by Sara Craven
He shot her a swift glance. ‘You smile at last, mademoiselle, and I too found the situation amusing— once. But lately it has become altogether more serious. My name has recently been linked with a woman, who is married to a man of importance in the government. There have been hints in the papers—rumours and innuendo in the circles I move in.’
He shrugged. ‘There has been gossip before—I am not a saint—but this time my uncle has managed to gain support for his opinion that my conduct is a disgrace, and that, through me, De Courcy International is likely to be plunged into a major scandal with all kinds of repercussions. I am, he says, unfit to be chairman any longer.
‘Accordingly, he has called an emergency meeting in two weeks’ time to discuss the situation, and call for my resignation. He plans to become chairman in my place, against my grandfather’s expressed wish, and that is now a distinct possibility. You must believe that it would also be a disaster. You see my problem?’
Philippa bit her lip. ‘I—suppose so. But maybe your uncle’s right—perhaps you are irresponsible. After all, if you’re having an affair with this woman—neglecting the company for her …’
His mouth twisted. ‘My uncle, mademoiselle, has an insufferably bourgeois mind. My private life has no bearing on my role as head of De Courcy. No woman has ever come between me and my work, or ever will.’
He hesitated, his expression rueful. ‘There is an additional factor. My uncle has a daughter, Sidonie. He has dropped unmistakable hints that if I were to offer marriage to my cousin his opposition to me would cease immediately.’
‘Then isn’t that the obvious solution?’
‘You would not suggest such a thing if you had ever met my cousin Sidonie. She has a bad complexion, and the disposition of a jealous shrew.’
Philippa bit her lip. ‘I might be just as bad.’
‘That is a risk I shall have to take.’ His eyes swept with disturbing candour over her face, and down her body. ‘Your skin at least is clear—what I can see of it. And you are also a loyal and loving daughter, or so Lady Underhay assures me. That is why she and her husband suggested I should have this interview with you.’
He paused. ‘We both have dire problems, mademoiselle, and to solve them, only desperate measures will do. Agreed?’
Desperate measures, she thought. Her own words come back to haunt her.
‘Well—perhaps.’ She spread her hands helplessly. ‘But—marriage …’
He studied her for a long moment. ‘The implications of that word deter you, peut-être. You wish to be reassured about the exact nature of the relationship I am offering?’
Philippa found she was blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, that is natural.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I am not a savage, Philippa, but at the same time I need to ensure that the de Courcy name continues to the next generation. I will, one day, ask you to give me a son. But you will be given time—as much as you need—to—accustom yourself before that happens. Is that the assurance you require?’
‘Yes—no—I don’t know.’ Philippa gripped her hands together. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous—an impossible situation!’
‘As you say. But it is also a practical solution to our mutual difficulties.’
‘And that’s all that matters?’
‘What else is there?’ He sounded amused.
‘What about—love?’
‘What about it, indeed?’ He was laughing openly now. His teeth were very white, she noticed irrelevantly. ‘But as you mentioned earlier, mademoiselle, we have only just met. I feel any declaration of passion on my part would be premature …’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said angrily.
‘No? Then are you telling me there is already an important relationship in your life?’
The frankly sceptical note in his voice grated on her, and she lifted her chin, her blush deepening hectically. ‘Is it so impossible?’
‘It is unlikely,’ he said with infuriating calmness. ‘You have a disturbingly—untouched quality.’
She glared at him. ‘As a matter of fact, I was really wondering what would happen if, after we were married, one of us—both of us—met someone else.’
‘Marriage is not always a barrier to such relationships,’ he said softly. ‘As long as discretion is maintained.’
‘That’s an abominably cynical point of view!’
‘And, again, I thought I was being practical,’ Alain de Courcy retorted. ‘In any event, we are not yet married, so why look for difficulties where there are none?’
‘Oh, of course, everything’s going to be plain sailing,’ Philippa flung back at him scathingly. ‘I can see that.’
He was silent for a long moment, then he said levelly, ‘Philippa, marriage is never easy. Even if we had met and fallen madly in love, there would still have to be—adjustments. Our situation is unusual, perhaps, but who can say that a marriage which springs from mutual convenience and friendship cannot succeed eventually?’
‘Except that we’re not friends,’ she said in a stifled voice.
‘Not yet, perhaps, but is the prospect so impossible?’
‘Almost completely, I’d have said.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, there must be someone else you can ask.’
He shrugged. ‘As I have said, I can always advertise. But to whom will you go for the money that you need with such desperation? Or did your stepmother exaggerate this?’
‘No.’ Philippa bent her head wretchedly. ‘She was quite right. Only—I just didn’t think it would—come to this.’ She glanced at him. ‘You—wouldn’t consider just—lending me the money.’
‘Only with a marriage certificate for security. I want to buy instant respectability from you, ma chérie. I spend a lot of my time in your country. I propose to tell my family and friends that we met on a previous visit, and I have been courting you ever since. We kept our marriage private because of your father’s ill health.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Voilà! All the rumours silenced at one blow.’
