by Susan Lewis
‘My brother knows me well.’
‘Then I should appreciate it if you were to ask me to marry you now, and have it done with.’
If he was surprised at her bluntness, he didn’t show it. ‘But surely, asking you to marry me can hardly be described as dispensing with something disagreeable,’ he said.
The ambiguity of this remark did not escape her. ‘You are suggesting that instead of dispensing with me, you will be tying yourself to me?’
He inclined his head and sat back, blocking the window with his huge shoulders. ‘If that is the way you wish to interpret it …’
Fortunately, since she was at a loss for what to say next, the door opened then, and Fabienne brought in the coffee which she set out on the table beside Claudine. As she started to pour François rose to his feet and waved her away.
‘So,’ he said, as he poured the coffee himself, ‘the lady is eager for my proposal?’
She almost snatched the cup from him then set it back on the table and sat forward in her chair. ‘Why do you have to be so damned difficult about this? We both know why I am here, you have spoken to my father already, so why don’t you put us both out of our misery?’
‘Misery? You really are eager, Claudine.’ His picked up his cup and perched on the edge of the table. After a while he lifted his head to stare out of the window, giving her the distinct impression that his mind was elsewhere.
Her jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth in an effort to hold back her anger. ‘Aren’t you in the least bit intrigued as to what my answer will be?’ she said stiffly.
‘I already know what your answer will be,’ he answered. ‘If you were going to refuse me, you would have left Touraine by now.’
‘Perhaps I wanted to give myself the satisfaction of seeing your face when I turned you down,’ she said in an icy voice.
‘Perhaps,’ he admitted. ‘But I doubt it.’
Her outrage was swallowing her words at such a rate that her mouth was opening and closing in the most mortifying silent fury, and for one horrible moment, just for the need to make a noise, she came very close to thumping her hand on the table.
Her temper seemed to amuse him, and wandering over to the chair facing hers, he settled into it, resting one foot on the other knee and leaning back with a critical air, as if he were assessing a theatrical performance.
‘I have never,’ she declared, ‘in all my life, met anyone as utterly detestable as you. You make me say and do things I never dreamed of doing before this. I had no idea, until now, that I was even capable of feeling such dislike as I feel for you.’
‘It cheers me to hear it. At twenty-two it’s about time you grew up.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that you have all the hallmarks of an over-indulged child. It’s high time your eyes were opened to the reality of the world and the people in it. You will find, I’m afraid, that not everyone is as nice, or as obedient to your whims, as you would like them to be.’
‘How dare you say that! How dare you even suggest …’
‘I dare,’ he interrupted. ‘Also, I will not be dictated to. If you want a proposal of marriage from me, you will get it when I am ready and not before.’
She leapt to her feet, and gathering up her crop and hat, she stalked out of the library, through the drawing-room and into the hall.
‘Claudine,’ he said, strolling out behind her, ‘it is raining outside and you don’t have your car.’
‘I don’t care,’ she snapped. ‘I’d rather walk home than stay another moment in this house with you.’ And flinging the door wide, she ran out into the rain.
Any thought she might have had that he would follow her was firmly dispelled when the door closed behind her. For the moment she was too angry to care, and with her head held high she marched off down the drive, furious with herself for having been so spineless as to run away, but too proud to turn back. But by the time she approached the gates she was regretting her hastiness even more; apart from anything else, it was a very long walk back to Montvisse.
Then she heard the gratifying sound of a car crunching along the gravel behind her, and with the smug feeling of having scored a victory, she stuck her nose in the air and quickened her pace, determined that he should beg before she deigned to get in. But as the car pulled alongside, she saw that it wasn’t François who was following her, but Marcel.
Without a word, she climbed into the back of the Bentley. However, instead of turning out of the drive onto the forest road, Marcel put the car into reverse and took her back to the château, where François was waiting at the bottom of the steps.
He opened the car door and waited for her to get out, but she stubbornly refused to move. In the end he reached in, took her by the wrist and hauled her out.
She stood facing him, her limpid blue eyes flashing with rage. Neither of them spoke, but the air between them was charged with antagonism. In the end he raised an eyebrow, as if suddenly bored with the whole charade – and before she could stop herself, she had lifted her crop to strike him. In one swift movement he snatched it from her and passed it to Marcel.
‘Go inside,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ she seethed.
He took a step towards her, and grabbing her hand, he twisted it between them. ‘Either you walk back into that house of your own volition, or I drag you. The choice is yours.’
‘Why?’ she cried, willing herself not to struggle no matter how painful his grip. ‘Give me one good reason why I should!’
‘Because there is something I wish to say to you that I think you would prefer I didn’t say here, in front of Marcel and all the other servants who are no doubt watching from the windows.’
Once they were back in the library and he had closed the door behind them, he waited for her to turn and face him.
‘Well?’ she said, trying not to be thrown by the appalling contempt in his eyes.
He regarded her for some time, then in a chillingly matter-of-fact tone he said, ‘I don’t want to marry you, Claudine. I don’t want you as my wife.’
‘Then what the hell am I doing here?’ she spat. ‘You’re the one who made the agreement with my father.’
