‘You look rather magnificent yourself,’ returned Troy. She accepted the rising happiness within her at his words just as she accepted the leaping of her senses at the sight of him. Here was the Lucien she had first met, suave and urbane, immaculate in evening suit and pristine white shirt, with flashes of gold at cuff and wrist. His bony, intelligent face was regarding her now with open pleasure, tinged with cynical amusement.
‘I think I had better stake a claim for my dance here and now or I’ll not stand a chance,’ he drawled, raking her with his eyes. ‘It’s difficult to assess this sophisticated young woman with the
dedicated artist in the studio.’
‘Which do you prefer?’ asked Troy coolly, and Lucien pursed his lips, smiling slightly.
‘Oh, I think both have their attractions.’ The grey eyes were challenging and Troy said quickly:
‘It seems an age since you left for Italy, Lucien, and I’ve had to wait all this time before I could thank you— about Honore d’Arcy, I mean. He’s such a prominent man in his field and I’m extremely
grateful…’
‘Sans importance! I am not interested in your gratitude.’
‘But you will surely allow me to thank you,’ began Troy, and Lucien broke in briskly:
‘I am only interested in whether you like him and if he is able to help you.’
‘Lucien, how simple you make it all sound. Of course he is able to help me, he’s one of the best men around.’
‘Bon.’ They were now walking towards the stairs. ‘I have just delivered the family diamonds to the royal bedchamber. Grand’mere intends to show that even at eighty years, a diamond is still a girl’s best friend!’ He slanted her an ironical smile.
Troy laughed. They had begun to descend the stairs, Lucien having threaded Troy’s hand through his arm, while she placed her other upon the beautifully carved banister. The murmur of guests from the reception hall below suddenly penetrated her senses and she stopped, her eyes flying quickly to Lucien’s face, immediately trying to withdraw her hand from his arm. He tightened his hold and calmly continued downwards, so that Troy had no choice but to follow. She was aware of some curious glances from below and was glad when they reached the bottom.
Among general greetings, surrounded by a buzz of noise, Troy found herself being introduced to a tall, rugged fair-haired man, a cousin of Lucien’s, who instantly led her on to the dance floor. He spoke excellent English and said with great satisfaction:
‘Lucien’s duty as host is most convenient, mademoiselle! You are enjoying your stay in our country?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ replied Troy, hoping her colour was fading. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, monsieur…”
‘Levannier. Raoul Levannier, and since I have already been of service to you, bringing over two suitcases from England, I claim the right to call you Troy.’ He grinned, eyes twinkling. ‘See, you cannot refuse, and I shall take advantage of your gratitude and book the supper-dance later on.’
Raoul Levannier proved to be Troy’s salvation. He was an interesting and amusing companion, claiming cousinship with Lucien on his mother’s side and speaking of him with great affection. He kept her informed of the identities of several of the more prominent-looking guests and stayed by her side when she was obliged to say good evening to Madame Claudine, who, he claimed in an awesome whisper, frightened him to death. It was obvious that he was a favourite with his great-aunt, however, and lightened the ordeal considerably.
Troy was not short of partners, although the one man she wanted to dance with did not ask her, and Raoul was always there to claim her at the end of each dance. After a while she began to feel guilty at the way she seemed to be monopolising his time and said diffidently:
‘Please don’t think you have to stay with me the whole of the evening, Raoul. It’s awfully kind of you to look after me …’
‘Kind?’ Raoul drawled the words. ‘My dear mademoiselle, I’m the most envied man in the whole of the ballroom! If you want to ruin my evening by sending me away …’ and his face took on a pained look which made Troy laugh, deciding she had done her best.
Wherever she looked she caught glimpses of Lucien as he went about his duties as host. The Descartes had arrived, and Juliette, and were among Madame’s select circle of guests. Isabeau was looking very attractive in black and Philippe extraordinarily adult in his evening suit. JeanJacques was off duty and danced with Troy, his normally courteous manner melting slightly as the evening progressed.
