At the French Baron's Bidding

by Fiona Hood-Stewart

  'Good evening, mademoiselle.' Raoul executed a small bow before he nodded to the Comte and Philippe hovering close by.

  'Good evening,' Natasha murmured, trying not to appear flustered, livid that her pulse was fluttering once more. Surely she could be more controlled than this?

  'So. You are being initiated into the customs of our society, I see.' His tone barely hid the irony.

  'Yes,' she replied blithely, temper coming to her rescue. 'Philippe very kindly asked me to join him and his family here tonight, and tomorrow at the races. So kind,' she added, twirling around and bestowing a dazzling smile on the dumbstruck Philippe.

  'Well, well. You must be the most envied man in the room tonight, Philippe,' Raoul murmured, his lips twisting in a thin sardonic smile.

  'Uh, yes, of course. I am very happy to accompany Mademoiselle de Saugure—I mean Natasha.' He blushed, straightened his bow tie and tried not to let Raoul fluster him. It was always so. Raoul would walk in and take the floor. But at least tonight, Philippe reflected with a touch of pride, he'd made it to the winning post first and invited Natasha before any of his contemporaries had the chance.

  Raoul was now complimenting the beaky-nosed Comtesse de Morrieux on her appearance, and Natasha noticed crossly that she was, of course, wreathed in smiles. 'I have asked Raoul to join us at our table,' she told her husband, who nodded approvingly.

  'Very good, mon vieux, we don't see enough of you around here any more now that you spend so much time in Paris.'

  Raoul threw Natasha a triumphant glance, read her annoyance at the invitation and felt a rush of satisfaction. So she was trying to set herself up in her own fashion in the region, was she? Had Philippe de Morrieux dangling after her too, did she? Well, he'd make short shrift of that little plan, he reflected, offering his arm to the Comtesse as they prepared to enter the dining room.

  'Have you told Natasha about the Battle of Waterloo?' he enquired of Philippe, once they were all installed at table.

  'Yes, after a fashion.'

  'You'll enjoy that,' Raoul said, smiling benignly at Natasha. 'We have two teams, the English against the French. As you can see there are many of your compatriots here tonight—racing adepts, trainers. And then the big sales begin tomorrow, right after the last race. Many are here to acquire horses.'

  'Fascinating,' Natasha murmured, turning her attention back to Philippe, determined not to give Raoul any quarter, while she desperately blinked away the images of their past encounter and tried to eclipse the physical sensation that just seeing him caused. She felt her nipples go taut under her evening dress and a troubling awareness haunted her. It was as though, when his eyes flew over her in that dark, possessive, disturbing manner, he were undressing her, stripping her of the protective sheath of silk and baring her for his pleasure.

  She tried to pay attention to Philippe's stilted conversation. Surely Raoul couldn't tell how she was feeling? But when she took a fleeting sidelong glance in his direction and he smiled knowingly at her, she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment.

  He knew, damn him.

  Of course he knew.

  He had this whole game down to an art, knew exactly what he made a woman feel.

  Taking a deep breath, and a few rather larger gulps of champagne than she'd intended, Natasha donned a glittering smile and continued to converse with the other members of the table. By the time the ragout de Homard was eaten and dessert served she was wilting under the strain, and sincerely wishing that she'd stayed at home and not exposed herself. Of all people the last person she would have imagined here tonight was Raoul, she thought as they sipped coffee. Yet deep down she knew that wasn't strictly true. Had she, in fact, come here secretly hoping that she would see him?

  The thought sent another shudder and another rush of intimate sensations tingling through her pelvis. Damn Raoul. Why couldn't he just get up and leave instead of sitting there talking in that deep seductive voice, bringing her into the conversation whenever he could and being generally odious under the pretended solicitude?

  Soon they were rising from the table and entering the room next door, where the Battle of Waterloo was already being prepared.

  'We have another lady for the English team,' Raoul called out to the organizer, a short, busy Frenchman whom the others referred to as 'le g'.

  'Oh, no, please, I'd much rather watch,' Natasha said quickly. She had no desire to participate.

  'What? You shrink from playing for your country? Come, come, Natasha, I thought better of you than this.'

