A House Called Bellevigne

by Gilbert, Jacqueline

  That was how Lucien found her on his return. Giving a smothered oath, he deposited the two glasses he was carrying and knelt by her chair, concern in his voice as he asked:

  ‘Georges hurt you? Forgive me, I had no idea …’

  Troy shook her head, pulling herself together. ‘No, no, monsieur!’ and hastily lifting a tear-streaked face from his handkerchief, went on brokenly: ‘I… I’m so sorry,’ and she pointed a trembling finger at the flattened flowers. ‘P—poor Georges!’ She began to laugh again and Lucien’s troubled face, so close to hers, relaxed into a smile and his eyes crinkled attractively. Their eyes were level and Troy found that his were grey and quite startlingly intense. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, feebly, ‘I think I’ve had too much wine.’

  He rose and slapped half-heartedly at the knee of his trouser, then straightening, said: ‘I’m glad you can see the funny side of the matter. You’re very generous, mademoiselle, more generous than Georges deserves. I apologise on his behalf.’

  Troy too had risen and in an effort to hide the peculiar fluttering of discomposure that this man seemed to be producing within her, replied quickly: ‘No harm done,’ she smiled, ‘apart from the flowers. I’m sure, when he’s sober, that Georges is quite a sweetie.’ She hesitated and said shyly: ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘It was nothing. I also apologise for not making my presence known to you before Georges’s arrival, but the balcony seemed to be a large enough refuge for us both.’

  There was a smile in his voice as if he were remembering her antics, then he indicated the glasses. ‘I thought Georges’s idea a sound one… but perhaps it would be dangerous to take more of this heady stuff?’ and his brows rose questioningly.

  Was there a challenge in his eyes? In the half-light Troy could not be sure. He wore no rings on his fingers and somehow she was sure that Madeleine, whoever she was, was not his wife.

  Troy said lightly: ‘Never let it be said that we English are scared of a bit of danger, monsieur,’ and watched as he poured the wine into the glasses, taking one when it was offered. ‘We can hardly toast danger, however, that might tempt providence, might it not?’ and she lifted large innocent eyes to his, glass poised.

  The grey eyes gleamed. ‘How true. Shall we then drink to -‘ he stopped, thought a moment, and went on solemnly: ‘chance encounters?’ and without waiting for a reply raised his glass in salute.

  Chance encounters was as good a toast as any, thought Troy, raising her own glass and taking a sip of the wine, for nothing could have been more chancy than this one. She studied him curiously and liked what she saw. Thick dark hair topped a long thin face, brow, cheekbones and jaw all prominent. Quirky brows were set above those startling grey eyes and a nose that was long and pointed. His mouth was wide and well-shaped with a slightly fuller lower lip, and a deep horizontal cleft redeemed an over-long chin. It was, she decided, a foxy face, sharp, bright and alert. Deep lines beneath eyes and either side of the mouth promised a sense of humour. He was a natty dresser too. A light-coloured pin-striped suit sat well on a slim, fit frame and a plain dark shirt with striped toning tie completed the sartorial ensemble. He was of medium height and looked to be in his thirties. Troy’s eyes travelled back to his face, the artist in her responding to the interesting contours as her first instinctive thought was strengthened—that here was a face she could sculpt. Not the kind of thing one could say to a stranger.

  She suddenly realised that the appraisal was mutual and, blushing, she turned to lean against the balcony rail. Would he make his excuses and leave? After a moment he joined her and together they looked out over the city.

  The silence was not a particularly companionable one—how could it be, between strangers? Troy had always thought herself capable of making conversation, she had what was termed an easy, warm personality, and yet she was feeling oddly tongue-tied. It was unnerving. She was extremely aware of him, of his nearness, although his manner was certainly not obtrusive. In fact, it was almost detached. She was saved from making an inane remark by Lucien observing conversationally:

  ‘Georges drinks to soften the fear of growing old and invariably makes a beeline for the most beautiful girl at the party.’ His head turned and he smiled. ‘I commend his choice this evening and ought to feel guilty that I’m standing in for him—but I’m not.’

