by Nora Roberts
“Thank you, Madame. I am pleased to be here.”
“You must be tired after your journey,” the countess stated. “I will show you to your room myself. You will wish to rest before you change for dinner.”
She moved to a large, curving staircase, and Serenity followed. Pausing on the landing, she glanced back to find Christophe watching her, his face creased in a brooding frown. He made no effort to smooth it away or remove his eyes from hers, and Serenity found herself turning swiftly and hurrying after the countess’s retreating back.
They walked down a long, narrow corridor with brass lights set at intervals into the walls, replacing, she imagined, what would have once been torches. When the countess stopped at a door, she turned once more to Serenity, and after giving her another quick study, she opened the door and motioned her to enter.
The room was large and open, yet somehow retained an air of delicate grace. The furniture was glossy cherry, and a large four-poster canopied bed dominated the room, its silk coverlet embroidered with time-consuming stitches. A stone fireplace was set in the wall opposite the foot of the bed, its mantle carved and ornate, a collection of Dresden figures reflecting in the large framed mirror over it. One end of the room was curved and glassed, an upholstered windowseat inviting one to sit and ponder the breathtaking view.
Serenity felt the uncontrollable pull of the room, an aura of love and happiness, the gentle elegance well remembered. “This was my mother’s room.”
Again, the quick play of emotion flickered, like a candle caught in a draft. “Oui. Gaelle decorated it herself when she was sixteen.”
“Thank you for giving it to me, Madame.” Even the cool reply could not dispel the warmth the room brought her, and she smiled. “I shall feel very close to her during my stay.”
The countess merely nodded and pressed a small button next to the bed. “Bridget will draw your bath. Your trunks will arrive shortly, and she will see to your unpacking. We dine at eight, unless you would care for some refreshment now.”
“No, thank you, Countess,” Serenity replied, beginning to feel like a boarder in a very well-run hotel. “Eight will be fine.”
The countess moved to the doorway. “Bridget will show you to the drawing room after you have rested. We have cocktails at seven-thirty. If there is anything you require, you have only to ring.”
The door closed behind her, and Serenity took a deep breath and sat heavily on the bed.
Why did I come? she asked herself, closing her eyes on a sudden surge of loneliness. I should have stayed in Georgetown, stayed with Tony, stayed with what I could understand. What am I searching for here? Taking a long breath, she fought the encompassing depression and surveyed her room again. My mother’s room, she reminded herself and felt the soothing hands of comfort. This is something I can understand.
Moving to the window, Serenity watched day soften into twilight, the sun flashing with final, brilliant fire before surrendering to slumber. A breeze stirred the air, and the few scattered clouds moved with it, rolling lazily across the darkening sky.
A château on a hill in Brittany. Shaking her head at the thought, she knelt on the windowseat and watched evening’s nativity. Where does Serenity Smith fit into this? Somewhere. She frowned at the knowledge which sprang from her heart. Somehow I belong here, or a part of me does. I felt it the moment I saw those incredible stone walls, and again when I walked into the hall. Pushing the feeling to the depths of her brain, she concentrated on her grandmother.
She certainly wasn’t overwhelmed by the reunion, Serenity decided with a rueful smile. Or perhaps it was just the European formality that made her seem so cold and distant. It hardly seems reasonable that she would ask me to come if she hadn’t wanted to see me. I suppose I expected more because I wanted more. Lifting her shoulders, she allowed them to fall slowly. Patience has never been one of my virtues, but I suppose I’d better develop it. Perhaps if my greeting at the station had been a bit more welcoming … Her frown appeared again as she replayed Christophe’s attitude.
