No, at present he was unable to own a dog. Or form any other kind of attachment. Even if he had wished to, he travelled too much.
The thought of Georgiana came back into his mind. For once, he didn’t shove it away. Sometimes he needed to think of her, or he would go mad. Work occupied him most of the time, but not always. Today was a beautiful day. He accepted the thought of her, and the pain, quite calmly, and with love.
There was always love.
His wife. Beautiful, although that had been the least interesting thing about her. Everybody had said it was a brilliant match, an old-fashioned, society match; he was the younger son of Baron Montfort, and she was an earl’s sister, willowy, white skinned, and graceful; although he wasn’t to inherit any estates, nor she, they both had money, enough to live very well indeed. Certainly enough for houses in town and the country, and horses, and enough to put any number of good-looking, well-bred children through public school. And she was intelligent, too. He had been to Cambridge, and Georgiana had studied at the Sorbonne—just to be different, he had teased her. Theirs was a glittering marriage, the congregation at the tiny country church in Alfriston thick with titles and society photographers. Everybody waited for the fruit of such a dynastic alliance, and speculated on the godparents. A duke, or perhaps even a minor royal?
But nobody had seen it as they had. Hugh couldn’t care less about dynasties and suitable matches. He didn’t care about Georgiana’s finishing school or her family’s estates in Scotland. All he cared about was her—kind, sexy, funny. So kind, she always saw the good in everybody.
She was his own darling, and he had wanted children with her more than anything in the world. Lots of children. Ahhh—a fresh stab, then, at the thought of the baby. Georgie shrieking with joy, racing downstairs waving a plastic stick at him with a couple of blue lines in the little window. And how he’d caught her up and whirled her round and then set her down again gingerly, afraid he might have knocked it loose or something. It was only a little speck. . . .
It had ended one night in Dublin as they walked home together after a friend’s party. She had stepped out into one of the narrow streets. He heard the motorbike before he saw it; the old soldier’s reflexes, still keen, had lunged, reached for her—he had caught only her dress. He could still feel the silky fabric brushing ineffectually against him, still see her crumple, and horrified eyes under a helmet. The man sped off. He wasn’t looking for a num berplate, he was crouched over her, cradling her. Screaming for help, but knowing, all the same, it was too late. The glassy look in her eyes. And yet so little blood, just a touch at the temple. Georgiana staring up at him, quite mildly, looking amazed.
He sat with her in the hospital until the undertaker came. He had gone out to Ireland with a family, and flown back with a coffin.
After that there were no more women. None to speak of. The odd whore, when he felt he couldn’t take it. But those girls, even though they were high class, whatever that meant, disgusted him. Because he was using them, and afterwards, when the hot need had evaporated, he disgusted himself.
Ah, now his mood really was blackening. The image of Pete Stockton, lusting after those shopgirls, forced its way into his consciousness. He was like Pete. He, Hugh Montfort. It was an awful thought. He vowed never to do it again, but it was a promise made, and broken, several times now, and he did not trust himself.
Montfort stopped dead in the street and breathed in.
“Watch where yer goin’, guv,” somebody snapped at him.
He focussed directly on a shop window. Liberty—the mannequin wearing some outrageous Butler & Wilson costume pieces. At once the thoughts of fat Pete and his own weaknesses were banished. He had thought of Georgiana, and now he could move on. Work had become his life, and now he had been presented with a chance at the ultimate triumph.
Hugh reached his front door and let himself in. As ever, his surroundings instantly soothed him. He had the house set up exactly as he wanted it: rush matting on the floors, dark red wallpaper, William Morris curtains—originals—heavy against his windows. Together with his antique furniture, some of it a gift from his elder brother, taken directly from his childhood home, the whole thing provided a sanctuary. He shut the door on London and was almost back in the country again.
He hung his coat up and went straight into his study. The laptop was perched incongruously on his ancient mahogany desk, but he didn’t reach to turn it on; Montfort needed to think, just to think.