  How ridiculous to feel so pleased at the compliment, which had been voiced calmly and without the usual innuendoes. It was not true, of course, there was a bevy of beauty in the lighted room behind the closed windows, but she did feel that she was looking her best. She was wearing something of which she was particularly fond—wide-bottomed culottes. It was a striking outfit, the material fine and silky, in one of her favourite colours, a dark sea-green. The halter neckline enhanced the slope of her shoulders and the divided skirt emphasised her long legs and slim figure to flattering advantage.

  ‘Georges means no harm,’ Lucien continued. ‘I’ve delivered him to his wife and she has taken him home.’ He moved position, resting elbow and hip against the rail, his body turned towards Troy. ‘It’s a pity, is it not, when the passing years creep up unawares and the mirror becomes one’s enemy? A pity, and quite futile.’ For a moment there was austerity in the lines of his face and then, as swiftly, it was replaced by a humorous expression. The bright, alert eyes rested upon her. ‘You have no need for worries as yet, mademoiselle, and as for me—eh bien! I never look in the mirror if it is to be avoided,’ and his teeth gleamed in a slightly sardonic smile.

  Oh, brother! thought Troy in comical dismay. He might not be handsome, but then handsome men had never attracted her, she reflected quickly, but he was mighty interesting! Never before had she met a man who physically attracted her so much, so soon… and that clever, whimsical face, she was sure, masked a keen, intelligent brain. She wanted him to go on talking, almost wanted to be disillusioned.

  ‘Do you know the reason for this party, monsieur? I’m a last-minute guest and don’t know my host and hostess.’

  ‘Jeannette and Armand are celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary … leurs noces de vermeil. Do you not think they are to be commended?’ A brow quirked.

  ‘Ah … do I hear a touch of cynicism, monsieur?’

  A gleam of humour flashed in his eyes. ‘Possibly … although it was intended to be realism. I am only an onlooker, you understand, not a participant in the marriage stakes.’ His flippant tone changed. ‘Come, we will drink to Jeannette and Armand … may they continue to share happiness and good health together.’ He drank and Troy followed suit. ‘No need to drink to their wealth,’ Lucien added slyly, ‘for Armand is a wily banker. However, like Georges, he is a member of that dangerous age, the fifties, when we men try to turn the clock back!’ He burst out into a laugh. ‘You must forgive me if I am a little obsessed with passing time tonight, mademoiselle. You see, I am also having my own celebration, for I have reached the decidedly interesting age of thirty-four.’

  ‘Today is your birthday?’ asked Troy.

  Lucien inclined his head. ‘Oui, mon anniversaire.’ He shrugged eloquently. ‘Perhaps I am not so different from Georges, after all. Maybe, at heart, we all want eternal youth and beauty.’

  ‘You consider beauty to be an asset, monsieur?’ Disappointment shot through her.

  The amazing brows rose. ‘Mais oui! How can we possibly go through life without beauty?’ His eyes narrowed, as if sensing he had failed her, and added dryly: ‘But as no one person’s idea of beauty is necessarily that of another’s, life becomes delightfully unpredictable,’ and he smiled lazily.

  Troy found herself smiling back. She held out his handkerchief.

  ‘Thank you for this. I would offer to wash it for you, but I’m moving on tomorrow.’

  He put a hand to his forehead. ‘What am I thinking of? Your culottes

  .. .’

  ‘It’s all right … the material is quite dry and my shawl took most of the deluge,’ said Troy hastily, and looked vaguel
y round for the missing shawl.

  ‘Nevertheless, the cleaning bill will be reimbursed.’

  His voice became that of someone used to being obeyed.

  ‘Very well,’ assured Troy meekly, adding with a grin: ‘It was too good a wine to spill.’

  He shot her a look and then smiled his agreement. ‘Here is my Paris address to which you will send the bill. You will humour me in this, mademoiselle?’ and giving her a challenging look as if he intuitively knew that she intended taking the matter no further, he handed her a card which he had taken from his inner pocket, adding formally: ‘Lucien Charon,’ and paused, waiting.

