by Annie West
Imogen shot to her feet, managing to tip over the basket of roses beside her. Secateurs clattered to the ground.
Eyes as dark as Thierry’s, but much sharper, surveyed her from head to toe.
Imogen felt a flush rise to crest in her burning cheeks. She knew her shirt was rumpled, her jeans faded and one canvas shoe had got caked in mud when she’d ventured too near an ornamental pond. Faced with the other woman’s elegance, Imogen felt a complete frump. It was one thing to borrow her sister’s creations and play at dressing up in Paris. It was quite another to achieve that bone-deep level of stylish sophistication.
‘Bonjour, Madame Girard.’ Imogen paused, searching for the words she’d memorised: it’s very nice to meet you... ‘Je suis ravie de vous rencontrer.’ Unexpected nerves made her stumble over even that simple phrase. Quickly, she put out her hand, only to whip it back when she realised she still wore gardening gloves.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last too.’ The other woman’s English was crisp if heavily accented. She leaned in and kissed Imogen lightly on the cheeks in a gesture that held no discernible warmth. A light fragrance, perfectly balanced and no doubt worth a fortune, wafted around her. ‘We will speak in English, as it’s easier for you.’
‘Thank you. I’m afraid my French is non-existent.’ Under the other woman’s assessing scrutiny Imogen almost blurted that she’d learned Japanese and Indonesian at school, but stopped herself before she could babble. Instead, she pulled off the soiled gloves and dropped them on the seat where Thierry had righted the basket of cut flowers.
‘It’s important that we become better acquainted. You have married my grandson. You are part of the family now.’
Imogen searched her inflection for any hint of welcome. She found none.
‘Which is why you left Grand-père in Provence and hot-footed it up here,’ Thierry murmured. ‘It’s a delightful surprise to see you.’
Fine eyebrows arched. ‘He wasn’t up to the journey this time.’ She turned to Imogen. ‘My husband has been unwell and needs rest. But we felt it important that one of us came to welcome you into the family.’
If the gleam in those shrewd eyes was any indication, it was more a matter of sizing her up. Yet who could blame the older woman?
What had Imogen expected? To be greeted by Thierry’s family with open arms? She suspected she was doomed to disappointment in that case.
It didn’t matter what they thought of her, she reminded herself. Unless that affected her child’s future. The thought stirred Imogen’s protective instincts.
‘It’s good of you to come all this way, Madame Girard. I’m afraid the news of our marriage must have come as a surprise to Thierry’s family.’
‘And presumably to your own.’ Those keen eyes roved Imogen’s face, as if searching for clues.
‘I don’t have a family.’ The bald statement sounded more brutal than she’d intended and she read the shock on the older woman’s face. ‘I mean—’
‘Sadly, Imogen recently lost her mother and her sister.’ Warm fingers threaded through hers, and Imogen looked up to find Thierry watching her, his smile reassuring. His hand squeezed hers, and she smiled back gratefully. She wasn’t in this alone.
Nevertheless, she felt like an imposter, pretending to be his one true love, the woman he’d spend the rest of his life with.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss. That must have been very difficult.’
‘Thank you. It was...difficult.’ Could she sound any less sophisticated in front of this stylish matriarch?
‘But now you have Thierry.’
Imogen blinked. Did his grandmother think she’d married him because she was lonely? No, more likely trapped him because of his money. ‘I’m a very lucky woman.’
To her surprise, she felt Thierry’s warm fingers stroke her cheek. ‘I’m the lucky one, chérie.’ His voice dropped to that low, shivery note she hadn’t heard in so long. Since they’d shared a bed on her first visit to Paris. Imogen swallowed hard, hit by a surge of longing so strong she found herself swaying towards him. Yet his affectionate display was obviously a show for his grandmother. Thierry didn’t want to explain the exact circumstances of their marriage and nor did she.
‘You always did have luck on your side, Thierry. Now, if you’ll leave us alone, I’d like to get to know your wife a little better.’ It wasn’t a request but an order.
Thierry ignored it. ‘Let’s all go inside for coffee. I’ve no doubt Jeanne has been busy preparing something suitable from the moment you arrived.’
Imogen liked that he wanted to look after her. But she wasn’t totally helpless, even if she had turned to him when she hadn’t known what else to do.
‘We’ll come in soon,’ she assured him. ‘It would be nice if your grandmother could show me the garden. I’m sure she knows the name of those beautiful roses at the end of the walk.’ The gardener had mentioned that Madame Girard herself had overseen their planting.
‘You’re sure?’ His eyes searched her face.
She nodded.
‘Then I’ll see you both inside very soon. There’s a call I need to get back to.’
‘Go on, Thierry.’ His grandmother made a shooing motion. ‘I know I interrupted your work. We’ll be fine. I don’t intend to eat the girl.’
As soon as he was gone Madame Girard turned to her. ‘I was surprised to find him in the offices. You didn’t want a honeymoon?’
She didn’t beat around the bush, did she? But Imogen rather liked that. One of the reasons she felt uncomfortable at big social events was that she’d never excelled at meaningless small talk. Those nights in Paris with Thierry were an exception, when flirting with him had been as easy as breathing.
