If her time at Bellevigne had shown her nothing else, it was that Lucien held her happiness and her heartbreak in the palm of his hands. It was entirely up to her as to whether she was willing to taste the heady delights, knowing there was no future for her with him. Qui ne risque rien n’a rien . . . who risks nothing has nothing.
There was no decision to make. She longed now to fall to her knees before him and take those hands and kiss them, bury her face in their palms and feel them move slowly, tenderly over her hair, to rest beneath her chin, lifting her face to his so that he could kiss her lips. So vividly could she know how it would be between them it was almost a surprise to find herself still seated on the sofa. How she stopped herself from making her longings become real she did not know, only that here and now was not the time nor the place. There were too many ghosts at Bellevigne … Lucien had already told her that.
She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. There will be no ghosts in Paris. I shall go to Paris with Lucien, she reflected, her whole being tranquil and calm, and he will make love to me. I know it and he knows it, and I shall not say no when the time comes because I need his love and I want him as much as he wants me. We shall behave like civilised people. I shall return to England and Lucien will come to Bellevigne. What happens after that is none of my concern.
The cup was taken from her inert hands and her eyes flew open.
Lucien said gently: ‘Come… you are nearly asleep.’ When they reached the door to her suite, Troy asked:
‘When shall we go?’
Lucien said: ‘The day after tomorrow.’ He raised her hand and brushed his lips across the palm. ‘Bonne nuit, Victoire.’
‘Goodnight, Lucien,’ whispered Troy.
He gave her a gentle push, helping her on her way, and closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE view from the top of the Eiffel Tower was magnificent, even on a day when the sky was not so blue as usual. Troy walked slowly round the observation platform, Lucien indulgently following, savouring this bird’s eye prospect of the city as it spread before her, a patchwork of boulevards, greenery and buildings, with the snakelike path of the Seine and its many straddling bridges recalling the eye.
Troy turned her head into the wind, trying to free a strand of hair blown across her face, and found that Lucien was watching her. Hemmed in as they were by the other sightseers, Troy felt a stab of amusement as he waited patiently. She smiled, saying teasingly:
‘Poor Lucien, are you dreadfully bored?’
He smoothed back the lock of truant hair. ‘No one, ma chere Victoire, could possibly be bored with you. I was merely considering that La Tour Eiffel must be the most loved and yet the least lovely of all our monuments in Paris.’
‘Oh, hush!’ she protested laughingly, touching his lips with the tips of her fingers. ‘You’ll be lynched by the mob!’
He grinned. ‘I agree that it does offer a panorama unparalleled elsewhere.’ He turned her to face the view. ‘See—the Palais de Chaillot, the Arc de Triomphe,’ and he stretched his arm to point out various landmarks.
Troy leaned back against him, happy to listen, content for his cheek to rest against hers as he looked over her shoulder, guiding the direction of her gaze, her body warmed and sheltered by his.
They had been in Paris for four days, four memorable sightseeing days, visiting museums and art galleries, palaces and churches, gardens and parks. They explored the streets of Montparnasse, Montmartre and St Germain, browsing through book and antique shops, watching pavement artists and drinking and eating at pavement cafes and bars.
In the evenings Troy had been introduced to gastronomic delicacies at Lucien’s favourite restaurants, the head waiter of each welcoming him in as an old and valued customer, treating ‘Monsieur le Comte’ with deferential respect and Troy with discreet admiring interest. After such splendid evenings, when gradually their likes and dislikes, theories and philosophies were explored, like a voyage of discovery, Lucien would see Troy safely to her hotel and take his leave. By the time he arrived back at his apartment Troy was ready for bed, waiting for his telephone call.
The first night this happened the reason of his call was to alter the time for their outing the next day, but the second night no excuse was made. Troy would lie and listen to his voice, would smile and softly laugh and talk, content to allow Lucien to shape her future, not understanding the waiting game he was playing but willing to abide by it.