She sighed deeply. ‘It isn’t that simple. I can’t answer you now—tonight. You’ve got to let me have time to think—to decide …’
‘That is reasonable. I am staying at the Savoy Hotel. You may contact me there.’ He got to his feet, and she followed suit. ‘But don’t keep me waiting too long, mademoiselle. For both of us, time is of the essence.’ He paused. ‘Would it make any difference if I told you I possess one of your father’s pictures?’
‘Oh?’ Her lips parted in renewed astonishment. ‘Which one?’
‘The Bridge at Montascaux. It would be a pity to let such talent and vigour—waste away.’ He allowed his words to sink in for a few seconds, then smiled at her. ‘Now, may I drive you home?’
‘Oh, no, thank you.’ Philippa took an involuntary step backwards away from him. She felt as if she’d been inadvertently locked into a cage with a tiger, and lucky to escape with her life.
But if I marry him, she thought, panic closing her throat, there’ll be no escape. I shall have to live with him—share a roof. Eventually—a bed.
Her mind blanked off, refusing to accept such a possibility.
Yet there was the money for Gavin—available for her, as he’d promised. That was what she had to remember. She needed a miracle, and perhaps that was what she was being offered.
But it didn’t feel like any miracle. It felt like a two-edged sword—dangerous and unpredictable. I am no saint, he had said, and she could well believe it.
She realised he was watching her closely, the green eyes narrowed, and hurried into speech.
‘I’ll let you know tomorrow what I decide—I promise.’
‘Then I shall wait impatiently until then.’ He strolled across to her, and before she realised what he intended, lifted her hand briefly to his lips. The contact was fleeting, but she felt as if her flesh had been seared.
He looked down at her, smiling faintly into her eyes. He said softly, ‘I wish you a restful night, ma chère. An
d if you cannot sleep, think well.’
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN SHE AWOKE the following morning to pale sunlight filtering through the curtains, Philippa thought at first it had all been some wild, preposterous dream.
Things like that just didn’t happen, she told herself, huddling under the covers. Not in real life. A girl like herself, with no particular looks to recommend her, couldn’t possibly receive an offer of marriage from a French millionaire for any reason whatever, no matter how practical it had been made to sound. She tried to recall to mind exactly what he’d said, but her brain refused to co-operate, producing only a jumble of confused impressions.
It must have been a dream, she told herself foggily. My worries and the name of Monica’s dinner guest just got muddled in my subconscious, that’s all. There’s a logical explanation for everything.
She stretched her arms above her head, then brought them down slowly in front of her. She had small, workmanlike hands, which she was accustomed to seeing stained with paint. Latterly, though, she’d been using them mainly to help nurse Gavin, and they looked almost respectable for once.
Suddenly, as she looked at them, one of the images in her mind sharpened into a reality she couldn’t ignore. She sat bolt upright, stifling a startled yelp.
My God, she thought, he kissed my hand! She sat for a moment, staring at her fingers, as if she expected to see them marked with the brand of Cain—re-living with shock the swift brush of his mouth against her skin. Knowing helplessly there was no way in which she could have dreamed that particular sensation.
It happened, she thought. It all really happened. And, in that case, what the hell do I do now?
Well, first she could answer the phone, which rang at that moment as if obeying some cue.
‘Well?’ was Monica’s response to her guarded ‘Hello.’
Philippa swallowed. ‘Well what?’ she countered feebly.
Monica sighed irritably. ‘Please don’t behave as if you’re half-witted,’ she commanded crisply. ‘What have you decided? Are you going to accept Alain de Courcy’s offer?’
There were dust motes whirling in the broad beam of sunlight slanting between the thin curtains.
That’s what I feel like, Philippa thought, gripping the receiver as if it was her sole contact with reality. As if I’ve been caught up in something I don’t understand and can’t control, and now I’m helpless—going round and round forever.
‘Philippa?’ Monica’s impatient voice sounded in her ear. ‘Hello—are you still there? I asked what you were going to do.’
She said quietly, ‘I don’t think I really have a choice. I’m going to—to take his money.’
‘Not merely the money, my dear.’ Monica gave a short laugh. ‘You’ll also be getting an exquisite Paris apartment, a country house near Fountainebleau, and a villa in the hills above Nice, and that’s just to start with. And Alain is one of the most attractive and eligible bachelors in France. You’re doing extremely well for yourself.’
‘Am I?’ Philippa asked. Her heart felt like a stone.
‘You’d better be married from Lowden Square,’ Monica went on. ‘Will Gavin be well enough to attend the ceremony?’
Philippa sat up as if she’d been shot. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I hope by the time it takes place he’ll already be in America, starting his treatment.’
‘Well, just as you wish, of course. I’ll have a room prepared for you, and expect you some time later today. We’re going to have to do some serious shopping.’
‘Why?’
Monica’s sigh quivered with irritation. ‘My dear girl, although the ceremony will undoubtedly be very quiet, and extremely private, you still cannot be married in denim jeans. Lennox and I will supply your trousseau as our gift.’
‘It really isn’t necessary …’
‘Nonsense,’ Monica said crisply. ‘I’ll see you later.’ And rang off.
