Harlequin Presents January 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: The Secret His Mistress CarriedTo Sin with the TycoonInherited by Her EnemyThe Last Heir of Monterrato

by Lynne Graham

  It was easily more than double the width of the queen-size bed she’d slept in at Barrowdean, making it what? Emperor-size? Dictator-of-the-world-size? And rendered even more imposing by its four carved posts, and its canopy and curtains in pale gold brocade.

  And totally inappropriate for single occupation—if that had ever been his intention.

  Her heartbeat faltered then steadied as Andre set her coat and case down on the chest, then walked across the room to open a door on the other side and reveal the gleam of ivory tiles.

  ‘I am sure Clothilde has provided all that you need,’ he said. ‘Permit me to wish you goodnight.’

  As he reached the bedroom door, she said huskily, ‘Just a moment. There must be some mistake. This is not a servant’s room.’

  ‘Tu as raison,’ he agreed. ‘This is the room always occupied by the Baron de Terauze and his wife. Papa Bertrand, being a widower, chooses to sleep elsewhere. And although I am not yet the Baron or a husband, I have decided you will sleep here as my chosen bride until I am legally entitled to join you.’ His smile touched her like the stroke of a hand across her skin. ‘I live for that night, ma belle.’

  Her throat tightened. She said dazedly, ‘But that’s tantamount to a public announcement. You can’t do that.’

  He shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, it is done.’

  She gave him a challenging look. ‘And when it’s confirmed that there is no baby and I go back to England, what will you do then?’

  ‘I shall cross that bridge,’ he said softly, ‘only if I come to it.’

  ‘When,’ she said. ‘Not—if. And another thing. You told us all—you let us think you worked in a vineyard.’

  ‘And so I do,’ he said. ‘Very hard, and so do Papa Bertrand and Jules. If your mother wished to believe that as well as a bastard I was a peasant toiling in a field, that was her concern.’ He added reflectively, ‘But I do not think, Virginie, that you were fooled even for a moment.’

  Her skin warmed as she remembered with blazing clarity that strange shock of recognition when she opened the door to him and—later—the exquisitely practised sophistication of his lovemaking.

  She said, ‘I think it was a lousy trick to play.’

  ‘Vraiment?’ His smile was edged. ‘I thought it would please you, ma mie, to find that you also will not be required to live in a hovel.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ she said shakily. ‘Nothing about this—arrangement pleases me, or ever will.’

  His mouth hardened. ‘Then let us hope a night’s rest will bring you to a more equable state of mind. Because this is my future as well as yours, and you would do well to accept it as I am prepared to do.’ He inclined his head curtly. ‘À demain.’

  For a moment, Ginny stood staring at the door he had closed behind him and then, with a little inarticulate cry, she ran to it, twisting the heavy key in the lock. Wanting the physical bulk of wood and iron to create a barrier between them.

  And ashamed to her soul that she should feel it necessary.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GINNY AWOKE SLOWLY, as if she was swimming upwards through layer after languid layer of comfort.

  For a moment, as she opened her eyes, she felt disorientated, looking round an unfamiliar room from the depths of an unfamiliar bed. But then the memories of yesterday’s incredible sequence of events came flooding back.

  She had not expected to sleep and yet it seemed she had—almost as soon as the silk-shaded bedside lamp had been extinguished.

  Off with the light, then out like a light, she thought, her mouth twisting. But it’s a new day now and I need to be wide awake and firing on all cylinders to deal with whatever it brings.

  She pushed aside the covers and slid down to the floor, the polished boards striking cold to her feet. She retrieved her ruby robe from her case and huddled it on over her pyjamas before going to the window and opening the shutters. To find herself standing motionless, gasping at the unexpected glory confronting her.

  There had been a hard frost in the night, and, as a result, the red-gold ball of the early sun had turned the vine-clad slopes spreading as far as the eye could see into living flame.

  A welcome contrast to the darkness of her arrival and maybe, from now on, she would see more clearly in other ways.