  'Please, Raoul, just leave me alone,' she muttered.

  But Philippe was at her elbow now, leading her across the room towards the general. She looked back at Raoul, who was standing with his arms crossed and a broad grin on his face. He shrugged, letting her know he had no intention of saving her from her fate.

  With a sigh, Natasha joined the other English ladies preparing to participate in the game. This really wasn't her thing. But what could she do? Without appearing disagreeable it would be hard to refuse.

  'So, mademoiselle, here is a glass of champagne.' The general handed her a glass. 'You must drink it à cul sec— that means in one go—and then place the glass on your head. Then the next lady in line will do the same. Come on, try it. The team that finishes quickest wins. Now, try.'

  'In one go?' Natasha queried, glancing uneasily at the glass.

  'Yes. Have a go.'

  'Okay.' Taking a deep breath, Natasha threw back the glass of champagne, spluttering as the liquid rushed into her mouth.

  'Very good, very good.' The general smiled approvingly and refilled her glass. 'Now, ready to begin, everyone?

  The two teams stood in line, side by side, and a good atmosphere reigned. The champagne, downed so quickly, was beginning to take effect, and Natasha felt somewhat light-headed. When it came to her turn she tried to down the next glass under the encouragement of her team mates and ended up spluttering her way to the end and placing the glass on her head. She was positively dizzy now, and wished she could get away.

  Then all at once Raoul was at her side, holding her elbow, steering her away. Somewhere in the surrounding haze she realized she'd said goodbye to the Comte and Comtesse and Philippe, and that she was being walked along the pavement held up by Raoul's strong arm.

  'Why did you make me do that?' she asked, trying not to stumble.

  'Careful, ma belle, you're not too steady on your pins. Lean on my arm. There, that's better.'

  'Raoul, I don't think that was fair. You should have stopped them. I'm not used to all that champagne.' She gulped and hiccupped, and he laughed.

  'Never mind. I'll give you a couple of Alka Seltzers back at the hotel, and after a good sleep you'll feel fine.'

  'God,' she groaned, 'I don't want to think of what I'll feel like tomorrow morning.'

  'You'll be fine. I guarantee it. Now, here we are at the Normandy. I'll take you to your suite. Have you got the key?'

  She fumbled in her evening purse as they went to the lift and handed it to him while her head dropped on his shoulder. It felt so nice to lie against him; the scent of his aftershave smelled good. She felt his arm close firmly around her shoulders as they exited the elevator and made their way along the wide corridor to her suite.

  Soon they were inside and Raoul closed the door behind them. 'Now, come and lie down,' he ordered.

  'I don't want to lie down. I feel much better now,' Natasha said, giggling.

  'Natasha, you've had a lot of champagne. I think it's better you rest.'

  'Rest? I don't want to rest. Let's go out and dance. Let's have some more champagne.' She leaned against him and lifted her lips for his kiss. When it didn't come she made a moue and frowned. 'Don't you want to k-kiss me?' She gulped. 'I thought you seemed rather keen on it the other night.'

  'You are not in a state to be kissed,' he answered firmly, taking her arm and leading her to the bedroom.

  'That's not fair,' she said, shaking her head as she collapsed o
nto the bed, pouting. 'When you want to it's okay, but when I want…' Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed.

  Raoul looked down at her and smiled. He shouldn't have put her forward for the game. It had been unfair of him and he knew it. In a quick, matter-of-fact manner he set about undressing her and slipped a nightgown over her head. As he was doing so Natasha's eyes opened. She smiled beatifically at him, then slipped her arms around his neck, pulling him down onto the bed.

  'Natasha, this is not a good idea,' he muttered, trying to keep his physical reaction in check.

  'Yes, it is,' she slurred, taking his hand and placing it on her breast. 'Mmmm. That feels so nice,' she mumbled as, unable to resist, he grazed her nipple.

  'Natasha, you'll regret this in the morning,' he told her, trying to withstand the temptation of her lovely body while letting his other hand slip between her thighs. He was jolted by how wet and wanting she was.

