‘But...’
‘No.’ He got to his feet. ‘I have far more important matters to talk to you about. I have plans I want to share with you.’
‘Ah.’ Sophia stood up. ‘You have a plan. That explains why you look more like yourself, Jean-Luc.’ She stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. ‘Or should I call you...?’
‘My name is Jean-Luc. I have a very long list of other names too, but I have no intentions of assuming any of them. Now, I have something to show you.’
‘What?’
‘Patience, Sophia. Go and get your hat.’
* * *
‘I remembered last night.’ They were in the courtyard which had once been the centre of the Château Montendre’s wine-making business. Jean-Luc closed his eyes, trying to recall the image which had popped into his head. ‘I think it is this one.’
He led the way to the largest of the buildings. The fire had not reached here, but the looters had. Empty bottles and shattered glass covered the floor. On one long wooden bench, the heavy iron lever which was used for corking the bottles was still fixed in place, a box of crumbling corks by its side. Crates, on which the Montendre name could still be read, stood stacked but empty. ‘Yes, it is here,’ Jean-Luc said, examining the floor, kicking the dust away to reveal the outline of a trapdoor. ‘See?’
‘The cellars?’ Sophia asked.
‘Yes. That is what I remembered. I must have escaped from my nurse. I remember running, chasing something, I think it was a cat. Anyway, it came in here, and I ran in after it and this hatch must have been open and I fell, head first down the stairs.’
Sophia gasped in horror. ‘You could have been killed.’
Jean-Luc shrugged. ‘I don’t even have a scar.’
‘Then you must have borrowed one of the cat’s lives. The cellars here are probably built into rock.’ Sophia looked around the bottling store, shaking her head. ‘They must have produced thousands of gallons of wine here.’
‘It was quite an enterprise, according to Monsieur Fallon. They didn’t just grow it to stock their own cellars.’
‘How odd, don’t you think, that you happen to be a wine merchant? Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence after all. I think wine must be in your blood.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Jean-Luc said, much struck by the notion.
‘So you see, you did not escape your heritage after all. In fact, by selling wine, you could say you were continuing the family business that was based here.’
He laughed. ‘I don’t think my father—my father the Duke, that is—would see my trade in quite such a light, but we are, as ever, thinking along the same lines.’
‘Are we?’
‘It will take years. The vines will have to be completely replaced, and you can see for yourself that all of this will need to be rebuilt, but I’m thinking of extending my business empire to include wine produced from my own vineyards. What do you think?’
Sophia clasped her hands together, her eyes shining. ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea. It’s perfect. It is so—so perfectly you.’
Which was exactly what he’d felt when he’d had the idea in the middle of the night, but somehow her saying so made it even more perfect. He picked her up, whirling her around, making her laugh, clutching at his shoulders.
‘Put me down. You’re making me dizzy.’
He did as she asked, though he kept his arms around her waist. She was making him dizzy. Looking into her eyes, he felt as if his heart was being squeezed, as if the ground was once again shifting under him, as it had done yesterday. Only this time, he was not overwhelmed by uncertainty. Quite the opposite, for he saw clearly, for the first time ever, that he belonged here. And that she belonged here with him. He had fallen deeply and irrevocably in love.
‘Jean-Luc?’ She reached up, pushing a lock of damp hair from his brow. ‘Are you feeling quite well? There is a flask of water in the carriage, shall I fetch it for you?’
Dazed, he nodded, watching her as she walked with that floating, graceful sway despite the rooted-up cobblestones and the wine-making detritus covering the courtyard. He loved her. It seemed so obvious now, explained so much. The way she had fitted so seamlessly into his life, his desire to talk to her, to consult her, to please her, to be with her. And that feeling he’d been ignoring, when they made love, of it being somehow right, a feeling of harmony that he’d never felt with any other woman. It was because he loved her.
He drank from the flask she passed him, watching as she took delicate sips after him, her lips touching the rim where his had been. Such an intimate gesture. And arousing. He dragged his eyes from her. He loved her. The need to tell her was almost irresistible. But as she recapped the flask, Jean-Luc forced himself to bite his tongue. It was too sudden. There were too many matters unresolved, not least of which was Sophia’s oft-stated desire for freedom. She had not said she wouldn’t ever marry again, but she had made it clear it was not one of her ambitions. And then there was the small matter of Juliette de Cressy, the bride his father, the Duc de Montendre had selected for him, though she hadn’t even been born until after he died.
No! He would fulfil his duty to the Montendre name by restoring his heritage. From Order Comes Freedom. The ancien régime was over now. He was the new order. Yes, there were a good many things for him to sort out before he asked Sophia to be his duchess, but—sacré bleu, look at her, was there ever a more perfect duchess?
‘What are you smiling at?’ Sophia asked him.
He took her hand, leading her out into the courtyard. ‘All this. Not just the winery, but the château, it’s beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Very. Are you thinking of restoring the château too?’
‘I could not make wine here, and live in Paris.’
‘But you love Paris.’
‘I do, but I’ve just discovered something. You know what they say, a home is where the heart is?’
‘Your heart is here?’