An hour later, Philippa found herself being shown into Alain de Courcy’s hotel suite. He was sitting at a table by the window, eating breakfast and reading a newspaper, as she entered, but he rose to his feet immediately, greeting her courteously.
‘I’m sorry,’ Philippa said when they were alone. ‘I should have telephoned first. I’m obviously too early …’
‘Pas du tout.’ He motioned her to the seat on the other side of the table. ‘Have you eaten?’
Philippa realised with embarrassment that the table was laid for two. ‘Oh—you’re expecting company as well.’
He smiled at her. He was casually dressed this morning, she noticed, in slim-fitting dark blue pants and a matching shirt, open at the neck to reveal the tanned column of his throat, and the first shadowing of hair on his chest.
He said, ‘I was expecting you, ma chère. Will you have some coffee?’ He lifted the pot and poured some into the other cup, then offered her cream and sugar which she refused.
Alain de Courcy took an apple from the bowl of fruit which had accompanied his breakfast and began to peel it.
‘You’ve had sufficient time to think?’
She nodded wordlessly.
‘So—what is your answer?’
She picked up the spoon and aimlessly stirred the dark aromatic brew in her cup, deliberately not looking at him.
‘I—will marry you, monsieur.’ She paused. ‘But there are conditions.’
‘I imagined there might be,’ he said with a certain irony. ‘Tell me about them.’
She said, ‘My father’s treatment is to start as soon as possible—and he’s to know nothing about our—arrangement.’
‘You are going to keep our marriage a secret from him? But why?’
‘Because he’d know why I was doing it, and he’d refuse to go to America—to let me sacrifice myself for him. I can’t risk that happening.’
‘I understand, but I am not sure you will be able to carry it through. There will come a time when he has to know.’
Philippa flushed dully. ‘You mean when—if I get pregnant? I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’
‘I did not entirely mean that,’ Alain said slowly. ‘If the treatment is successful, he will wish to take up his former life again, and you were a close part of that. Don’t you think he might notice you had acquired a husband?’
She said quietly, ‘If the treatment works—when he’s fully recovered, I’ll tell him everything, because it will be too late then for him to object, and I hope he’ll understand why I had to do it.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘If it doesn’t work, then it won’t matter anyway.’
She hesitated again. ‘Also, I was wondering whether you wanted me to have a medical examination.’
He put down the quarter of apple he was eating and stared at her. ‘Why should I wish such a thing? Are you feeling unwell? Do you believe your father’s illness is hereditary in some way?’
‘Oh, no.’ Philippa’s face was like a peony. ‘I was thinking over what you said about wanting a—a child—an heir. I thought maybe you’d want to check that I was capable …’
Alain lifted a hand and stemmed the halting words. ‘You are not some brood animal that I am purchasing,’ he said bitingly. ‘I think, when the time comes, that nature should be allowed to take its course, don’t you?’
She mumbled something in acute embarrassment.
‘I can’t hear you,’ he said with faint impatience. ‘And why don’t you look at me when you speak?’
She gave him a despairing glance. ‘I said—this is never going to work. I mean, no one in their right mind is ever—ever going to believe in this marriage.’
‘Pourquoi pas?’
‘Well, just look at me!’
‘I am looking,’ he said. ‘You are a little underweight, and your hair needs cutting. What else is there to say?’
Philippa’s hands clasped together tensely in her lap. ‘I don’t feel like anyone’s wife—especially someone who’s a millionaire and has got houses dotted all over France. I don’t kno
w what you expect …’
‘Believe me, I expect very little. At the beginning it will be enough that you exist—that you appear in public at my side.’ He shrugged. ‘As for my homes—I employ efficient staff.’ He gave her an ironic glance. ‘You will not have to keep the rooms clean or cook for me.’
‘But you’ll want me to act as hostess when you entertain—and I’ve never done anything like that before.’ Her voice broke a little as she remembered the endless sundrenched days with Gavin in the southwest of France, the casual camaraderie, the street markets and the tiny bistros.
‘You can speak,’ he said. ‘You can express yourself articulately. But I would be at your side—and I would naturally warn you if there were any topics of conversation best avoided with particular people.’
‘And I’d have to wear—different clothes.’
His mouth twisted in faint amusement. ‘Did you plan to spend the rest of your life in those deplorable jeans, ma petite?’
‘Of course not.’ Philippa was silent for a moment, then said jerkily, ‘I don’t think you realise just how fundamentally my whole life is going to change.’
‘Mine also. Marriage as a concept has no more appeal for me than for you, ma chère.’
‘Well, I still think it would make more sense if you married your cousin Sidonie,’ she said stubbornly, drinking the last of her coffee. ‘She must know you don’t care for her, and if she’s prepared to pretend …’
‘But she is not,’ Alain said coldly. ‘She would wish me to do so, however. She would expect me to act as if I was madly in love with her—to explain every absence from her side each minute of the day and night in order to spare myself tears, temper and jealous scenes. I would find that wearing in the extreme.’
‘I can imagine,’ Philippa said sarcastically. ‘I gather I’m not supposed to ask questions?’