I could swear he would have liked to bundle me back on the train the minute he set eyes on me. Then, that infuriating conversation in the car. Frown deepened into scowl, and she ceased to focus on the quiet dimness of dusk. That is a very frustrating man, and she added, her scowl softening into thoughtfulness, the very epitome of a Breton count. Perhaps that’s why he affected me so strongly. Resting her chin on her palm, she recalled the awareness which had shimmered between them as they had sat alone in the lengthening shadow of the château. He’s unlike any man I’ve ever known: elegant and vital at the same time. There’s a potency there, a virility wrapped inside the sophistication. Power. The word flashed into her brain, drawing her brows close. Yes, she admitted with a reluctance she could not quite understand, there’s power there, and an essence of self-assurance.
From an artist’s standpoint, he’s a remarkable study. He attracts me as an artist, she told herself, certainly not as a woman. A woman would have to be mad to get tangled up with a man like that. Absolutely mad, she repeated to herself firmly.
Chapter Two
The oval, free-standing gilt-framed mirror reflected a slim, fair-haired woman. The flowing, high-necked gown in a muted “ashes of roses” shade lent a glow to the creamy skin, leaving arms and shoulders bare. Serenity met the reflection’s amber eyes, held them, and sighed. It was nearly time to go down and again meet her grandmother—the regal, reserved countess—and her cousin, the formal, oddly hostile count.
Her trunks had arrived while she was enjoying the bath drawn by the small, dark Breton maid. Bridget had unpacked and put away her clothes, shyly at first, then chattering and exclaiming over the articles as she hung them in the large wardrobe or folded them in the antique bureau. The simple friendliness had been a marked contrast to the attitude of those who were her family.
Serenity’s attempts to rest between the cool linen sheets of the great canopied bed had been futile, all her emotions in turmoil. The strange awareness she had experienced upon entering the château, the stiff, formal welcome of her grandmother, and the strong, physical response to the remote count had all banded together to make her unaccustomedly nervous and unsure of herself. She found herself wishing again she had allowed Tony to sway her, and had remained among the things and people she knew and understood.
Letting out a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was not a naïve schoolgirl to be awed by castles and overdone formality, she reminded herself. She was Serenity Smith, Jonathan and Gaelle Smith’s daughter, and she would hold her head up and deal with counts and countesses.
Bridget knocked softly at her door, and Serenity followed her down the narrow corridor and began her descent down the curved staircase, cloaked in confidence.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Smith.” Christophe greeted her with his usual formality as she reached the bottom landing, and Bridget made a quick, unobtrusive exit.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur le Comte,” Serenity returned, equally ritualistic, as they once more surveyed each other closely.
The black dinner suit lent a certain Satanic appearance to his aquiline features, the dark eyes glistening to near jet-black, the skin against the black and stark white of his shirt gleaming dusky-bronze. If there were pirates in his lineage, Serenity decided, they were elegant ones—and, she concluded further, as his eyes lingered on her, probably highly successful in all aspects of piratical pursuits.
“The countess awaits us in the drawing room,” he announced when he had looked his fill, and with unexpected charm, he offered her his arm.
The countess watched as they entered the room, the tall, haughty man and the slim, golden-haired woman, a perfect foil at his side. A remarkably handsome couple, she reflected, one that would cause heads to turn wherever they went. “Bonsoir, Serenity, Christophe.” She greeted them, regally resplendent in a gown of sapphire-blue, diamonds shooting fire from her throat. “Mon apéritif, Christophe, s’il te plaît. An
d for you, Serenity?”
“Vermouth, thank you, Madame,” she replied, the practiced social smile on her lips.
“You rested well, I hope,” the older woman inquired as Christophe handed her the small crystal glass.
“Yes, very well, Madame.” She turned to accept the offered wine. “I …” The inane words she was about to utter stuck in her throat as the portrait caught her eye, and she turned around fully and faced it.
A cream-skinned, pale-haired woman looked back at her, the face the mirror image of her own. But for the length of the light gold mist of hair, falling to the shoulders, and the eyes that shone deep blue rather than amber, the portrait was Serenity: the oval face, delicate, with interesting hollows, the full, shapely mouth, the fragile, elusive beauty of her mother, reproduced in oil a quarter of a century earlier.
