The French Count's Pregnant Bride

Was she really so naive that she’d expected all she had to do was show up, and her mother would instinctively know her? So foolish as to think that, in the unlikely event such a miracle occurred, a woman who’d kept her baby’s birth a secret for over twenty-eight years would willingly reveal it now?

“You’re rushing into this, Diana,” Carol had warned. “You need to take a step back and consider the pitfalls, the most obvious being that you’re the world’s worst liar. What makes you think you can pull off such a monumental deception?”

She should have listened to her friend. Perhaps then, she wouldn’t have made a spectacle of herself with a man smart enough to recognize something fishy when it was staring him in the face.

And so accustomed to having his own way that he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

What had he threatened, before she fled to the sanctuary of her room? Be down here by the time the bouillabaisse is ready, or I’m coming up to get you, or words to that effect?

That he meant it was enough to have her changed into fresh clothes and on her way downstairs again in record time. If there was to be a confrontation, better it take place in public, than here in a room that was barely large enough for one. He was too pushy, too sure of himself—and, she admitted reluctantly, altogether too attractive for her to deal with him at close quarters.

She needed to keep her wits about her because, just when she’d been ready to concede defeat and admit Carol had been right all along, the one lead she’d hoped to find had fallen almost literally into her lap. Henri Molyneux, her host, might very well be the key to the mystery of who her birth mother was, and whether or not he knew it, Anton de Valois was going to help Diana unlock it.

Falling under his charming spell would undermine her resolve and might very well turn out to be a fatal mistake, because he struck her as a man of many layers; a classic example of the old saying that still waters run deep.

She must resist him at all costs.

CHAPTER THREE

A MAN likes to be seen with a woman who knows how to dress, Harvey used to say. That she cares enough about his opinion to want to make him proud when he takes her out in public, tells him he made the right choice in marrying her.

A belittling definition of a wife’s worth, Diana thought now, although she hadn’t said so at the time, and she was pretty sure Anton de Valois would see past such superficiality. Even so, she dressed with care, and from the way his glance swept over her in frank approval when she joined him again, knew she’d chosen well. Her sleeveless navy dress, deceptively simple but superbly cut, was enhanced only by a silver bracelet, lending just the right touch of low-key elegance for what, to all apparent intents and purposes, was supposed to be a low-key dinner.

“You took rather longer to return than you were supposed to, but it was well worth the wait,” he remarked, pulling out her chair. “You look quite lovely, Diana, and very much better than you did half an hour ago.”

“Thank you. I’m feeling better.” She took her seat, outwardly poised, but when his hand brushed against her bare skin, a shock of sensual heat flashed through her, and briefly—very briefly indeed!—she longed to lean into his touch and soak in his warmth.

This was a man put on earth to tempt a woman to stray from her intended course. He turned her thoughts to such nonsense as love at first sight, to happy-ever-after, when any person with a grain of sense knew there was no such thing. Yet for all that she tried to distance herself from him, his magnetism tugged at her, drawing her ever deeper into its aura.

Simply put, she found him both irresistible and intriguing. The cast of his mouth, the slow-burning fire in his eyes, spoke of a passion which, once aroused, be it from anger, pride or sexual desire, would not easily be quenched. The lean strength of his body betrayed a working familiarity with manual labor, yet cashmere, silk and fine leather were created with his particular brand of natural elegance in mind.

Why hadn’t she met him sooner, before she’d learned to be so wary, so disillusioned? she lamented. Before she’d married the wrong man and had all her womanly dreams turned to ashes?

Annoyed by her wandering thoughts, she stiffened her spine, both physically and mentally. She was here on a mission, and the handsome French Count resuming his seat across from her, merely the means to an end.

Blithely ignorant of her thoughts, the handsome French Count smiled winningly and said, “Enough to tolerate a glass of wine before we eat?”

“Perhaps not quite that much,” she said, deciding she needed to keep a clear head. So what if his voice was dark as midnight, his smile enough to melt the polar ice cap, and his face the envy of angels? She’d learned the hard way how easily sexual awareness could cloud other important issues between a man and a woman, and she wasn’t about to let it lead her astray again. “At least, not until I have some food in my stomach.”

He indicated a basket containing a sliced baguette, and a shallow dish of black olives mashed to a paste with roasted garlic. “Try some of this, then. Henri bakes his own bread, and the olives are home grown on de Valois soil.”

“Ah! So you own olive groves. I was wondering how Counts earn their keep these days.”

She spoke lightly, hoping he wouldn’t discern such a nakedly transparent attempt to discover more about him. But knowledge was power, and the more she learned about Anton de Valois, the better prepared she’d be to withstand his appeal and deal with whatever it was that really motivated his interest in her. Because all his smooth Continental charm notwithstanding, the alert calculation in his gaze whenever it settled on her, betrayed him. For some reason she couldn’t begin to fathom, he didn’t trust her. And that, she reminded herself sternly, was ample reason for her not to trust him.