  But maybe not hear or speak so well, with only her schoolgirl French to rely on. But that would probably be the least of her inadequacies, she thought, pulling her robe further around her with a shiver and taking one last look at the vibrant glow of the landscape before turning away.

  She picked a pair of jeans and a thick navy Guernsey from her case, then transferred the rest of her meagre haul of clothing to the depths of the armoire where it looked small and slightly lost. Rather how I feel myself, she thought wryly, locating her hairdryer and putting it on the bed.

  Collecting a handful of underwear and a towel, she was on her way to the bathroom when there was a loud knock at the bedroom door and a rattle as the handle was tried.

  She halted. ‘Who is it?’ Just as if she didn’t know.

  ‘Andre.’ He rattled the handle again. ‘Open the door, Virginie.’

  Reluctantly, she obeyed, turning the key in the lock. He walked in and stood, hands on hips, his face grim as he looked her up and down. Although she was perfectly decent, Ginny had to fight an impulse to draw her robe even more closely round her.

  Which was ridiculous when he knew perfectly well what she looked like naked, she thought with a pang that mingled embarrassed discomfort with something altogether more ambiguous.

  ‘I thought we had agreed to trust one another,’ he commented coldly. ‘So why lock your door?’

  She shrugged defensively. ‘My first night in a strange house. I felt—nervous.’ And she was nervous now. His arrival made the room seem almost smaller. And he hadn’t shaved, rekindling unwanted memories of the way his stubble had grazed her bare skin.

  He nodded. ‘And if there had been a fire and we had been unable to reach you? What then?’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But not impossible. Alors...’ He took the key from the lock and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I came to say that Madame Rameau will be preparing breakfast. I hope you will join us.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said jerkily. ‘Yes, of course. I—I’ll soon be ready.’

  He turned towards the door, then swung back and came over to her, his fingers reaching for her sleeve, grasping the soft ruby fabric. He said softly, ‘I find I do not care for this garment. Something else I should have told you to leave behind, ma mie.’

  And, before she could form any kind of protest, went.

  High-handed, dictatorial, and arrogant were just some of the words Ginny muttered under her breath as she stood under the blissful heat of the powerful shower. Words that she repeated over and over again as if they were a spell which would give her some kind of protection.

  Although she should not need protection. She was hardly here through choice, yet while she might have accepted the deal on offer, there were still parameters to be drawn. Limits to be observed.

  Her mood was not improved when she realised she could not plug in her hairdryer, and therefore she would be going down to breakfast with her hair hanging to her shoulders in rats’ tails.

  But what the hell, she thought, raking the damp strands back from her face. Looking attractive was hardly a preferred option.

  She took off her robe and, shivering in bra and briefs, reached for her jeans. At which moment the door opened and Andre walked in.

  She snatched up the jeans and held them defensively in front of her. Her voice shook. ‘Can’t you knock?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have seen you wearing less.’

  ‘I don’t need any reminder of that.’ She lifted her chin. ‘What do
you want?’

  ‘I thought you would need this.’ He tossed an adapter plug on to the bed beside the dryer. ‘I do not wish you to add a bout of pneumonia to the list of grievances against me you are undoubtedly preparing.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She bit her lip. ‘That was—thoughtful.’

  His brows lifted in faint amusement. ‘You said that, chérie, as if you were chewing broken glass,’ he observed. ‘I had hoped you would be more grateful.’ He paused. ‘I would welcome as little as a smile.’

  She said in a low voice, ‘Perhaps I haven’t much to smile about. And on the subject of pneumonia, I’d like to get dressed in peace.’

  ‘Hélas, I can only offer privacy,’ he said sardonically, his eyes travelling over her in frank and unhurried reminiscence. ‘Peace, ma mie, is a very different matter.’ And added, ‘For both of us.’

  It wasn’t until the door closed behind him that Ginny realised she was holding her breath.

  She fumbled her way into her clothing with hands that shook, but the necessity of wielding dryer and brush to restore her hair to its usual shining curtain gave her a modicum of composure.

  Making her way downstairs, she paused at the kitchen door, silently rehearsing an apology for being late, then marched in only to find that preparations for breakfast had apparently not yet begun.