‘What would you like to do this evening, Victoire?’ Lucien asked, stretching lazily. They had come down from the summit of the Tower and had boarded a river boat and were now having lunch travelling down the Seine. Troy removed her absorbed gaze from the passing scenery and allowed it to rest on her companion. It was no hardship. She smiled happily and rested her chin on palm, elbow on table.
‘I don’t mind, Lucien. I leave everything to you.’ She met his look serenely, the colour deepening slightly in her cheeks as he gathered her free hand in his and murmured:
‘Is that so, Victoire?’
The moment was broken by the arrival of food. With wonder and mock apprehension, Troy asked:
‘The oysters were delicious, but what, Lucien, I beg of you, is this?’
Straight-faced, Lucien replied: ‘Anguille Frite Orly.’ His face broke into laughter at her grimace. ‘Truly, it is a delicacy! Trust me, Victoire.’
‘I suppose there’s a first time for everything,’ returned Troy, ‘even for tasting fried eel.’
His eyes teased. ‘Naturellement, and I am overwhelmed by your faith,’ he added, as her fork went resolutely to her mouth.
Chewing with dainty precision, Troy pronounced: ‘Mm…
distinctive. I believe I shall survive.’
If the trip was supposed to give her memories of a river-boat picture of Paris it was not entirely successful. She was hardly aware of the changing backcloth, was more conscious of the man than the view. Everything faded into the background—the noise, their fellow passengers, the moving scene—the centre of her focus was Lucien. Lucien laughing, the lines in his face deepening, eyes crinkling, resting upon her with teasing tenderness. Lucien, serious, explaining some point of history. Lucien, the host, offering her more wine. Lucien …
‘I think Les Halles tonight,’ mused Lucien. ‘A nice crowded, stuffy night-club with a good jazz band, perhaps? Nothing to offend the eye, of course,’ he promised, face deadpan.
‘Of course,’ agreed Troy demurely. She looked up at the sky. ‘Lucien, do I see rainclouds gathering?’ she asked in amazement. ‘I can’t believe it!’ Sitting under the boat’s awning they had been unaware of the changing weather. Lucien gave an exclamation of annoyance and Troy said soothingly: ‘Perhaps it will pass.’
As the boat slid into its mooring Lucien took Troy by the hand down the gangplank and they began to run.
Bubbling with laughter, Troy exclaimed: ‘Lucien! A little rain won’t hurt me—I’m English, well used to it, remember?’
Huge spots began to fall, quickening zealously until by the time they collapsed into a laughing heap in the back of a taxi they were very wet.
Lucien gave instructions to the driver and leaned back, turning with rueful apology to Troy, offering her his clean, folded handkerchief.
‘Poor Victoire, this is how I look after you. Here, take this, but I doubt it will do much good.’
Troy, amused, obligingly mopped her face, and then did the same for Lucien. The windscreen wipers were going rapidly, barely able to control the deluge, and Lucien began to give directions to the driver, saying quickly to Troy: ‘I have told him to take us to my apartment, it is nearer than your hotel.’
The taxi drew in at the kerb. Lucien delved in his pocket for the fare and thrust open the door, prepared to make a dash for it. Troy, delighting in teasing him, refused to be hurried across the pavement, taking in the beauty of the boulevard and its gracious houses, tall terraced town houses in white stone, now darkening with the lashing rain.
‘You’re beautiful and quite mad!’ and brought his mouth down on hers, hard. They drew apart, laughter gone. Their hair was plastered flat, water trickling down their faces. Lucien took her hand and urged her to run, up the steps, into the lift and along the thickly carpeted corridor, and then into the quiet apartment.
Suddenly it was too quiet. The atmosphere was fraught with tension. Desperately seeking normality, Troy looked around her, curious to discover another side to Lucien, and said in pleased surprise: ‘How different from Bellevigne … so modern!’ On his way to the bathroom, Lucien observed with dry amusement:
‘I have a fairly catholic taste. Do you like it?’
Troy murmured: ‘Oh, yes, in its own way it’s perfect. Lucien, surely this is a Picasso?’ There was awe in her voice, and returning, carrying a large towel, Lucien agreed: ‘Yes, an early one, in his Blue Period.’