‘He has a lot of work at the moment and he can do that here.’ Imogen had been surprised to discover the rear of the château accommodated offices for staff involved in running the Girard family’s commercial interests. It was there Thierry spent his days, often working late, though always coming to share meals with her.
‘Nevertheless, a bride should expect more of her husband. I’ll speak with him.’
Startled, Imogen saw a flash of something like disapproval in the older woman’s eyes. On her behalf?
‘No! Please, don’t. We’re content as we are.’ The thought of Thierry’s grandmother telling him he had to spend more time with her...
‘Content? What is that? Have you no passion, girl? No fire?’
Imogen drew herself up. ‘It’s not a matter of passion. It’s a matter of common sense. Anyone can see Thierry has a lot on his mind right now.’
And she’d added to his burdens. It was only since she’d returned to Paris that she’d begun to realise how hard he worked. When he’d been with her before, she’d seen only the carefree side of him, the man who revelled in seeing her pleasure at her first hot-air balloon ride, or tasting her first glass of champagne.
‘You’re willing to take second place to business while he does so?’
‘I have no complaints. Thierry has responsibilities and I knew that when we married.’
‘The marriage was very sudden.’ Those dark eyes glinted. ‘Thierry didn’t tell me exactly how long you’ve known each other but I don’t recall him mentioning your name in the past.’
Imogen stared straight back at her interrogator. ‘It was a whirlwind romance.’
‘I see.’ She sounded as if she didn’t like what she saw. ‘So, perhaps you have mutual friends. Is that how you met? You moved in the same circles?’ Her gaze skated over Imogen’s rumpled clothes.
Imogen held the basket close, as if that could protect her from the other woman’s curiosity. If only she’d been warned of the visit, she’d have dressed up. Which was probably precisely why they’d had no warning. Thierry’s grandmother struck her as a very canny woman.
‘No, we don’t have any mutual friends. We met by chance at a party in Paris and...’
‘And he swept you off your feet?’
Imogen shrugged, ignoring the trace of a blush she felt in her cheeks. ‘Something like that.’ Deliberately, she held the older woman’s gaze.
‘I see.’ Madame Girard tilted her head as if to get a better view of her. ‘And your work? Do you have a job?’
Imogen’s hands tightened on the basket but she drew a slow breath and released it, reminding herself it was natural Thierry’s grandmother wanted to know these things. Did she think Imogen was unemployed, looking for someone to sponge off? One thing was for sure, she wouldn’t mistake her for one of the idle rich, not in these clothes.
‘I’m an accountant. From Australia. I was visiting Paris on holiday.’
‘Where you met my grandson, had a passionate affair and found yourself pregnant.’
Imogen’s breath hissed in and for a moment she felt the world wobble around her.
‘Come! You need to sit.’ A surprisingly firm hand gripped her upper arm, guiding her back down to the seat.
‘That’s better.’ Madame Girard took the seat beside her. ‘I don’t have any patience with this fainting nonsense.’
‘Good.’ Imogen lifted her chin. ‘Because I don’t faint.’
To her amazement the other woman chuckled. The sound was unexpectedly rich and appealing. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ Then she nodded. ‘With some coaching, you might even do for him very well.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Imogen stared, torn between relief and offence.
‘Your clothes, your lack of French... We’ll have to work on both if you’re to take your place beside Thierry.’
Imogen blinked at the ‘we’. His grandmother intended to coach her? Or had pregnancy hormones made Imogen lose the thread of the conversation?
‘How did you know I was pregnant?’
‘Jeanne, of course. She’s been at the château for years. As soon as she realised...’ Madame Girard gave a fluid shrug. ‘Of course she contacted me.’
‘Of course.’ Imogen paused, caught up in an unexpected tide of relief that she had one less secret to keep from this formidable lady. More than that, sharing the news with another woman made her feel less alone. So often she wished her mother was alive to talk to about the pregnancy. She had so many hopes and fears for this baby.
She chewed her lip. Thinking about that only made everything more difficult. Instead, she should focus on politely declining any make-over attempt. It wasn’t as if she’d be here long term, so there was no question of her becoming the perfect wife for Thierry.
The knowledge stabbed, the pain sharper than before. But Imogen kept her expression neutral. She wasn’t ready to share that with Thierry’s grandmother. She already felt like she’d been stripped bare.
Curiosity got the better of her. ‘You don’t mind that Thierry married so quickly, or that I’m pregnant?’
‘I might have, until I saw the way you looked at him.’ There was a glimmer of a smile in those eyes so like Thierry’s.
‘The way I looked at him?’
‘Absolutely. The way a woman looks when she’s in love.’
* * *
Imogen gave up trying to sleep. Instead, she perched on the window seat in her bedroom.
It was twilight and in the distance she saw the haze of indigo mountains. Closer to the château were verdant fields and she could smell that sweet scent on the evening air again. Meadow flowers or perhaps something growing in the formal gardens. To the right was a sprinkle of lights from the nearest town.
She lifted her feet, wrapping her arms around her knees, drinking in the view.