Her father’s work—Serenity knew this immediately and unmistakably. The brush strokes, the use of color, the individual technique that shouted Jonathan Smith as surely as if she had read the small signature in the bottom corner. Her eyes filled, and she blinked back the threatening mist. Seeing the portrait had brought her parents close for a moment, and she was saturated with a deep sense of warmth and belonging that she had just been learning to live without.
She continued to study the painting, allowing herself to take in the details of her father’s work, the folds of the oyster-white gown which seemed to float on a hidden breeze, the rubies at her mother’s ears, a sharp contrast of color, the stone repeated in the ring on her finger. During the survey, something nagged at the back of her mind, some small detail out of place which refused to bring itself out of her consciousness, and she let it fade and merely experienced.
“Your mother was a very beautiful woman,” the countess remarked after a time, and Serenity answered absently, still absorbed by the glowing look of love and happiness in her mother’s eyes.
“Yes, she was. It’s amazing how little she changed since my father painted this. How old was she?”
“Barely twenty,” the countess replied, cultured tones edging with curtness. “You recognized your father’s work quickly.”
“Of course,” Serenity agreed, not noticing the tones, and turning, she smiled with honest warmth. “As his daughter and a fellow artist, I recognize his work as quickly as his handwriting.” Facing the portrait again, she gestured with a slim, long-fingered hand. “That was painted twenty-five years ago, and it still breathes with life, almost as if they were both right here in this room.”
“Your resemblance to her is very strong,” Christophe observed as he sipped his wine from his place by the mantle, capturing her attention as completely as if he had put his hands on her. “I was quite struck by it when you stepped from the train.”
“But for the eyes,” the countess pronounced before Serenity could form a suitable comment. “The eyes are his.”
There was no mistaking the bitterness which vibrated in her voice, and narrowing the eyes under discussion, Serenity spun around, the skirt of her gown following lazily. “Yes, Madame, I have my father’s, eyes. Does that displease you?”
Elegant shoulders moved in dismissal, and the countess lifted her glass and sipped.
“Did my parents meet here, in the château?” Serenity demanded, patience straining. “Why did they leave and never come back? Why did they never speak to me of you?” Glancing from her grandmother to Christophe, she met two cool, expressionless faces. The countess had lifted a shield, and Serenity knew Christophe would help her maintain it. He would tell her nothing; any answers must come from the woman. She opened her mouth to speak again when she was cut off with a wave of a ringed hand.
“We will speak of it soon enough.” The words were spoken like a royal decree as the countess rose from her chair. “Now, we will go in to dinner.”
The dining room was massive, but Serenity had decided everything was massive in the château. High-beamed ceilings towered like those in a cathedral, and the dark wainscotted walls were broken by high windows framed with rich velvet drapes, the color of blood. A fireplace large enough to stand in commanded an entire wall, and she thought, when lit, it must be an awesome sight. A heavy chandelier gave the room its lights, its crystals trembling in a glistening rainbow of colors on the suite of dark majestic oak.
The meal began with an onion soup, thick, rich, and very French, and the trio maintained a polite conversation throughout the course. Serenity glanced at Christophe, intrigued against her will by his darkly handsome looks and haughty bearing.
He certainly doesn’t like me, she concluded with a puzzled frown. He didn’t like me the moment he set eyes on me. I wonder why. With a mental shrug, she began to eat her creamed salmon. Perhaps he doesn’t like women in general. Looking over, his eyes met hers with a force that rivaled an electric storm, and her heart leaped suddenly, as if seeking to escape from behind her ribs. No, she amended quickly, tearing her eyes from his and studying the clear white wine in her glass, he’s no woman hater; those eyes are full of knowledge and experience. Tony never made me react like this. Lifting her glass, she sipped with determination. No one ever made me react like this.
“Stevan,” the countess commanded, “du vin pour Mademoiselle.”