  But, instead of protesting, all Natasha did was sigh and surrender to his caresses. Raoul was tempted to undress and take her here and now. But something stopped him. An innate sense of honour. This would be tantamount to rape. He doubted he'd ever exercised such will-power, but exercise it he would. Instead of taking his pleasure he caressed her gently, his fingers penetrating her, following the writhing of her body as she arched up to him, pleading for more, then sighing when she came, before falling prostrate among the pillows, where she immediately fell into a deep and exhausted sleep.

  Raoul rose, straightened his clothes and, after taking a long breath, tucked Natasha in. As he left the room he wondered what on earth had got in to him. With a shrug he returned to his own suite, and after a large brandy got ready for bed. He really must bed Natasha or get her out of his system once and for all, he decided firmly as he switched the light off.

  One thing was for sure. He couldn't play this game much longer.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HAD she been dreaming or had Raoul carried her into the room last night and laid her on the bed? And had the rest of what she vaguely remembered been a figment of her fertile imagination, or had he once again made her feel the most incredible sensations she'd ever experienced?

  Rubbing her eyes and letting out a long yawn, Natasha sat up and glanced at her watch. My God, it was almost eleven-thirty, and she was due to meet the Morrieux for drinks in the courtyard at twelve-fifteen.

  As she entered the bathroom everything came back to her in quick succession, and a wave of embarrassment encompassed her. She really had Raoul to thank for removing her so promptly and efficiently from the scene. All she could hope for was that the Morrieux had not realized how tipsy she'd become after knocking back several glasses of champagne.

  The mere thought of the stuff made her grimace. No more of that, she decided firmly, allowing the hot shower spray to soothe her tired body. And what about Raoul? she wondered, her thoughts lingering as she soaped herself. Where was he and what had prompted him to be so nice to her? It was really rather decent of him to have acted as he had. And, she realized ruefully, as her memory jolted, not to have taken advantage of her weakness and vulnerability.

  Again her cheeks flamed at the thought of her wanton behaviour of the night before. She had practically—no, she had, let's be honest—invited him to make love to her.

  As she wrapped herself in a large white terry towel, Natasha realized that there was little she could do except try and carry things off with as much dignity as possible. Though, knowing Raoul as she was beginning to, she doubted he would forego any chance of reminding her.

  But there she was wrong.

  Several hours later, when their paths crossed at the races, Raoul gave no knowing sign of recollection. In fact, he was very punctilious. And, as Natasha squirmed for several uneasy minutes, he simply made light conversation with the Morrieux, gave the Comte a tip on the horse he considered would win the next race, and asked her if she'd like to back the horse too.

  After a while, she felt easier, and was able to enjoy the elegant, amusing atmosphere of the racecourse. Several ladies were dressed to the nines, others like herself, were discreetly elegant. All in all, she reflected, it had—apart from last night's embarrassing interlude—been a very agreeable stay-over. And even the interlude, she reflected ruefully, had been delicious.

  Giving herself a quick jolt, Natasha refused to allow her mind to linger on Raoul's fingers gently caressing her. But all too often during the afternoon his kisses and his caresses coloured her thoughts. She would look at him from afar, unable to deny how very male and handsome he was, how devastatingly attractive. She couldn't prevent herself from experiencing a rush of something akin to jealousy when she saw him deep in conversation with a pretty and very chic blonde woman.

  This simply must stop, she protested silently, turning her head and entering into an animated conversation with the staid Philippe, who was only too enchanted to be taken notice of by his lovely new neighbour. His parents looked on approvingly. A match between the Morrieux heir and the heir to the Saugure properties would be no mean feat.

  The proximity of the two young people had not gone unnoticed by another member of the local community. All the while he was carrying on a flirtatious conversation with his cousin, Raoul had one eye on Natasha. Philippe de Morrieux—a rival! Why, the notion was laughable. Yet she did seem very open to being courted by that young man. A rush of anger overcame him. The little flirt had been writhing in his arms only a few hours ago. Was he perhaps wrong about her character? What sort of game was she playing? He considered the thought as he approached the betting window and placed a solid bet on an outsider in the upcoming race. He glanced back at her and his lips twisted into a smile before he glanced once more at the list, then made another bet. Then slowly he approached the table in the paddock restaurant, where Natasha was seated with the Morrieux. The Comte welcomed him and told him to sit down.