  Instead she was immediately conscious of an odd tension in the silent room as if her arrival had halted a conversation, she thought as she registered the woman standing by the fireplace.

  She was tall with silver-grey hair cut in a sleek angular bob and a striking, even beautiful face, and Ginny found herself struggling to make a connection between the newcomer and Jules with his distinctly sturdy build and blunt, slightly pugnacious features.

  She summoned a smile and walked across the room, ready to shake hands. ‘Bonjour, Madame Rameau? Comment allez vous? Je suis Virginia Mason.’

  ‘Madame Rameau,’ the other woman repeated wonderingly. Adding in English, ‘Is this perhaps a joke?’

  ‘Au contraire, it is a mistake on my part, Monique.’ Andre, standing with Jules at the window, spoke coolly. ‘We were not anticipating the pleasure of seeing you at this hour and Mademoiselle Mason was expecting to meet Clothilde.’ He came forward to Ginny’s side. ‘Virginie, allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Chaloux.’

  The other woman smiled, showing perfect teeth. ‘And Clothilde, naturellement, is late. Occupied with some little medical emergency, no doubt. But it is an unexpected pleasure to find Mademoiselle Mason among us. I had assumed...’ She broke off, her smile widening. ‘But enough of that. I shall now look forward to practising my English as I once did with your dear mother, Andre.’

  Ginny said politely, ‘I don’t think you need practice, mademoiselle.’

  ‘How charming of you to say so.’ Mademoiselle Chaloux turned to Andre. ‘I have called, mon cher, to say that Bertrand expects to be here by late afternoon.’

  ‘That is good of you, Monique,’ Andre said courteously. ‘But he informed me of that himself last night.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said lightly. ‘Then I need not have delayed my start to the day.’ She nodded in Ginny’s direction. ‘Au revoir, mademoiselle. We shall meet again very soon. This evening at dinner, perhaps.’

  ‘Non, hélas.’ Andre’s tone expressed polite regret. ‘Tonight we plan to dine en famille, in order to welcome Mademoiselle Mason. I am sure you understand.’

  There was the slightest pause, then: ‘But, of course.’

  Another glinting smile around the room and she was gone.

  Ginny heard Jules mutter something inaudible and with that came an almost perceptible relaxation in the atmosphere.

  So I wasn’t imagining things, she thought. She drew a breath.

  ‘I’m sorry I made that mistake over the names. I hope Mademoiselle Chaloux isn’t too upset.’

  ‘Ça ne fait rien.’ Andre shrugged. ‘Between Clothilde and herself there has always been friction, for many reasons. Monique’s father was the doctor here for some years, and she acted as his receptionist and secretary. He believed in orthodox medicine and hospital births for all mothers.

  ‘Clothilde, par contraste, is the unofficial village midwife, delivering babies at home in their parents’ beds and brewing medicine from herbs in her kitchen, and many people turn first to her.’

  Jules said grimly, ‘In past centuries, sans doute, la famille Chaloux would have denounced my aunt as a witch.’

  Andre’s mouth relaxed into a grin that made Ginny’s heartbeat quicken ridiculously. ‘For myself, I wonder what Clothilde would have called Monique.’

  She tried to speak lightly. ‘She sounds quite something.’

  ‘Judge for yourself,’ he said as a door banged and an instant later a woman surged into the room, talking nineteen to the dozen, with a canvas bag in one hand and several baguettes under her other arm.

  The antithesis of Mademoiselle Chaloux, the newcomer was short, clad in a cape like a small tent, her rosy double-chinned face crowned by an untidy topknot of pepper and salt hair. The removal of the cape revealed that she was built on generous lines, full-bosomed and wide-hipped, her ample body supported on sturdy legs in red woollen tights.

  As she paused for breath, lively brown eyes discovered Ginny and narrowed. ‘So she is here—the daughter of Monsieur ton père?’

  ‘Sa belle fille. His stepdaughter,’ Andre corrected with faint emphasis.