But Madame Girard’s words stole her peace.
The way a woman looks when she’s in love.
Had she really looked at Thierry that way?
Imogen told herself Madame Girard indulged in wishful thinking because she wanted to see her grandson happy.
The bond between the pair had been evident through the evening they’d all spent in madame’s apartments—in a wing of the château Imogen hadn’t visited before. The old lady was shrewd, with a dry sense of humour that had grown on Imogen. But sentimental? Not enough to skew her judgement.
In love.
Imogen had never been truly in love. At the time she’d thought perhaps with Scott... But, though she’d been hurt by the callous way he’d dumped her, her heart hadn’t broken.
She admired Thierry. She liked him and was grateful for all he was doing for her and their child. After Scott, who’d resented the increasing time she spent with her mother as she’d faded, Imogen knew how remarkable it was to find a man who didn’t run from harsh reality, but helped shoulder her burdens.
How many men would have done as Thierry had?
He wasn’t content simply to put his name on the marriage contract. He was meticulous about seeing to her comfort. He never missed a meal with her and his careful attentiveness should have put her at ease.
Instead, it made her restless.
Physically she felt better than she had in weeks. But emotionally? The unwanted truth hammered at her. It wasn’t her luxurious surrounds that made her edgy, or meeting Thierry’s grandmother. As for her illness—she hadn’t precisely become accustomed to it, but she’d learned to live in the moment as much as possible.
It was Thierry who tied her stomach in knots.
She raked her hand through her hair, pulling it back from her face.
She didn’t want Thierry’s hospitality. Each time he solicitously held her chair at the table or opened a door for her, impatience gnawed. He was caring and charming but there was an indefinable distance between them now.
What she wanted, what she craved, was his touch, his passion. Not love, she assured herself, but intimacy.
When she’d had that in Paris she’d felt able to cope with the future. In some inexplicable way it had given her the strength to face what was to come. Even after all this time she still reached for him in the night, waking to a loneliness even more desolate for his absence.
Had his attraction for her been so short-lived? Or did her illness turn him off? Or her pregnancy?
Or did he hold back from her for some other reason?
A breeze wafted through the window, stirring her nightdress against her breasts and teasing her bare arms. Her eyelids flickered as she thought of Thierry and how sensitive she’d been to his lightest touch. He’d made her body come alive as never before. He’d awakened something in her that refused to go back into hibernation.
A sound drew her attention to the door connecting her room to Thierry’s.
Imogen’s lips firmed. She wasn’t dead yet.
* * *
Thierry paused in the act of hauling off his shirt when he heard a tap on his door. Not the door to his private sitting room but the one connecting to Imogen’s room. The one he’d tried to ignore since they’d arrived, knowing she slept just metres away.
He’d almost locked it so he couldn’t be tempted to do something reprehensible like forget the state of her health and take what he hungered for.
He let his shirt drop back into place, even doing up some of the buttons again, which was when he noticed the tremor in his hands.
‘Thierry?’
He swung around. The door was ajar, and Imogen stood there, her hair tumbling about her shoulders and breasts in shining waves of ebony.
His gut clenched and a hammering started up in his chest. It took a split second to realise it was his heart, throbbing to an urgent new beat.
‘Are you okay?’ He paced towards her then pulled up short. He needed distance. That pale nightdress revealed too much. Her nipples pressed, proud and erect, against the light fabric and his palms ting
led as he remembered how they felt, budding in his hands. How they tasted, sweet as sugar syrup and warm woman on his tongue.
He tried but couldn’t stop his gaze skating lower to the hint of the darkness at the apex of her thighs. Thierry swallowed at the memories of her naked in his bed. His lower body turned into cast metal. A film of sweat broke out across his brow and his throat turned desert dry.
‘What’s wrong?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Do you need a doctor?’
She shook her head and, mesmerised, he watched the way those dark locks slid and separated around her pouting breasts. He knew Imogen had a body to please a man. It was only now, worn down by the weight of abstinence, that he realised it could torture just as well.
Never had he been as fervently eager for work as he had been since their wedding. He was actually grateful for the distraction it gave from his wife.
‘No, I’m not sick.’ Her words had that throaty edge she got when nervous or aroused. Adrenalin shot through him, and he had a battle not to cross the room and haul her close. Of course she wasn’t aroused. ‘I wanted to talk.’
‘Talk?’ The last thing he needed was an intimate chat here in his bedroom. ‘Can it wait till tomorrow?’
She shook her head and his breathing stalled as he watched her hair caress and frame her beautiful breasts.
Resolutely, he reminded himself that Imogen now fitted under the category of ‘duty’. She and their child were his responsibility. He couldn’t let himself be distracted by selfish cravings when he had a duty to care for them both. He’d spent years in the pursuit of pleasure. He could be utterly single-minded when it came to doing what he wanted. He couldn’t afford to lose focus now and give in to the urge for pleasure. He needed control, purpose, resolve.
Besides, he didn’t like the morass of emotions that threatened whenever he thought of Imogen the woman, rather than Imogen his responsibility. He didn’t deal in emotion, except for the frustrations and elations of his chosen sports.