‘And a Bonnard! I like that.’ She stood quietly, oblivious of her wet state, her eyes moving on to a couple of Abstracts. He said:
‘That is an Andre Masson … and this, a Jean Dubuffet.’
‘Oh.’ Troy looked doubtfully at the two pictures, a slight frown creasing her forehead. ‘I quite like the Masson,’ she declared at last, ‘I think it could grow on me, but I’m not sure of the Dubuffet.’
‘You must let me know. If you can’t like it, I shall take it down.’
The words penetrated and Troy swung round, the colour rising in her cheeks.
‘Why should you do that, Lucien?’ she demanded gravely, her heartbeat accentuating.
‘Because it pleases me to make you happy.’
She savoured the reply which was given in an almost resigned, defensive manner. She said softly: ‘Do you, Lucien?’ and he burst out:
‘You damned well know I do. Before God, Victoire, I was
determined to keep my hands off you …’
Her voice trembled with laughter. ‘Were you, Lucien?’ His shirt had become almost transparent. She could see tanned skin and the dark hairs on his chest through the wet material. She could feel her own dress sticking to her body like a second skin. She shivered.
Lucien said angrily: ‘Mow Dieu You are cold…’ He opened up the towel and enveloped her in it. Troy raised her face to his.
‘No, no, Lucien, I don’t shiver because I’m cold,’ she protested, feeling shy and scared and happy all at the same time. Her voice gained confidence. ‘See, my hands are warm,’ and she placed her palms inside his shirt, feeling the thump, thump of his heart and the fiery heat from his body.
Lucien gripped her wrists, his voice stern. ‘Do you know what you are doing, Victoire?’
The towel slipped to the floor. Troy pressed her forehead against the damp curve of his neck and shoulder and said apologetically:
‘Er, no, Lucien, actually … I’m hoping you’ll teach me.’
There was silence between them for a moment and then Lucien’s hand forced her chin up, his eyes bright and intense as he studied her face. Then his own softened and his eyes crinkled. He eased her body to fit in with his and kissed her lids gently, brushing his lips lightly down her cheek to briefly caress her mouth. His breath was warm against her skin.
‘First, for the sake of our health, it would be advisable to shed our wet clothes.’
Troy allowed herself the pleasure of thrusting her fingers through his hair and then down his neck and along his shoulders.
‘That … seems a reasonable idea,’ she told him breathlessly.
‘Actually,’ mocked Lucien lovingly.
Troy woke slowly, wondered momentarily where she was, and found Lucien watching her.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said softly, and she smiled and said dreamily:
‘So are you.’
He gave a yelp of laughter and she moved her head more comfortably into the hollow made by his shoulder. She curled her body into him, her arm spread across his chest and she felt his hand come up to touch her hair.
‘I shall never forget this day,’ she murmured.
‘I wonder if I erred a little, placing myself in the position to be remembered side by side with the Eiffel Tower and fried eels?’ he ruminated, his voice quivering with amusement. ‘Not very romantic, ma chere.’
‘But rather apt,’ replied Troy mischievously. ‘Considering I once called you a slimy reptile!’ She exploded into helpless laughter as Lucien rolled her over until they were a tangle of sheet and body, unable to move. ‘And a bully!’ she reproached, helpless. She lay quiet, her face so close to his that she could see the tiny flecks of gold in the grey of his eyes and laughter died as their lips met. They lay silent, conscious of heart and pulse beating in unison.