Was there a way of approaching this problem? Something he could do that would secure the deal, without the need for expensive legal counsel and investment bankers?
But there was, of course. The woman. Sophie Massot. It was all down to her now. With her 30 percent, obtaining a majority stake would be easy.
He smiled. Of course, it would be aggravating, having to go to Paris and charm the smug young widow of such a playboy. He, who had known such happiness in marriage, despised men and women who made a convenience of it. Sophie Massot couldn’t wait to get her hands on the château, the riches, the servants, and had never objected to such a charade. She was like so many wives of his acquaintance, little better than a hooker—just someone with better marketing.
But facts were facts. Mrs. Massot had the largest shareholding and was now chairman of the board. And it was all to his advantage. Women—he could hardly keep them away from him. Sophie Massot, Montfort thought, would not be a problem. He sat down at his desk, took out a pen, and began to make notes on his proposals.
Chapter 7
“Come on, babes.”
Polly stood there impatiently, tapping her foot. She was wearing jeans and those ridiculous Wellington boots that swallowed up what was, Tom reflected, really a very well-turned calf. These she had teamed with a boxy T-shirt that covered up all her shape, and under that were probably those greying Marks & Spencer undergarments she favoured, despite his occasional presents of sexy lingerie—La Perla and Agent Provocateur. She complained the lace was scratchy.
It annoyed him that Polly could be so inelegant and yet still look good. She had that very pale English skin, milky, and the bright blue eyes that always go so well with red hair. Several of his fellow undergraduates stared longingly at her as they walked past. Massot would like to knock their heads off. It was disrespectful; Polly was with him.
“I told you, chérie, I don’t have time today.”
“But you should make some. We don’t get weather like this every day, or hadn’t you noticed?”
Polly gestured to the sky with one of her aristocratic hands—long, delicate fingers, but the effect was ruined by the fact she invariably bit her nails. And never applied polish.
“I know.”
The sun was indeed blazing down from a deep blue sky, punctuated only by a few tiny white clouds, scattered across it like daisies.
“Might even turn out to be another hot summer. I fucking love global warming,” Polly sighed. She lifted her plastic bag. “I’ve got everything. Scotch eggs.”
“Disgusting,” Tom said. But he gazed at her fondly. She was a lot of fun.
“Baguette and pâté,” she added, ignoring him. “Strawberries. Bar of Dairy Milk. And a bottle of champagne.”
Despite himself he glanced at the champagne; it was an inferior brand.
“That stuff is horrible. All blended. The worst on the market.”
She coloured. “We don’t all own fucking vineyards, Tom. It was cheaper, okay? I get what I can afford.”
He wanted to reassure her.
“I told you that you don’t need to pay for anything, Polly. I’ll take care of it.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” She smiled. “Look, after the first two glasses you won’t give a toss about the quality, trust me.”
“I’d love to go on a picnic with you,” he said, wistfully. Actually, Tom couldn’t think of one thing he’d rather do. “But I’ve got a meeting this afternoon. I must prepare for it.”
She snorted. “You, prepa
re for a tutorial? That’s a new one.”
“It’s not a tutorial,” Tom explained. He wished he could tell her everything, but he didn’t want to expose his mother. “It’s family business, and very important.”
Polly ran her bitten fingers through her lush red hair and sat down on the bed.
“You’re no fun,” she said. “Well, I suppose it’ll keep. You can shove this in your fridge. Apparently it’ll be nice tomorrow, too.”
“Sounds good,” he said, absently.
She reclined against the pillows, letting her hair spill against them. “I bet if I wanted a shag you’d have time.”
She grinned, and Tom smiled back at her. “Make love,” he said.
Polly trailed her fingers across the shapeless T-shirt. The simple motion pressed it to her breasts. Tom tried not to look, but it was difficult. Even though he knew her body so well, it seemed fresh to him every time. Tom sensed his familiar, implacable stirring; the letter from the lawyers became less interesting.