A light buffet was served during the proceedings, and it was here, in the ante-room where the food and wine was set, that Troy found herself next to Juliette Descartes. Dressed in white and obviously enjoying herself, Juliette prettily confessed that she had asked Philippe who the stunning girl in red was, and promptly went on to demand to know ‘all about’ Troy’s work in the studio. It was impossible not to like her, Troy thought, for she had such vivaciousness and a happy, friendly personality.
While admitting that she envied Troy her talents she tossed her dark curls and a mischievous gleam came to her attractive green eyes as she confided:
‘I am not an academic, but I hope to come out of university with a modest qualification and then plunge into matrimony. Rather oldfashioned of me, isn’t it? I wanted to skip university altogether, but my intended husband,’ and here she gave a small, appealing moue, mocking herself, ‘he wished me to have all the opportunities open to a girl these days, giving me the chance to change my mind.’ She laughed happily, piling up her plate with food. ‘He is older than I, you understand, and thinks that perhaps I shall become a career-girl or even meet someone nearer my own age. Bah! Me, I know my own mind, but I humour him and my parents. How could I change my mind when I have known and loved him all my life?’ She smiled confidently at Troy.
Raoul and JeanJacques joined them at that moment and Troy was not obliged to make any reply. She could see Lucien slowly circling the room, stopping to talk to his guests, and her one idea was to escape.
It made no sense, this feeling. Nothing was changed. Juliette’s words merely confirmed what Troy already suspected. That there was more commitment on Juliette’s side than Lucien’s was understandable, girl-hero-worship changing to something stronger and lasting. And on Lucien’s side there was the knowledge that the union between the two families would be strengthened.
How ridiculous that the evening should lose its thrill and Troy feel so dead inside, even while she was smiling at the goodnatured banter between Raoul and Juliette and accepting more Charon wine from JeanJacques.
Lucien was slowly, but surely, getting nearer and Troy decided she had had enough. She had shown her face and lasted longer than she had intended, due entirely to Raoul’s friendly attention, but the time to go was now, before Lucien reached them. She turned to Raoul, who was listening to a light-hearted argument between Juliette and JeanJacques, and touched his arm rather urgently. He was immediately courteously attentive.
‘Thank you for looking after me, Raoul, but I’ll say goodnight and . .
.’
‘Troy! You’re not going?’ protested Raoul, surprised and concerned.
‘Yes, I’m sorry, I have a headache,’ lied Troy, adding quickly: ‘It’s only just come on. Will you make my apologies to Lucien for me, please? and explain to Juliette and JeanJacques. I want to slip away without making a fuss.’ She looked at him appealingly and he nodded, a frown on his face, his eyes going round the room.
‘Lucien must be somewhere around,’ he began, and Troy, who could see Lucien too well, replied urgently:
‘I shall probably see him on my way out. No, please, there’s no need for you to come,’ and giving him a determined smile, Troy wended her way quickly through the crowd of guests.
Even so, it was slow going, and she was stopped by Marcel Dubois and then by Philippe before she finally reached the reception hall.
She resisted the temptation to run up the stairs and was halfway up when she heard her n
ame spoken sharply. She pivoted slowly to find Lucien below, one foot on the stair and his hand on the banister.
‘You are leaving?’ he asked as he began to climb.
‘I … yes.’ Troy swallowed hard, her heart pounding, her eyes caught and held by his.
Lucien came up to her level, his face telling her nothing, and stated: ‘We have not had our dance.’
‘No, well, you’ve been busy,’ she began awkwardly, and he raised his brows. ‘Understandably so,’ she added quickly, and he replied:
‘And you were going without saying goodnight.’
‘I… couldn’t see you. I asked Raoul to … I’m sorry … I have a headache,’ and Troy turned and left him. She gained the landing and was two steps along before her wrist was taken in a firm grip and she was pulled up short and swung round to him. Lucien searched her face intently, grey eyes bright and piercing.
‘Raoul has upset you?’
‘No! He has been most kind.’ A thought struck her. ‘Did you tell him to stay by me?’