He walked past her to stand in front of the empty hearth. ‘Do you think I imagined for one minute that you would seriously entertain the idea of an arranged marriage?’ he said, turning to face her.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she shot back. ‘It’s not so unusual. Hundreds of people marry by arrangement.’
‘But you have no need to. Your father was quite adamant about that, even to me. So why don’t you go back to England and marry someone there? From what I hear, there are plenty of suitable men who would be only too happy to oblige.’
That brought a smile to her lips and she sauntered towards him, stopping at the table where the coffee was laid out. ‘And from what I hear,’ she drawled, as she started to pour, ‘there are plenty of women in Paris simply longing to hook you. So why me? Why enter into an arrangement with my father?’
‘You already know the answer to that.’
‘Meaning that I was your father’s choice, not yours?’
‘Isn’t that what arranged marriages are all about?’
She nodded slowly. ‘But now you are faced with it, you haven’t got the guts to go through with it. Is that right?’
‘It’s not a question of guts.’
‘Then what is it a question of?’
When he didn’t answer, she took a sip of the lukewarm coffee. Her eyes, over the rim of the cup, were holding his. ‘What’s the matter, François?’ she said, replacing the cup on the table. ‘Isn’t she suitable?’
‘Isn’t who suitable?’ he said, with a sigh of exasperation.
‘The woman who is my rival for your affections, of course.’
He closed his eyes, and turning to lean against the mantleshelf, he rested his head on the heel of his hand. The last thing he wanted now was an argument about Élise Pasca
le. ‘Who are you talking about, Claudine?’ he said.
‘I believe her name is Hortense,’ she answered.
Not a muscle of his body moved, but she was acutely aware that the air in the room had suddenly changed. Then, before she knew what was happening, his hand shot out and he jerked her towards him. The expression on his face was horrifying. His pupils were boring into hers with blinding hatred, the gruesome scar was pulsating with life, and the fire of his breath scalded her face. ‘Who told you about Hortense?’ he snarled.
‘No one,’ she answered, doing nothing to break free.
‘Then how do you know her name?’
‘I heard it at a dinner party.’
‘What do you know?’ he growled, pulling her even closer. ‘What did they tell you?’
‘Nothing!’ she cried. ‘Nothing at all!’
‘Then why call her a rival?’
‘Well, isn’t she?’
His lips curled with loathing and he pushed her away. She fell across the chair behind her, hitting her head on the winged back. ‘You disgust me,’ he spat.
‘Isn’t she?’ she repeated, in a virulent whisper.
He didn’t answer, but she could see that his control was still very close to breaking.
‘Why don’t you marry her, François?’ she goaded. ‘Or won’t she have you?’
‘Leave it, Claudine,’ he warned, ‘just leave it.’
‘Not until you tell me …’
‘I said leave it!’ he roared.
But she couldn’t. Something inside her was making her push him, and she could not stop it. ‘Who is she, François? Tell me. You loved her, didn’t you? You loved her, but she didn’t love you.’
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back.
‘But there’s more to it than that,’ she went on. ‘There has to be, or …’ The old duchess’s words swept into her mind then. ‘Poor Hortense, how we all still miss her.’ ‘Where is she, François? Where is your beloved Hortense? Did she run away with someone else? Did she …?’
His fist crashed against the mantlepiece as he yelled, ‘She’s dead!’
Claudine sat motionless, her eyes wide with shock as she stared up at him. The word was still there, hanging in the air between them as if it had cast a paralysing spell.
Finally he pushed the hair back from his face and looked up. Then, as he stared at her, his mouth started to twist in a sadistic smile. ‘Would you like to know how she died?’ he sneered. ‘Would you like to know how Hortense de Bourchain lost her life?’ Claudine started to shake her head, but he went on. ‘I killed her, that’s how. I killed her. It’s how I received the scar on my face – you wanted to know that too, didn’t you? Well, Hortense did it! She scarred my face and I killed her for it. I murdered her. So, do you want to marry me now? Do you want to marry a killer?’
Claudine flinched as if he had hit her, then closed her eyes as his face started to swim before her. She was too agitated to speak, too horrified to look at him again, and yet at the same time something deep within her was forcing her to look beneath the terrible words, compelling her to understand why he was doing this. Then, almost without knowing what she was doing, her head snapped up, and looking at him through a blaze of anger she hissed, ‘Yes, I’ll many you!’
It was a long time before he tore his eyes from hers. At last he did and walked across the room to his father’s desk, where he stood with his back to her. She watched him, waiting for him to speak. In the end he turned to face her, and leaning against the edge of the desk, he said, ‘So you’re prepared to marry a killer?’
She pulled herself up from the chair and went to stand in front of him. Then raising her chin so that she was looking clear into his eyes, she said, ‘No, I’m going to marry a liar.’
His laugh was harsh. ‘A liar, she says. And what makes you so sure I’m lying?’
‘Because you are,’ she said. ‘You’re doing it to stop me wanting to marry you.’
He lowered his head, then looking up again, he sneered, ‘Go home, Claudine. Go back to England.’ When she merely continued to stare at him with those unnervingly beautiful eyes, he laughed. ‘You’re nothing but a child! A child in a woman’s body.’