  She sent him a shrewd glance, the small mouth pursing, then looked back at Ginny, examining her slowly from head to toe. She gave a brisk nod. ‘Soyez bien-venue, petite. Asseyez-vous.’

  In next to no time, breakfast was on the table with bread and croissants still warm from the bakery, a choice of peach or cherry jam and café au lait served in cups like bowls.

  As she ate, Ginny found herself watching Andre under her lashes, seeing him for the first time on his own territory. Listening to the ebb and flow of his conversation with Jules, the turn of his head, the movement of his hands to stress a point. Everything about him leaving no doubt as to who was the boss here.

  And her boss too, she supposed without pleasure as she finished her coffee, then watched, astonished as Madame Rameau began to empty the canvas bag, unloading a patisserie box followed by potatoes, onions, a cabbage, a bunch of carrots and a large chicken together with several jars and containers.

  She said, ‘Well, dinner looks good.’

  Andre grinned. ‘Except that it is lunch. Dinner will be another affair altogether.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘My God.’

  Jules had already left and as Andre drained the last of his coffee and rose, Ginny leaned across the table. She said quietly, ‘I came here to work. Perhaps you’d explain my duties so I can start.’

  ‘Eh bien,’ he said. ‘You may begin by coming for a walk with me. I wish to show you the vineyard.’

  She hesitated and he added softly, ‘S’il te plaît, Virginie. Please.’

  She was chagrined to feel herself blush and didn’t know whether to blame the coaxing note in his voice or the fact that Madame Rameau was regarding them benignly, hands on hips.

  She got up from the table. ‘I’ll fetch my coat.’

  He held out a detaining hand. ‘But before we go, you may wish to telephone your mother to tell her you have arrived and are safe.’

  ‘I already did so,’ she said. ‘The machine picked up my message.’

  ‘She has not returned the call.’

  ‘I doubt she’ll want to.’ Ginny looked away, biting her lip. ‘We—we parted on bad terms.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said and paused. ‘But at least give her the chance to do so, ma mie, or you may regret it.’

  ‘You sound almost sorry for her,’ she challenged. ‘What’s brought about this change?’

 
His voice was quiet. ‘I would feel sorry for anyone who has turned away the gift of happiness.’

  And what was she supposed to make of that? Ginny wondered as she sat on the edge of her bed to pull on her boots before zipping herself into her quilted coat.

  Outside, it was cold and crisp, the sun now a pale globe in the misty winter sky. They left by the rear door, crossing a walled courtyard with empty stone troughs waiting for spring blooms.

  Beyond its double wrought-iron gates the vines were also waiting, no longer invisible in the early morning dazzle, but stretching, rank upon rank of them, as far as the eye could see, and planted, Ginny saw, with almost military precision against the neat lines of wooden posts and wire which supported them, in broad alternating bands of grass and ploughed tan soil.

  She paused halfway up the slope, drawing a sharp breath and Andre looked down at her and smiled.

  ‘You are surprised.’

  ‘Well—yes. I didn’t expect it to be so neat and orderly.’

  He nodded. ‘As my father said—like his office desk.’

  She realised that Andrew must have stood here, maybe on this very spot, taking in this very different world. Perhaps formulating the decisions that had led to these tumultuous repercussions in her own life.

  She spoke quickly, fighting the sudden tightening of her throat. ‘I—I didn’t think it would be so big either.’

  ‘We have over thirty acres, this area planted with Pinot Noir, the grape that is Burgundy’s jewel. From it we produce our Grand Cru Baron Emile, our most valuable wine.’

  ‘Is that what we had last night?’

  He laughed. ‘Non, hélas. That was our Bourgogne Villages, although that is also highly regarded, especially by the region’s restaurateurs.’ He pointed. ‘And over there, where you see that wall, we grow the Chardonnay grapes for our white wine, Clos Sainte Marie de Terauze. But I do not expect you to walk that far,’ he added as they resumed their climb, their boots crunching over the frosty grass.

  ‘Or remember all the information either, I hope.’ She sent him a defiant look, suppressing all the other questions that, to her own surprise, she actually wanted to ask, not least about the dynamics back at the house.