  ‘Troy Maitland,’ supplied Troy, taking the card and slipping it into her bag.

  ‘Troie?’ He pronounced it in French, quizzically. ‘Your name is an unusual one.’

  ‘Troy is merely a childhood diminutive which stayed. My name is Victoria.’

  ‘Victoire.’ The name rolled over his tongue, giving it a new dimension. ‘So, Victoire, you are en vacances in my country?’

  ‘I’m just beginning my holiday, monsieur,’ prevaricated Troy. Her personal history was far too involved to go into with someone she would never see again, and with the observation came the swift perception that she wished it could be otherwise.

  His hand gestured to the city below. ‘Paris in May is very beautiful.’

  ‘I think Paris is beautiful any time,’ confessed Troy, and received a slanting glance.

  ‘Ah, we agree on one form of beauty, mademoiselle.’

  She gave a soft laugh. ‘So we do,’ and went on a little diffidently: ‘You speak excellent English, Monsieur Charon,’ hoping that he would satisfy her curiosity.

  He gave a deprecating shrug of his shoulders. ‘I spent two years working in one of your large banking organisations. It is necessary to learn your language, Mademoiselle Maitland. The English, as a general rule, do not put themselves to the task of learning any tongue but their own and are most annoyed when they cannot be understood.’ There was no force behind his words, the tone was lightly bantering.

  It drew forth a reluctant laugh from Troy, who said ruefully: ‘I’m afraid you’re right.’ She almost told him then that she was outside the general rule, that she had put herself willingly to the task. The desire to surprise him, to please him, rushed over her and her lips opened and closed, the words swallowed. Her fingers tightened on the glass in her hands, her thoughts in a jumbled whirl. God, this is ridiculous! she thought wildly. I hardly Know the man—why should I want to please him? Confusion swept over her and she was desperately trying to nerve herself into making a casual exit when light spilled out from the room over them.

  ‘Lucien? Tu es la!’

  They turned as one at the exclamation and for a moment no one spoke and then Lucien replied quietly:

  ‘Isabeau … je viens tout de suite.’

  Isabeau, Troy could tell, was not altogether happy with this information. When she called she expected Lucien to come, not to have to wait, even for a few minutes. She gave Troy a sweeping glance before turning on her heel and walking back into the room. With the light behind her it had been impossible to see her features clearly, but Troy was left with the impression of a slim, petite woman with ash-blonde hair and a pleasing voice.

  Troy glanced at Lucien Charon, but his face gave no clue to his feelings or thoughts. He made no attempt at an explanation. Isabeau’s interruption might never have happened. She gave an involuntary shiver. Yes, he could be ruthless, this man, and Troy felt a momentary pang of pity for the unknown Isabeau. Lucien must have noticed the shiver, for he said:

  ‘It is, perhaps, time we returned indoors. The night air is growing cooler and you will become chilled if you stay out here longer.’ He looked round for her shawl and picked it up from where it lay on the chair. Taking the glass from her hand, he placed it, with his own, on the table and with a swirl, the shawl was draped round her shoulders and he stood for a moment looking down at her.

  Time seemed to be suspended. Troy lifted her eyes to his and everything else—the noise of the city below, the subdued murmur of voices behind the lighted window, slightly open—everything faded into nothingness.

  They were not touching. A few inches separated her from him, his hands still holding the ends of the shawl. If she made the least sign of resistance he would let her go, she knew this instinctively, but she was a willing prisoner. There was something about Lucien Charon that drew her from the first, an amazing leaping of the senses. It had thrown her off balance by the swiftness and the strength of his magnetism, and even now, part of her wanted to run.

  As the blood rushed through her veins, pounding in her ears, sending her heart thumping madly, recklessness triumphed over caution, and she remained where she was, outwardly cool, inwardly a flutter of nerves.

  Lucien gave a quick derisive smile, observing smoothly: ‘Ah well, it is, after all, my birthday,’ and pulling the ends of the shawl towards him he gathered her into his arms.

