perhaps he should invite someone to attend the races with him in his box.
For several minutes Raoul sat behind his desk and flipped pensively through a small black address book. But none of the names he studied held any appeal. Better, he decided, to go back to the Château d'Argentan and ring his local friends when he arrived. Plus, Madeleine and her husband might be staying in their lovely property near Falaise. He would pop over and visit them. Perhaps they would like to join him in his box on Sunday.
Several hours later Raoul drew up into the medieval courtyard where Jean, the butler, was moving forward to greet him.
'Hello, Jean,' he said, as the butler picked his bag off the leather seat in the back of the Range Rover.
'Bienvenu, Monsieur le Baron.'
'So. How are things? Anything to report?' he asked as they made their way to the huge oak front door.
'Nothing much, monsieur, except the latest news that has the whole village in a buzz.'
'What's that?'
'Mademoiselle de Saugure has come to live at the Manoir.'
'I'd heard,' he responded shortly.
'Yes. It is exciting, isn't it? All the people on the estate are very happy about it. Apparently mademoiselle has taken a great interest in their lives. She has visited all the families personally and is already implementing a number of measures which they've been trying unsuccessfully to get the old Comtesse to put into practice for years.' Jean smiled broadly, glad to be the bearer of good tidings.
'Well, isn't that interesting?' Raoul mused. 'So she plans to make this her permanent home, I gather?'
'Apparently so, monsieur. I met Monsieur le Cure at the village tobacconist yesterday and he was singing her praises. Apparently she is most interested in local history and has asked him to fill her in. You know how the Curé loves to go on about the past. He is delighted. He even asked when you were coming as he wants to borrow some old documents from your library.'
'Really?' Raoul's brows flew up and his face closed. 'I shall have to call him, then, won't I?'
Without another word he swung through the door and inarched straight to his study, leaving Jean wondering what he had said to provoke his master's ill humour. With a shrug he made his way upstairs, shaking his head. There was just no understanding the aristocracy.
It was both exciting and confusing, and it was a lot to absorb in such a short time. But now that she'd taken the definite decision to stay Natasha had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the task of learning her new role. Not an easy one, she'd realized after studying all that needed to be repaired, listening to complaints and hopes for the future, trying to understand some of the trials that working a thirty-live-hour week implied, and becoming familiar with French employment laws. Of course Monsieur Dubois and the factor, Evreux, took care of most of these aspects of the running of the property, but she was determined to familiarize herself with the details and not be dependent only on the knowledge of others.
That Friday evening she was glad to soak in a bath, slip on a comfy tracksuit and curl in front of the fire in the petit salon—the one place in the house that was remotely homey-—and watch television. As she glanced about her Natasha realized that her next task would be to undertake some redecorating. She simply could not survive surrounded by such stiff formality, and she already had a better idea of how she'd like the place to look. When she had some time she would pop down to Paris and meet with a couple of designers to see who would be most suited to the task.
Not that time was something she had much of. Meetings and work seemed never-ending now that she'd plunged into the thick of it. Also there were social calls to be paid. The neighbours—excepting Raoul, who hadn't shown any sign of life since her return—were charming. In fact Philippe, son of the Comte de Morrieux, a rather pasty-faced, stiff young man, with sandy hair and very precise speech, had asked her to accompany him and his parents to the races this weekend. At first she'd been inclined to refuse. But then she'd realized that not only would it be fun to go to the famous races in Deauville, but that it might seem churlish and rude to refuse the kind invitation. She just hoped she had something suitable to wear among her new acquisitions. She'd been relieved when she'd learned that she wouldn't be expected to wear a hat.
As she flipped through the TV channels Natasha mentally summed up her first few weeks as chatelaine of the Manoir. It was all so new and so unexpected, yet she'd slipped into the role with far greater ease than she would have believed possible a few weeks earlier. It was as if this new job had been waiting for her all her life. She loved meeting the people on the estate, and learning about their problems. And they, instinctively sensing her genuine interest, responded as they might not have done had she not benefited from her experience in humanitarian work. It all seemed to make sense now, she realized. Often she'd asked herself what the purpose of her job in Africa truly was, apart from the obvious. Now it was plain to her. As though a bigger plan had been underway, preparing her for the task up ahead.
Glancing at the time, Natasha realized it was getting on and that she was hungry. Henri and his wife Mathilde were off this evening, so, leaving the remote control next to the sofa, Natasha made her way through the hall and into the immense, old-fashioned kitchen to fix herself a sandwich, having refused madame's offer of a meal left in the oven. She needed to retain something of her former independence, she realized ruefully, even if it was only making a sandwich on her own and not having it presented on a silver platter.
But as she spread butter onto a crispy baguette she thought she heard a noise. Her head flew up and she listened carefully. It was easy to imagine hearing things in an old mansion like this one. After listening carefully, and realizing she must be mistaken, Natasha finished preparing her meal, added a glass of chocolate milk to the tray and headed back towards the petit salon.
It was then, as she was crossing the hall, that she caught sight of a shadow in the doorway. Her heart missed a beat and she nearly dropped the tray. Stopping dead in her tracks, she stared astonished at the outline of a young woman in eighteenth-century dress, her hair done up in ringlets, the expression on her face sad. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the image faded, leaving her wondering If she'd imagined it. Quickly turning on the three-tier chandelier lights, she stared about the hall. But there was no vestige of the woman she could have sworn had stood there only instants earlier.
She must be dreaming, she decided, moving back into the salon and sitting down on the sofa. Still, the feeling lingered. And later, as she wandered up the main stairway on her way to bed, she stopped before Natasha de Saugure's portrait and shivered.
She'd be willing to swear the shadow she'd seen was the woman in the picture.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SATURDAY dawned reasonably fair, with a scattering of
cloud. The Morrieux had insisted Natasha join them for dinner at Le Cercle, an exclusive club situated on the front at Deauville where, ever' year, a dinner was given to celebrate the end of the season's races, and a mock Battle of Waterloo was re-enacted between the British and French guests. As far as she could gather it was all very aristocratic, and to be a member you had to be able to trace your ancestry back over several generations.
Amused by the entire concept, Natasha had agreed to attend, and, as she didn't want to drive home late after having a drink, had booked herself into a room at the Normandy Hotel for the night, prepared to enjoy herself.
At seven o'clock the punctilious Philippe was waiting for her in the crowded lobby of the hotel, and together they walked the few hundred yards along the seafront to Le Cercle, where they were to meet the Comte and Comtesse and their friends for dinner. But as they entered Natasha was amazed to see that the charming old building was falling apart. She glanced up uneasily at the cracked plaster in the ceiling, hoping it wouldn't collapse on top of her. The place was, in fact, as stately and yet as decrepit as the appearance of some of its ancient members, rigged out in black tie. But there was also an elegance and old-world nostalgia here, and as she observed all the Légions d'Honneur and Croix de Guerre sewn into the buttonholes of many of the more elderly members' lapels she was reminded of just how brave and gallant so many of these gentlemen were. They represented the courageous generation who'd fought in World War II— the reason why, today, people like herself were free to live in a democratic Europe.
As they entered the bar, and she shook hands with her hosts, Natasha was touched by this maintaining of old customs fast being replaced by other less gratifying practices.
Soon she was sipping a glass of champagne and conversing with the Comte de Morrieux, who was thrilled to learn of her interest in the history of their region. Then, when she least expected it, a familiar voice spoke at her side.
At the French Baron's Bidding Page 6