“Mmm,” she said archly. “Is that what you call it? Chéri?”
She rolled about over his silk sheets, a tumbling, glorious mess of legs and breasts and—
“What’s this?”
“What?” Tom asked, wishing she hadn’t stopped.
“This,” she said, coldly. She tugged at something that sprang free from the side of his bed. Cheap and padded. He recognized it at once. Gemma’s Wonderbra.
“It must be yours,” he said, thinking on his feet.
She stood up, looking daggers at him. Polly was vulgar and low class, he thought, ruefully, but not unintelligent.
“Go fuck yourself,” she said.
“Polly.” She was grabbing her bag. “I can explain,” he lied.
“Don’t bother. Really.” The blue eyes stared him down. “I’ve got no interest. You’re slime.”
“Give me another chance—”
“Oh, grow up,” she said, slamming the door.
He thought momentarily about going after her, then dismissed it. It wouldn’t work, he knew her. She thought she was so worldly, but a tiny dalliance with another . . . okay, a few others . . . and her self-esteem would be shattered. No, Polly Jenkins was not likely to forgive him, and he wouldn’t waste his efforts trying to make her.
Tom felt a pang of loss and tried to dismiss it. Besides, he would soon have finished with her, anyway, he told himself. Maybe not immediately, but surely soon. Polly was never intended to be his wife . . . right? She had none of the qualities he was looking for, well, besides intelligence and sex appeal, he conceded. And good humour. Well, okay, but none of the important things Pierre Massot’s son must have in a bride. Birth. Refinement of dress and manners. Even simple grooming was beyond Polly.
Tom wondered what she would do now. Would she go back to her rooms, or would she go and cry on the shoulder of Mark Allston, the rugby player he had seen her with last Tuesday in the Union bar?
But, no, he wouldn’t go there. . . . They were done.Tom looked at the Wonderbra, dangling pathetically over the chair where Polly had tossed it. He felt a flash of anger. There was no doubt Gemma had left it there deliberately, for Polly to find. He had not thought she would be so devious, with her placid face and mild temper. But women do not “forget” their brassieres. When Gemma crept out of his bed this morning, she’d made sure she left a calling card.
It was cunning, in a sort of animal way, and bold. But he had no admiration, only anger. He was Thomas Massot and not to be manipulated by some girl from the town. I don’t feel the loss of Polly, he insisted to himself; only that it’s over earlier than I’d planned. Such things should be my decision. I’ll finish with Gemma today.
It was a slightly risky policy, because it left him with only Flora, the Scots girl, a dark-headed mathematician and the least interesting of the three. And he had to have a woman, or more exactly, women. He had needs. One could not ignore them.
But there are always new women, Thomas told himself. It is a simple matter to procure one. A bunch of flowers, a fine restaurant, a couple of smiles, and listening to their chatter without one’s eyes glazing over. That was the whole of his technique, all he needed. For now he had Flora. She’d do for a week or so. He planned to be in London a lot, away from Oxford, anyway. There was business to see to. And the added advantage that he would not run into Polly.
Enough! He was annoyed with himself for thinking so much about one bloody girl. He was wasting so much time he might as well have gone on the stupid picnic.
To distract himself from thoughts of Polly, Thomas picked up the letters on his desk and skimmed them again. He had whittled the candidates down to three, and Messrs. Elgin and Hartford of Lincoln’s Inn made the best case for his business. He had researched them. They were a small firm, but very old and of impeccable reputation. That was the clincher. The other firms had made headlines and won big judgements, but he had to consider more than simple victory. There was the reputation of his mother, he thought carefully, and his father’s memory, and the good name of House Massot. What was to be done had to be done quietly.
Yes, assuming the interview this afternoon was satisfactory, Elgin and Hartford would be getting his retainer.
He was suddenly hungry. Women and food, Tom seemed to need them all the time these days. He glanced at the plastic bag Polly had left on the floor, then riffled through it. There was indeed a baguette and some coarse pâté, English rather than French, but it would do. And, he thought as he expertly cracked open the champagne, Polly had been right. After a glass or two he wouldn’t care. It was inferior, but he could force it down.