He shrugged. ‘I suggested that he keep his eye on you. He was happy to oblige. It was no hardship for him.’ He quirked a brow. ‘You are annoyed? Yet as you are my guest, knowing few people, it was necessary that my mind could be at ease regarding you. If I had known I was to be denied my dance, perhaps I would not have been so sanguine.’ Again he lifted his shoulders expressively. ‘You wouldn’t care to change your mind?’ The soft strains of a waltz floated up to them.
‘No … thank you.’
His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Perhaps another time would be more opportune.’ He led her along the corridors until they reached Troy’s set of rooms, the music gradually diminishing. Lucien released his grip. For a moment there was a highly charged silence between then, and then his hands went to her hair and he began to take out the combs that secured it in place.
Troy’s face was now ashen where before it had been aflame. Every nerve in her body trembled and as her hair tumbled in disarray he cupped her face and kissed her gently. She put out a hand to the door jamb to steady herself. Lucien reached for the handle and pushed open the door. He said softly:
‘I hope your… headache is soon better, Victoire,’ and taking her free hand he raised it to his lips and briefly touched the palm, closing her fingers on the combs.
Troy forced herself to look up, very fleetingly, into his face before turning into her room. She leant back against the closed door, eyes shut in anguish, teeth biting hard on to her bottom lip.
God, he knew! How humiliating! And damn him for the selfsatisfied smile on his face as he walked away! As if he’d proved something!
For the next few days Troy kept as much out of Lucien’s way as possible, and in this she was helped by the pressure of his work. He was hardly at Bellevigne, Andre was either driving him to the airport or else the Beaufighter slid silently out of the courtyard to return some days later a little dustier and Andre would take pleasure in bringing it back to its original shine.
Madame Claudine invited her more regularly for morning coffee. Troy was wary of these visits, but they passed off without any drama. It was obvious that the old lady considered her no longer a threat.
The only relief from the silly, pathetic pain that twisted like a knife every time Troy saw Lucien was work. A figure of Sable in full flight, tail and mane flying, was coming on well and as an alternative idea, and quite pleasing her, a model of the Bellevigne griffin. She worked longer and harder, driving herself to the limit. She was not sleeping very well and managed to hide her lack of appetite by taking most of her meals at the studio. This, she knew, particularly pleased Isabeau, who was making it plain that she considered Troy to have outstayed her welcome. In this, Troy was inclined to agree with her.
As if to purge herself of Lucien, Troy had begun a likeness of him, working from a batch of photographs that Philippe had taken and which she had kept without him being aware of the fact. When she gazed from the studio window watching Lucien coming or going she would tell herself that she was merely studying the angle of his head, the slant of his brow. She told no one of this piece of work, jealously guarding her secret and keeping the head in a packing case in the corner of the studio when not working on it.
Once Juliette came to stay for a few days, and it was a bitter-sweet irony that Troy liked the younger girl more and more each time they met.
Lucien returned unheralded from a visit to Germany and knocked on the studio door where Troy was working late into the evening. It was lucky that she had had the foresight to lock it, for she was working on his portrait. Hastily placing it in its hidey-hole, she went to open the door.
‘Secrets, Victoire?’ Lucien asked, as he stepped in, his eyes darting shrewdly round the studio.
Troy closed the door and pushed back a piece of flopping hair with the back of her hand, crossing to the sink to wash the clay from her fingers.
‘Hello, Lucien, have you just got back? Had a good trip?’
She glanced over her shoulder and found that his prowling had brought him to the two modelling stands on which Sable and the griffin were displayed. A quick look in the corner showed that the sacking was securely in place and his portrait safe from his inquisitive eyes.
Looking up, Lucien answered: ‘Yes, thank you, everything went
satisfactorily.’
‘Would you like coffee?’ Troy asked, uneasily aware that she was now the object of his scrutiny. ‘It’s nearly ready and I was just about to have a cup.’
‘Thank you, that would be pleasant,’ agreed Lucien, dropping into the armchair, his eyes still on her. ‘Philippe tells me that you have been working very hard. I can see that is true. You have nearly finished them.’ He turned his gaze back towards the sculptures, a thoughtful expression on his face. Troy busied herself with the cups, something warning her that this was no innocent, casual visit. Was he about to tell her of his engagement to Juliette? she wondered bleakly. JeanJacques had let drop on one of their early morning rides that Juliette was nearing her twenty-first birthday and coming of age. That would be a good occasion, Troy realised, for an engagement party. She set her face into amiable lines and carried the tray over to where Lucien was sitting, replying:
‘Sable is more or less finished. Monsieur d’Arcy wishes to see him on my next Thursday visit. The griffin I’m not totally satisfied with, he needs a little more consideration.’