Lucien said at last: ‘How long it seems have I wanted your glorious hair spread upon my pillow and to feel you close to me, like this.’ He lifted himself on to one elbow, gazing down on her. Troy found herself colouring beneath his look, a shy confusion sweeping over her. He bent his head and traced her eyes, nose and cheekbone with light kisses and deliberately continued the path down the graceful slope of her shoulder and fullness of breast, lingering tantalisingly for a moment before returning to claim her lips. Then, with the sudden change of mood that Troy was beginning to expect, he gave her bottom a resounding smack and unrolling her free of the sheet, said bracingly:
‘Come, my Victoire, we have much to do.’ He swung himself from the bed and stretched. ‘We have to go to your hotel and fetch your things, contact JeanJacques to say we’re staying on for a few more days …’ He looked down at her and laughed. ‘If you think that winding a sheet around you is a form of modest decency then I have to tell you that it fails abysmally. In any case,’ and here he swept her up into his arms, ‘I already know, intimately, how your beautiful body looks.’ Trailing the sheet, he stalked through the apartment, elbowing open another door. ‘Here is the guest bathroom. I warn you that another pleasure I have been long looking forward to is sharing your bath, but that is for another day.’ He stood her down and grinned foxily. ‘Twenty minutes is all you get,’ and he whipped away the sheet and closed the door.
Troy stared at the girl in the mirror. The image of tousled hair, full and swollen lips and an air of languid satisfaction met her gaze.
Troy Maitland, you are lost, completely lost, she told the mirror, and you don’t give a damn!
There followed seven unbelievably happy and enchanting days and nights.
The days were spent riding in the early mornings on hired horses in the Bois de Boulogne. This could be followed by shopping sprees when Lucien showed a shrewd perception for what suited Troy, overruling her protests that she had had enough spent on her. They lunched at. the Cafe de la Paix and in the evenings joined fellow patrons at l’Opera or the Comedie-Franfaise, sampled the new experimental theatre at the Espace Pierre Cardin or spent a couple of hours at the Cinematheque. Days full of companionship and laughter, culture and history, lazy walks and energetic rides.
The nights were spent seeking, searching and learning the shape and the feel of flesh and bone, smoothness of skin and silk of hair, of exploring the capacity to give and take and exchanging words of love whispered in the darkness.
Seven days…
On the eighth, Troy had her class with Honore d’Arcy. Arriving back at the apartment in the late afternoon, she paid off the taxi and found Lucien working at his desk, surrounded by papers. He put down his pen and swivelled round the chair, pulling her on to his lap.
‘Mm, you’re a welcome diversion to work and a sight for sore eyes,’ he observed, returning her kiss in full measure. He settled her more comfortably and smiled lazily. How’s it gone today?’
Troy rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Quite well. D’Arcy has kept Sable. He made the plaster cast today as a class lesson and
I can pick it up any time after twenty-four hours.’ She linked her hand with his and raised it to her cheek. ‘And yours? How has your day been?’
He gave a lopsided smile. ‘Not so bad. Missed you. Had to compensate with old Georges Brissac instead, not much of an exchange.’
‘Georges!’ Troy chuckled, remembering. ‘Dear old Georges and the geraniums!’ She slanted him a glance. ‘Does he know about us? He was awfully keen to get us together, wasn’t he?’
‘He knows you’re Victoria Courtney’s granddaughter,’ Lucien stated, and seeing her surprise, added: ‘Georges is my lawyer.’
‘Good gracious.’ Troy sat up, digesting this piece of information.
‘Brissac and Brissac have been looking after de Seve interests for many years. I told him, by the way, that you’ll be coming along to have a chat with him, but you must get a second opinion from another lawyer as well.’ Lucien kissed the end of her nose and tipped her off his knee. ‘Go and get me a drink, petite anglaise… a good strong one.’
Troy ruffled his hair and went to oblige. As she mixed the drinks a feeling of despondency crept over her. Reality had reared its ugly head, in the shape of Georges Brissac. How easy it was to grasp happiness in both hands and ignore facing the consequences. How easy to become greedy and forget the promises made to oneself that the end, when it came, would be treated with stoical calmness. Play the game and count the cost. Georges Brissac now reminded her that the time was rapidly approaching when the final reckoning was in touching distance. At least the last seven days had helped her to decide what to do with her inheritance. There was no future for her at Bellevigne, why twist the knife by nurturing the link? Much better to sever everything, even a dry letter from Georges at regular intervals. He would be bound to give her news of Lucien and Bellevigne, and that she could not bear.
A House Called Bellevigne Page 13