The countess’s order to the hovering servant brought Serenity back from her contemplations. “Mais non, merci. C’est bien.
“You speak French very well for an American, Serenity,” the dowager observed. “I am grateful your education was complete, even in that barbarous country.”
The disdain in the last few words was so blatant that Serenity was unsure whether to be insulted or amused by the slight on her nationality. “That ‘barbarous’ country, Madame,” she said dryly, “is called America, and it’s nearly civilized these days. Why, we go virtually weeks between Indian attacks.”
The proud head lifted imperiously. “There is no need for impudence, young woman.”
“Really?” Serenity asked with a guileless smile. “Strange, I was sure there was.” Lifting her wineglass, she saw, to her surprise, Christophe’s teeth flash white against his dark skin in a wide, quick grin.
“You may have your mother’s gentle looks,” the countess observed, “but you have your father’s tongue.”
“Thank you.” She met the clear blue eyes with an acknowledging nod. “On both counts.”
The meal concluded, the conversation was allowed to drift back into generalities. And if the interlude took on the aspect of a truce, Serenity was still floundering as to the reason for the war. They adjourned once more to the main drawing room, Christophe lounging idly in an overstuffed chair swirling his after-dinner brandy while the countess and Serenity sipped coffee from fragile china cups.
“Jean-Paul le Goff, Gaelle’s fiancé, met Jonathan Smith in Paris.” The countess began to speak without preamble, and Serenity’s cup halted on its journey to her lips, her eyes flying to the angular face. “He was quite taken with your father’s talent and commissioned him to paint Gaelle’s portrait as a wedding gift.”
“My mother was engaged to another man before she married my father?” Serenity asked, setting down her cup with a great deal of care.
“Oui. The betrothal had been understood between the families for years; Gaelle was content with the arrangement. Jean-Paul was a good man, of good background.”
“It was to be an arranged marriage, then?”
The countess waved away Serenity’s sense of distaste with a gesture of her hand. “It is an old custom, and as I said, Gaelle was content. Jonathan Smith’s arrival at the château changed everything. Had I been more alert, I would have recognized the danger, the looks which passed between them, the blushes which rose to Gaelle’s cheeks when his name was spoken.”
Françoise de Kergallen sighed deeply and gazed up at the portrait of her daughter. “Never did I imagine Gaelle would break her word, disgrace the family honor. Always she was a sweet, obedient child, but your father blinded her to her duty.” The blue eyes shifted from the po
rtrait to the living image. “I had no knowledge of what had passed between them. She did not, as she had always done before, confide in me, seek my advice. The day the portrait was completed, Gaelle fainted in the garden. When I insisted on summoning a doctor, she told me there was no need—she was not ill, but with child.”
The countess stopped speaking, and the silence spread like a heavy cloak through the room. “Madame,” Serenity said, breaking the silence in clear, even tones, “if you are attempting to shock my sensibilities by telling me I was conceived before my parents were married, I must disappoint you. I find it irrelevant. The days of stone-throwing and branding have passed, in my country at least. My parents loved each other; whether they expressed that love before or after they exchanged vows does not concern me.”
The countess sat back in her chair, laced her fingers, and studied Serenity intently. “You are very outspoken, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, I am.” She gave the woman a level look. “However, I try to prevent my honesty from causing injury.”
“Touché,” Christophe murmured, and the arched white brows rose fractionally before the countess gave her attention back to Serenity.
“Your mother had been married a month before you were conceived.” The statement was given without a change of expression. “They were married in secret in a small chapel in another village, intending to keep the knowledge to themselves until your father was able to take Gaelle to America with him.”
“I see.” Serenity sat back with a slight smile. “My existence brought matters into the open a bit sooner than expected. And what did you do, Madame, when you discovered your daughter married and carrying the child of an obscure artist?”
“I disowned her, told them both to leave my home. From that day, I had no daughter.” The words were spoken quickly, as if to throw off a burden no longer tolerable.