  It was almost as if she knew what it would be like, his bony sharp body against the softness and roundness of her own. As their lips met she closed her eyes, her body instant fire, his hands, moving beneath the silk shawl across her bare back, gentle, tentative.

  At what point the kiss changed Troy was hardly aware. The delicate, almost teasing quality of his mouth upon hers was stilled in a split second of mutual astonishment and then his hands were no longer gentle and tentative, his lips no longer teasing.

  And then she was free, cheeks flushed, eyes brightly shining, wide and startled, lips slightly parted, tremulous and glistening as she stared at him, dazed and breathless.

  Lucien Charon stared back, intent grey eyes hidden by hooded lids as he stood, body tense and almost wary, and then he relaxed and the familiar whimsical expression flashed across his face. Eyes now brimming with laughter, he said:

  ‘I refuse to apologise. Thank you, that was a delightful birthday present, Victoire.’ He caught one of her hands in his own and raised it without affectation to his lips, his eyes still upon her. It trembled in his grasp.

  Troy tried to collect her scattered wits and murmured feebly: ‘Happy birthday, Lucien.’

  What might have been said or done then was lost for ever as the window was pushed wider and a young voice burst out in French:

  ‘Lucien? Are you there?’

  Unhurriedly Lucien turned, releasing her hand which he had retained, saying calmly:

  ‘Yes, Juliette, mignonne?”

  The newcomer, who had now taken a couple of steps on to the balcony, eyes peering into the darkness, gave a sigh of relief.

  ‘Lucien, they are about to cut the cake and make the toasts.’

  ‘Thank you, Juliette, for warning me. I shall come immediately. Do not panic, little one.’

  Juliette cast a slightly curious glance in Troy’s direction, gave a shy smile before slipping back into the house.

  Youth and beauty. The girl was young, not more than twenty, and very pretty. She seemed to make the five years dividing them much more, and Troy gave another shiver. Lucien was right—the years passed too quickly.

  ‘Come, it is time we rejoined the party.’ Lucien walked to the window and pulled it wider, letting out the sounds of laughter and talking, the light shining on his face, making him once more into a stranger. He gestured politely for her to pass before him. As she came level he said: ‘Bonsoir, Victoire.’

  Her eyes flickered to his face, finding his expression difficult to interpret. She replied gravely:

  ‘Au revoir, Lucien,’ and brushing past, she walked into the party.

  Hal was easy to find—tall and fair, he stood out in the crowd. Troy made her way to his side, suddenly glad to see him. He gave her a wide smile in greeting and put his arm round her shoulder, drawing her into the conversation.

  After a few moments, almost against her will, Troy looked back towards the window. Lucien Charon was standing, his eyes upon her, face thoughtful. As contact between them was
made Troy felt again the stirrings of something intangible inside her, a confused mixture of feelings, and then contact was broken as Juliette ran up, taking Lucien’s arm possessively and laughing up into his face.

  Lucien allowed himself to be drawn away, a smile on his face, an arm draped carelessly round the young girl’s shoulder.

  Troy watched them go, the confusion of feelings resolving into two clear-cut ones. Disappointment and relief.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘HE looked,’ observed Fiona decidedly, ‘the type who gobbles up little girls like you for hors d’oeuvre.’

  Troy laughed protestingly. ‘Now, Fiona! Be fair, have I ever been gobbled up yet?’

  ‘No, but that’s the danger. One of these days you’re going to let down that guard of yours and fall, hook, line and sinker. When that happens it had better be the right man.’

  The waiter placed coffee and croissants before them and when he had gone, Troy said dryly: ‘I don’t think you need worry. A chance encounter in a foreign country, at a party given by strangers, is hardly likely to lead to my downfall. He was interesting, though.’

  ‘Yes, he looked it,’ drawled Fiona. ‘Married?’

  Troy poured the coffee and shook her head. Fiona bit into the croissant and deliberated.

  ‘Pity he wasn’t taller …’

  Fiona tended to judge men from her own lofty height of five-nine. Troy said absently:

  ‘Tall enough.’ She passed over a cup of coffee. ‘He could give you a couple of inches.’