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her lingeringly. ‘It is right now,’ he said. Once again, the urge to tell her was almost too much to ignore, but there was too much at stake for him to be precipitate. So instead, he took the map which Monsieur Fallon had miraculously obtained for him. ‘Château Montendre and the estate,’ he informed Sophia. ‘Let’s set about making some plans and then we’ll have some lunch.’
‘Lunch? We’re in a ruined château miles from the nearest hotel.’
‘I think you’ll find that I have prepared for every eventuality.’
Chapter Thirteen
They ate the sumptuous picnic the hotel had assembled on his instruction in the shade of what had been, in the château’s heyday, the impressive lime-tree walk. Poached eggs in aspic gleamed with little emerald jewels of parsley and chives. A fish terrine comprised of layers of trout and turbot smooth as silk, separated by spears of white asparagus. The rémoulade of celeriac was tart, the rillettes of duck rich and creamy. Cabecous, the little discs of goat’s cheese from nearby Périgord, spread on Sophia’s favourite country bread made her close her eyes in bliss, and the wine, a young red from a château just a few miles down the river, was served, to her surprise, chilled.
‘That was one of the best meals I’ve ever had,’ she said, accepting a quartered apricot from Jean-Luc.
He laughed. ‘You say that after every meal.’
‘At the risk of sounding extremely unpatriotic, French food is undoubtedly the best in the world.’
‘It would be extremely unpatriotic of me to disagree, but Portuguese cuisine is responsible for the world’s greatest pastry—Pastéis de Nata. I always make a point of sampling some when I am in Lisbon.’
Sophia finished her apricot, and gave in to the temptation to relax, lying on her side, her head resting on her hand. ‘What kind of pastry is it?’
‘A custard tart.’ He lay down b
eside her. ‘But not just any custard tart. Pastéis de Nata are made with sugared pastry, rolled very thin and cut so that you can see all the little spirals on the base, like a snail’s shell.’
He had removed his coat, waistcoat and cravat. His shirt was damp, clinging to his chest, the dark shadow of hair clearly visible through the white cambric. He smelt of sweat and dust and soap. A trickle of perspiration ran down Sophia’s back. ‘And the custard?’
‘Flavoured with vanilla, cinnamon and lemon.’ He trailed his fingers down her bare arm. ‘Sweet.’ He licked into the corner of her mouth. ‘And yet tart.’ His hand travelled back up her arm, brushing the side of her breast.
She shuddered. ‘Jean-Luc, are you trying to seduce me with recipe ingredients?’
‘Yes. Is it working?’ His fingers drifted over her breast, unerringly finding her nipple, which immediately peaked in response.
‘Yes.’ Sophia said. ‘Dear heavens, yes.’
Taking him by surprise, she pushed him on to his back, leaning over him to claim his mouth with a slow, sensual kiss. He tasted of wine and sunshine. She loved him so much. He could never be hers, she would never see this beautiful château brought back to life, but she could claim this perfect day for her own. She kissed him again, aroused by the way her kiss made his eyes darken, made his breath quicken. He might not love her as she loved him, but she could be in no doubt about the depth of his desire.
He pulled her on top of him and their kisses changed from languorous to passionate. His hands roamed down her back to cup her bottom. She could feel him, hard between her legs, and the driving need to have him inside her made her forget all about their surroundings. She whispered his name, arching against him.
Desire took over, hot and fierce as the summer sun which dappled through the leaves as they touched and kissed, tearing impatiently at their clothes, his boots and his breeches, her shoes and her undergarments, cast heedlessly aside as their bodies strove for that most intimate connection. And then, as he lay on his back beneath her, she caught her breath, wanting, suddenly, just to touch him, curling her fingers around the sleek, thick length of him. The tension of her own arousal tightened inside her as he pulsed in response, as he watched her, as she watched him responding to her touch, taking her cue from his response, for the first time in her life relishing what she did, not thinking about what she did, wanting only to please, confident that she did.
His chest heaved. The muscles of his belly rippled. She could see, in his eyes, and in his mouth, that she was testing him, taking him to the brink of his self-control, and it was exciting, very, very exciting, but she wanted more from him. She wanted all of him. So she leaned over to kiss him on the mouth, and as she did, she slid up his body and took him inside her.
He bucked under her. The movement sent her right to the edge of her own climax. Not yet, she thought, forcing herself to slow down, to lift herself then thrust slowly, and then again, eliciting a deep groan from him as he slid his hand beneath her gown and touched her. She lost control then, in a wild, frenzied drive to completion that made her cry out in astonished delight, her own climax triggering his, his self-control better than hers as he lifted her away from him only seconds before he came.
But afterwards he pulled her tightly against him, as if he wanted to meld them together, and she burrowed her face into his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart and wishing she could stay like this for ever. I love you, she thought, sealing the thought with a kiss. I love you so much.
The silence was broken by the distinct, rhythmic, sawing sound of a cicada. She stirred, but Jean-Luc’s arms tightened around her. ‘I don’t want to move. Not yet.’
‘Nor I.’ She kissed him softly. ‘Not yet.’