  'I can't, I'm afraid. I'm off to see the next race.'

  'Did your horse win?' Philippe asked.

  'I'm afraid not. It came in third, though, which wasn't too bad. By the way, I placed a bet for you in the next race,' he said, casually addressing Natasha. 'Would you like to come with me to the box and see if we are in luck?'

  She hesitated. His eyes were boring into hers with a determination that was hard to resist. She glanced at the Comtesse, who was engaged in conversation with another elegant, bejewelled older lady.

  'Why not?' she said with a shrug and a smile. 'Philippe, will you come too?'

  'Oh? Yes, yes, of course—avec plaisir.' He grinned broadly and jumped up from his chair, ready to escort Natasha.

  This was not the way he'd planned matters, and the presence of this innocuous young man annoyed Raoul profoundly. But there was nothing for it but to put a good face on it, so he smiled, and together the three of them walked across the paddock and over towards the building where Raoul had his box.

  Soon they were watching the horses move towards the starting gates.

  'See the jockey with the blue and white shirt over there?' he said, pointing.

  'Yes.'

  'That's our man.'

  'What's the name of the horse?' she asked, eyeing the program.

  'I Want You.'

  'Excuse me?' She looked up and their eyes met.

  'You asked me the horse's name.'

  'Yes, I did.'

  'Well, that's it. The horse is called I Want You.'

  'Oh, I see.' She looked away, flustered, her colour rising once more, for the look in his eyes told her there was a not-so-subtle double entendre to his words that had nothing to do with the race.

  'Maybe we'll get lucky,' Raoul added, glancing at her wickedly before lifting his racing glasses. 'Here, take these. You'll see the race better.'

  'Thank you.' She accepted the glasses, glad of an excuse to have something to do other than feel his eyes upon her.

  Philippe was studiously reading the programme, and began weighing up the pros and cons of several animals with Raoul. Placing the
two men side by side was really rather unfair, Natasha realized ruefully, a spark of humour flashing. Raoul might not have been pleased that she'd asked him to join them, but in reality he should be happy if what he wanted was to promote himself. Next to the stiff, pasty Philippe, he shone like a diamond of the first degree.

  Then the race began and all eyes focused on the galloping horses making their way along the straight. Natasha watched through the glasses, excited. She'd never had a bet on a horse before. Now she peered keenly, excitement mounting as I Want You edged to the forefront of the race. The crowd rose from their seats, crying encouragement. When in the last few seconds I Want You tore ahead by a length to win the race, Natasha was as excited as the rest.

  'He did it!' She turned excitedly to Raoul. 'Isn't that wonderful? I can't believe he won. How clever of you to bet on him.'

  'It was obvious that he had to win,' Raoul replied with a mischievous grin.

  'Really? I thought you said he was an outsider with twenty to one odds.'

  'He was.'

  'So?' She raised her brow, truly curious as to the reason he'd been so sure. 'How were you so sure he'd win?'

  'Because I want you,' he whispered in a lowered voice, his hand slipping over hers and squeezing it in an imperceptible yet intimate gesture.

  Confused, Natasha drew away. It was all happening too quickly. She was so attracted to Raoul, yet she sensed the danger she would get into should she surrender to her desire for him. He was so sophisticated and worldly, and once more Clothilde's words of warning rang in her ears.

  'I'm going back to my place after collecting our winnings,' he remarked in a very different tone, as though he hadn't noticed that she'd not answered.

  'Ah, yes. Well, I must be getting back, too.'

  'Why don't you come by and have a drink? Or rather, upon reflection, why don't we stop off for dinner somewhere? There is a very lovely little restaurant in Beaumont that you simply must discover.'

  'Raoul, I need to get back, I have my car waiting, I—' 'Just a moment,' he instructed, lifting his index finger authoritatively. He pulled out his mobile and before she could stop him was making arrangements to have her car delivered back to the Manoir. 'Raoul, I never said I was coming with you,' she protested, exasperated. The man was far too sure of himself, she concluded, wishing she had the strength to refuse him point-blank, but knowing instead that she had every intention of going.