‘You have great talent, Victoire.’ The words were spoken quietly and Troy’s eyes flew to his, startled, the flush of pleasure spreading over her face and receding as quickly as it had come, leaving her starkly pale. She turned back to the coffee things, saying gruffly:
‘They’re not bad. I … I’m quite pleased with the way they’re going.’
There was amusement in his voice. ‘Quite pleased? Oh, modest Victoire! My sources tell me that d’Arcy is an irascible man, much given to raising his voice in sarcasm to his pupils, but that he is at his most dulcet when dealing with la belle anglaise.’
Troy gave a short, embarrassed laugh. ‘Nonsense! I don’t know who your sources are. I get my share of his bark.’ She passed him his cup.
‘Talent, however, is no good without stamina,’ Lucien remarked mildly, and, a little perplexed, Troy sat back on her heels, staying the pouring of her own coffee, her face questioning. ‘You are working too hard and not eating enough. I have left you alone all these weeks because I know how paranoid you artists can become when you’re working, but this is ridiculous. I would hazard a guess that you have lost weight since you came to Bellevigne. My dear Victoire, this must cease instantly. I know that your work is important to you, but how can you work if your health goes?’
Troy found that she was trembling, the concern in his voice nearly her undoing. She rose to her feet and began to straighten the tools on her work-bench.
‘There’s nothing the matter with me, Lucien …’
‘Even Philippe is concerned! Philippe! Who never notices anything!’ She heard him get up and cross
the floor to stand behind her. She froze. ‘He says that you’re not happy, my dear … is this so?’
She said brightly: ‘Poor Philippe! He doesn’t understand the artistic temperament, I’m afraid. Of course I’m happy, Lucien, but you’re quite right. When the working mood overtakes me I forget everything else, and perhaps I have been neglecting myself a little lately. It’s nothing—really.’ She waited, nerves tense, still turned away from him, her hands automatically placing the tools in the correct position for her to find them. She heard him move away and glanced to find him refilling his cup. He said equably:
‘So you are going to be a good girl and take things easier, eh?’
Unsuspecting, Troy replied: ‘Oh, yes, Lucien—I promise.’
‘And you always keep your promises, do you not?’
An oddness in the inflection of his question brought her head round and she looked at him warily, answering: ‘I try to.’
‘Bon! So when I suggest that you spend a few days in Paris as a change from all this hard work,’ Lucien went on smoothly, ‘you will say—of course I will, Lucien.’ He eyed her ironically.
Troy stared, unable to speak.
‘My dear girl, I can positively see the excuses whirling round inside your head. A few days in Paris. Come now, the first time we met you admitted that you adored Paris … and I find I am suddenly desirous of showing her to you. Won’t you pander to my whim, Victoire?’
Troy spoke quietly. ‘You have to go on business?’
Lucien waved a dismissive hand. ‘There is some business to be attended to,’ he agreed, ‘but it will not take all of my time. You will be able to keep your Thursday class with Honore d’Arcy and it will be a good opportunity to visit the lawyers and have advice concerning your inheritance from Bellevigne.’ He watched her, sardonic amusement on his lean face as though he knew the battle was won before, it had even begun. He sat down and began to glance through one of Philippe’s photographic magazines that had been left there.
Troy collected her cup and sat down on the sofa, drinking the coffee and reflecting. A feeling of calm spread over her. The time had come. The moment was right and Lucien, with his instinctive perception, knew it. Her work was finished, bar a few minor details, and when that was done there was no excuse to remain here at Bellevigne. He was right, too, about her health. She was nearly at the end of her tether, emotionally and physically. Lucien’s shrewd assessments were no more to be ignored than his bodily presence.
A House Called Bellevigne Page 12