* * *
Scowling, Jean-Luc picked up the visiting card which the maid proffered on the tray as she arrived to clear breakfast away the next day. ‘I can’t believe I forgot I had arranged this meeting. You remember,’ he said to Sophia, ‘the customer who is getting married. He is waiting in the foyer.’
‘The one who wants to buy a whole warehouse-worth of wine? You had better not keep him waiting. Business is business.’ She got to her feet. ‘I will leave you to it. ‘I can go for a stroll, call on Monsieur Fallon if you like, and postpone our appointment with him till later?’
‘There’s no need. I’ll have the hotel porter deliver a message to him. Why don’t you stay here, meet my client? I had Maxime make arrangements for a tasting at a premises down near the docks, you’ll enjoy that. I have the details in my bedchamber. You go through to the drawing room. I will have him sent up and will join you both momentarily. I just need to take a quick look through my notes. I hate to be unprepared. I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s absolutely fine. As you said, business is business, especially if it allows you to keep me in the manner to which I have become accustomed,’ Sophia teased.
Though she had better not become too accustomed, she reminded herself firmly, wandering through to the drawing room, where she checked her appearance in the mirror. Fortunately, she had dressed for the visit to Monsieur Fallon, in a walking dress of white muslin designed to be worn with a mint-green half-pelisse. The sleeves were long, the neckline high, perfectly suitable attire for her to receive morning callers.
A polite tap and the door was opened to reveal the maid and a tall, well-dressed gentleman. A tall, well-dressed and horribly familiar gentleman.
For a terrible moment, time stood still. Sophia had the distinct impression that the ground was opening up beneath her. There was a rushing sound in her ears. The room appeared to spin before her eyes.
‘Sir Richard Hopkins, Madame Bauduin,’ the maid announced.
The man who had been her protector for two years stood on the threshold. ‘Sophia! In the name of all that’s sacred, what are you doing here?’
She stood rooted to the spot, utterly appalled, sick to the pit of her stomach. It was unmistakably him. Handsome in a swarthy way. Immaculately garbed. Suave, sophisticated and utterly vile. ‘Get out,’ she hissed. ‘Get out right now.’
‘Since when do I do as you tell me, Sophia? Don’t you recollect that it was always the other way around, when you were my—’
‘I was never yours.’ A gust of anger coursed through her. ‘You merely rented my body for a period.’
‘Describe our arrangement how you will. I came to meet my vintner, not call on damaged goods.’ Collecting himself, Hopkins closed the door and strode towards her. He caught her hands. ‘So, you are now plying your trade in France. You look very well, at any rate. A deal better than when I last saw you.’
She snatched her hands away. ‘Four weeks after my sister died! You called not to offer your condolences, but to make me an offer you thought I could not refuse.’
‘Yet you did refuse it.’
‘Yes, I damn well did.’ Resentment rose like bile in her throat. ‘The bargain we made was complete, I no longer needed to subject myself to your ministrations.’
‘I do not recall that you found me repulsive.’
He spoke in that cold, clipped tone that she remembered so well, and which she had always appeased with compliance, if necessary with feigned affection. But she no longer needed to appease him. ‘Our contract required me to please you. What I actually felt about you was another matter entirely.’
He took a step towards her, then halted. ‘Women of your sort, Sophia, cannot afford the luxury of feelings.’
‘We can certainly not afford to show them.’
‘You entered into our liaison of your own free will. You knew exactly what my terms were, I made them perfectly clear.’
‘And then duly breached them out of spite.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I refused to resume our arrangement after my sister had died, no longer having a pressing need for your bribes, you blackened my name. Do no deny it
, sir, it is the only explanation for the plethora of other offers of protection I then subsequently received from your friends. You promised you would not talk, and you did.’
‘Not while you were mine.’
‘I was never yours.’
‘Sophia, come back to me. Perhaps I was hasty. I will make you a proper settlement.’ Hopkins grabbed her around the waist. ‘An annuity as well as a quarterly sum.’
‘Let me go.’
‘Sir Richard! What the devil are you doing?’ Jean-Luc threw down the bundle of papers he was holding. ‘Take your hands off my wife.’
‘Your wife?’ Hopkins drew Sophia a baffled glance then stepped hastily away, holding his hands in the air. ‘Monsieur Bauduin. There has been a grave misunderstanding.’
‘Get out,’ Jean-Luc said, his hands curling of their own accord into fists.
But though Hopkins put some distance between himself and Sophia, he made no move to leave. ‘Let us not be too hasty, Monsieur Bauduin. I swear that I had no idea this lady was your wife, otherwise—in any event I have travelled all the way from England in the expectation of placing laying before you an extremely large order...’
Jean-Luc took a step towards him. ‘Get out before you need wine for your funeral rather than your nuptials.’
Sir Richard turned tail. The door slammed behind him, and Sophia’s knees buckled. She sank on to a sofa.
Jean-Luc was at her side in an instant. ‘Forgive me. I would never have left you alone with him for an instant if I had thought—but he always appeared to me to be a perfect gentleman. I am so very sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ She couldn’t resist clinging to him for a moment, burrowing her face into his shoulder.
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife Page 19