Still she didn’t answer, but watched as his expression changed to one of savage amusement.
‘You would like me to make you a woman?’ he said nastily.
She looked down as he lifted a hand and laid it over her breast. Then she looked back to his face.
‘Why do you want to marry me, Claudine?’ he said.
‘Does there have to be a reason?’
His eyes narrowed, then it was suddenly as if the fight had gone out of him, and shaking his head slowly, he said, ‘No,’ and put his hand back on the table beside him.
It was odd, she thought, that the only sensation she could feel was his hand on her breast, even though he had taken it away. She knew that at any moment the life would return to her body, that she would be able to move again, but as long as his eyes held hers it was as though she was imprisoned by his scrutiny.
As if he knew the effect he was having on her, his mouth curled in disdain. ‘You’ll live to regret this day, Claudine. You think yourself clever now for the way you wrenched a proposal from me, but in a year from now, ten years from now, you’ll look back on this day …’ He stopped, and as his eyes swept across her lips she felt her breath start to quicken. ‘What does it matter?’ he said. ‘It’s your life, not mine. If you want to throw it away … Shall we set the date?’
Before she could answer, the door burst open and Solange came bounding across the room in a hair-net and dressing-gown. ‘Oh là là, I knew it was going to happen today!’ she cried, gathering Claudine into her arms. ‘I had the feeling, in the middle of the night. I woke Louis to tell him. Oh, François, mon cheri, she is going to make you such a wonderful wife. I am so happy. We must tell Jean-Paul to bring the champagne. Monique! Where is Monique! She must call Céline and tell her to come right away. Ah, Claudine, you are going to make my Louis such a happy man today.’
As Claudine returned the embrace, her eyes found François’, and with the briefest flicker of his brows he acknowledged his defeat.
‘I don’t suppose,’ she said, as Solange went rushing off to find Jean-Paul, ‘that I stand any chance of a more romantic proposal?’
‘You suppose correctly.’
She leaned her head to one side and studied him for a while. ‘Do you really despise me?’
‘It is difficult to despise someone for whom one has no feelings at all.’
A smile spread across her lips, then she began to laugh as she retrieved her hat and crop and walked to the door. When she reached it, she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘As I said before, I am going to marry a liar,’ she declared, and with a triumphant grin she turned to follow Solange from the room.
– 6 –
THE ENGAGEMENT WAS announced, the date for the wedding was set: it was to take place at the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud at the beginning of September, less than three months away. The haste was because Beavis could remain in France only until mid-September, when he was obliged to leave for a spell of duty in Berlin – but Claudine was used to having her calendar dictated by the diplomatic corps, and she felt too that, given the circumstances, a long engagement would be nothing short of a farce. As far as she was concerned, the quicker they were married the better. François expressed no feelings on the matter at all.
He remained at Lorvoire for five days after the announcement of their engagement, then left for Paris. While he was gone he made no contact with Claudine, though she knew he was regularly in touch with his father. She could not decide whether she was glad that his disturbing presence was removed from her, or whether – in some curious way she could not define – she missed him. Once or twice she allowed herself to consider what he had told her about Hortense, but she did not dwell on it, for she was quite convinced he had been lying. She also tried to dismiss from her mind the peculiar em
otions he stirred in her – and did her best to spend a calm and cheerful time helping Solange and Tante Céline with the wedding arrangements.
Then, one morning, four days before he’d said he would return, Claudine arrived at Lorvoire to find François’ car parked in the courtyard outside the wine caves. At the sight of the large black Citröen her heart somersaulted violently, and as she drew up alongside it, she saw him standing just inside the entrance to one of the caves talking to Armand St Jacques. Slowly she climbed from the car, waiting for him to see her, but when he did eventually look up, he merely turned away again and continued his conversation.
Seething with indignation, and without even thinking what she would say when she got there, she marched towards him. Before she reached the cave Armand came out, and seeing the look on her face, instantly made himself scarce.
Claudine barely noticed him. François had his back to her now, and seemed intent on the bottles lined up on a counter in front of him. Hearing her footsteps, he looked up, and the harsh impatience that flashed across his face inflamed her temper even further.
‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped, before she could speak.
She stared at him, her anger for the moment blunted by his rudeness.
‘Why haven’t you returned to England?’ he demanded.
‘England?’ she repeated stupidly.
For several moments he glared at her, then with a shrug he said, ‘Do you not have affairs to attend to in England?’
‘No,’ she answered, anger tightening her beautiful features. ‘My father’s lawyers and the staff at Rafferty Lodge are dealing with matters there.’
‘So you are staying here, in Touraine, until we are married?’
‘Unless you have any objection?’
He gave a derisive laugh. Then suddenly his eyes were hard, and leaning his face towards hers, he hissed, ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Nothing!’ she seethed, cowering from the venom in his voice.
‘Then go! Go away from here. I don’t want you!’
She couldn’t help flinching at the malice in his voice, but quickly mustering the full might of her fury, she said, ‘If you think your atrocious behaviour is going to make me change my mind, then think again, François. The only way you’re going to get out of this marriage now is to call it off yourself.’