“Olives keep me busy enough,” he replied, bathing her in a singularly breathtaking smile, “but they’re by no means my chief obsession.”

She spread a little of the paste on a piece of bread and sampled it. “They should be. This is outstanding.”

“Then I insist you try at least a mouthful of the wine. My vineyards produced the grapes which my vintner blended to create this very fine Château de Valois Rouge.”

“Thanks anyway, but I’ll take your word for it. As I mentioned not five minutes ago, I don’t care for any wine right now.”

She might as well have saved her breath. “Mon dieu, Diana, relax and live a little!” he scoffed, pouring a small amount into her glass. “A sip or two won’t send you to hell in a hand cart, but I promise you, it will enhance your meal. In this part of Provence, a well-chilled red wine is, to bouillabaisse, what American beer is to pretzels.”

It was a pretty wine, she had to give him that. It glowed in her glass with all the fire of a ruby. Still, if getting her drunk was his aim, he was in for a disappointment. She found him intoxicating enough, without falling victim to his vin rouge. She’d wet her lips with the stuff, and that was all.

“Very pleasant,” she said, allowing a mere trickle to roll down her throat, and changed the subject before he decided she hadn’t tasted enough to know if it was wine or water. “So what else keeps you busy, apart from overseeing your vineyards and olive groves?”

“Doing the same for my lavender farm and distillery. I’m a hands-on kind of man and, given a choice, I’d prefer to be more actively involved in the actual operation of all three enterprises, but the administrative end of things is so time consuming that I frequently put in ten-hour days without once setting foot outside my office.”

“My goodness, you really are a working model of a Count! What do you do for relaxation?”

She realized at once her mistake. Without missing a beat, he lowered his long lashes in seductive slow motion, a move that aroused a disturbing response in the pit of her stomach. “Coerce beautiful Americans into having dinner with me. Speaking of which, here comes our bouillabaisse. Prepare to be impressed.”

Oh, she was already impressed, pathetically so, but not by Henri’s culinary skills! Anton de Valois, however, was a different matter altogether. She should be ashamed for falling victim to the practiced moves of the French equivalent of Don Juan!

Henri arrived at their table, wheeling a cart holding a thick pottery tureen on a matching platter, as well as bowls, plates and cutlery. With great pomp and ceremony, he removed the tureen lid and wafted his hand over the escaping steam, sending a mouthwatering aroma of slow-simmered tomatoes, garlic, saffron and herbs drifting her way.

Chunks of red mullet, monkfish, John Dory and conger eel, as well as mussels and various other shellfish, floated in the rich broth. “Bon appetit, mes amis!” he pronounced with a smile, and left them to it.

Anton ladled a generous helping of the stew into a bowl and passed it to Diana. “Try this and tell me what you think,” he coaxed.

What she privately thought was that simply feasting her eyes on him and drinking in his charm was sustenance enough. But since that route surely led to nothing but trouble, she wrenched her runaway emotions under control, obediently took a spoonful of the fish stew, savored it slowly, then closed her eyes and sighed with genuine pleasure. “Pure heaven!” she sighed.

“That’s pretty much the reaction Henri Molyneux always gets when his bouillabaisse is on the menu.”

She couldn’t have asked for a better reminder of the real reason she was supposed to be sharing a meal with him. Swallowing her food along with the lie she was about to fabricate, she said, “I don’t think I’ve come across that name before.”

Another mistake she quickly came to regret! “A woman with your fluency in French has never heard the name Henri?” Anton inquired with blatant disbelief. “Come now, Diana! You surely don’t expect me to swallow that!”

“Oh, not his first name,” she amended hastily, a telltale blush warming her face. “I was referring to Molyneux. Is it…very unusual?”

“Not in these parts,” he said, continuing to eye her suspiciously. “There are Molyneux’s everywhere.”

Her pulse gave an erratic leap. Struggling to sound as if she was merely making trivial dinner conversation when, in reality, her entire world hung on his reply, she asked lightly, “Don’t tell me they’re all related.”

“Not necessarily all, but quite a few, certainly. So many families are linked, either directly, or through marriage. As I said, it’s a very common name. Henri, for instance, is the eldest of seven children, and has three of his own, as well as two grandchildren.”

“He doesn’t look old enough to be a grandfather.”

Anton rolled his rather magnificent eyes. “Tell him that, and he’ll be your slave for life! He turns sixty next month. I know, because a big birthday bash is in the works, to which everyone within a fifty-mile radius is invited.”

Filing away that gem of information, Diana continued her inquisition with a casual, “What about his siblings? Are they married, as well?”

“Yes, and all but one with children and grandchildren of their own. At last count, there were thirty-eight Molyneux’s in his branch of the family alone. Multiply that a few times, and you’ll understand why I say the name is as thick on the ground in these parts, as plane tree leaves in autumn.”

Little pieces of her personal jigsaw puzzle were beginning to fall into place almost too neatly. Trying hard to contain her growing excitement, Diana said, “And Henri’s six siblings, are they all brothers?”