Maybe I’d better stop at two, Tom thought. It wouldn’t do to arrive at the English lawyers hammered. These were the affairs of House Massot. If he was going to claim his inheritance, he’d have to be sure to act like a man.
He poured himself one modest glass, but, as he spread the pâté thickly over the bread, he wished Polly were still there to share it with him.
Chapter 8
The restaurant was full. It was well-designed, and the lobby was perfectly spacious, decorated in clean tones of pale green and white, with carved oak benches and plenty of chairs, but that did not hide the fact that an awful lot of people were waiting to be seated.
“But my reservation was for half an hour ago,” an American man directly in front of them said loudly and angrily.
Sophie heard the receptionist murmur something calming, but resolute, to the customer. So sorry, other diners were taking longer than expected; nothing to be done; a drink at the bar, perhaps?
“I’m afraid we won’t get a table.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Gregoire Lazard said easily.
“But all these people have reservations; they are still waiting. We can go somewhere else,” Sophie said. “I honestly don’t mind. I haven’t been out to lunch in ages. A bowl of soup in a bistro is fine for me.”
Lazard shook his head. “A bowl of soup! For Sophie Massot! You are priceless.” He lifted his fingers and crooked them, very slightly. The receptionist noticed, and made another discreet gesture. Within two seconds a waiter was at their side.
“M. Lazard, how nice to see you again, sir,” he said. “If you will follow me, sir, Madame, your table is ready.”
“What!” exploded the man in front of them. “If there’s a table, that’s my goddamn table . . .”
“That is a very important personage, M’sieur,” said the receptionist icily, “and if you cannot contain yourself I will have to ask you to leave.”
The man hesitated, as Sophie walked past him, embarrassed. She looked at him apologetically. He shrugged.
“Whatever,” he said.
The waiter led Lazard and Sophie to a table by the window; it had a wonderful view of the boulevard below and the roofs and grey stone walls of Paris. She sat down nervously, looking back in the direction of the irate diner.
“We skipped the queue,” she said.
Gregoire smiled. “What a wonderful
ly English thing to be concerned about. But he will not leave. It takes the average person several months just to secure a reservation here. He will not storm out, he hasn’t the flair.”
“You have great influence,” Sophie remarked.
He shrugged. “It is not me, Madame, it is your company. The wife of the proprietor gets a discount, and we entertain many of our contacts here.” He scrutinized her face. “You are still concerned about that monsieur? Allow me.”
Lazard beckoned and another waiter glided to their table. He spoke rapidly to him in French, too fast for Sophie to follow. The man nodded and moved away, and seconds later Sophie saw the angry customer and his frazzled-looking wife escorted to a table.
She smiled lightly. “Now I’m impressed, Gregoire!”
“You are so considerate; I must be also. I have told them to send over a magnum of champagne from us. Veuve Cliquot La Grande Dame, very appropriate,” he said, grinning. Then his face changed. “Oh—I didn’t mean—”
Sophie shook her head. He had meant to compliment her with the grande dame, great lady, and then realized the champagne was named Veuve Cliquot, the widow Cliquot.
“You don’t have to tread on eggshells,” she said.
He looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”
“It’s an expression. You don’t need to—to dance around the subject, or be afraid to mention my husband. I know I am in mourning, but that is because he has just been declared to be dead.” Sophie took a sip of water. “It would have been wrong to put on these clothes before. But I have come to terms with my loss. It has been many years.”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“I believe I am acting as he would have wanted me to. For the sake of our son, Thomas. And of course, the company, which he took great pride in; I am just checking that all is well with it.” Sophie sighed, thinking of the Massot receptionist, so terrified of her. “I wish nobody would be afraid of me, Gregoire. Nobody has to mind their tongue or watch that they don’t bring up Pierre. I am moving on. It’s why I’m here.”
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