At The French Baron's Bidding

‘And what is that?’ Natasha asked archly. She was finding her feet in this game of light flirtation more easily than she would have believed.

‘Oh, ris de veau. A speciality my chef loves to prepare.’ His eyes sparkled with laughter.

Natasha hesitated, swallowed. ‘Isn’t that brain?’ she asked warily.

‘When it is prepared by Alphonse you will not think at all about its origin,’ he assured her, leading the way into a vast baronial dining room, where liveried footmen stood behind two chairs at the long table.

‘Is everything always so formal?’ she asked impulsively as they stood in the entrance. ‘I don’t think I could live as you do and Grandmère did on an everyday basis. I think it would drive me mad.’

‘You prefer a more casual lifestyle?’ he asked, looking down at her from his six foot two.

‘Yes. I’ve lived in Africa with refugees in the desert for the past three years. It makes one focus on the essentials in life.’

‘I can believe that,’ he said as they sat down, and he watched her, intrigued. So she was not some dull little secretary from a provincial backwater but rather a woman who sought adventure in her life. The thought was alluring, gave her an extra aura, and as the candlelight flickered and she unfolded her napkin he took a good look at her face, aware now of just how perfect her features were, and how lithe and attractive her body. Would it be pliant and lithe in bed? he wondered, a sudden image of her lying naked among the sheets causing him to divert his thoughts quickly to avoid any embarrassing consequences.

‘Tell me about Africa,’ he requested, truly interested in learning more about his intriguing neighbour. Perhaps he’d underestimated her.

Dinner went smoothly. Comfortable talking about a place she was familiar with, a culture which she’d taken the trouble to study, and the humanitarian crisis that she felt so strongly about, Natasha relaxed and became her true self. By the time they’d had coffee and after-dinner drinks, it was close to midnight.

‘Gosh, it’s getting awfully late. I’d better go home…to the Manoir, I mean. Could I call a taxi?’ she enquired, glancing at him across the fireplace.

‘Out of the question. I’ll drive you.’

‘That’s very kind, but I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

‘A beautiful woman is never a nuisance. In fact, ma chère, it is a pleasure,’ Raoul replied smoothly, executing a small formal bow, his lips curved in a half-smile.

Despite her new desire to be cool and sophisticated, Natasha swallowed. The man was positively devastating when he smiled, she realized, and she was still unused to compliments. To her annoyance the earlier flush returned to her cheeks. Still, letting him drive her home was hardly a big deal.

Once downstairs, they stepped outside into the courtyard and Raoul opened the door of his sleek red Ferrari, clearly amused.

A woman who blushed.

That was an interesting concept—one he hadn’t come across in a while. For an instant Clothilde flashed across his mind. He doubted she’d blushed at twelve, let alone now. The thought of the other woman reminded him that tomorrow he would have to go back to Paris and deal with her. For some strange reason it all seemed rather further away than it had earlier in the day, as though his evening with Natasha had somehow obliterated any vestiges of feeling he might have had.

Soon they were driving down dark country lanes before heading into the drive of the Manoir.

‘I suppose our families have been neighbours for ever,’ Natasha remarked as the wheels crunched the gravel and the vehicle drew up at the front door.

‘We have, in effect, been neighbours for going on approximately six hundred years.’

‘Who was your ancestor—Regis?’ she asked suddenly, remembering Henri’s words and turning to try and distinguish his expression in the half-light coming from the outside lamps.

She saw him stiffen. ‘Who told you about Regis?’ he asked warily.

‘Oh, somebody mentioned him. I can’t remember who,’ she lied, sensing there was more to this story than met the eye. More that she definitely planned to find out.

‘Regis was a rather flamboyant character. All families have them, I suppose—a sort of black sheep, in a way. I’ll tell you about him some time. It would take too long tonight, ma chère.’

‘All right.’ Natasha pretended not to be intrigued by the story. Someone else could surely tell it. Which made her suddenly determined to become better acquainted with the people on the estate and in the village. Perhaps she could glean some interesting details from them, learn all sorts of things about the past.

Then, when she least expected it, Raoul leaned over and in one smooth, swift movement slipped his hand under her chin and drew her mouth to his.

She should protest, should stop him, should do something, Natasha realized. But it was impossible. For the next thing she knew Raoul’s firm lips were parting hers, forcing them to surrender to his will. His arms came about her and her breast cleaved to his hard chest. It was crazy, but all she could do was succumb, allow his probing tongue to wander, seek, explore, and try to ignore the delicious tautness of her nipples, to control the myriad sensations coursing through her body from head to toe. When finally he withdrew his mouth, and stayed staring down at her, she pulled out of his arms, breathless, her pulse racing.

‘I’ll be back at the end of the week,’ he murmured, his voice husky with undisguised desire, ‘then we can pick up where we’ve left off, ma belle. I look forward to it already.’

‘We will do nothing of the sort,’ she retorted, regaining some measure of composure. ‘And I’ll thank you to leave me alone. I have no need or desire for your attentions. Keep your kisses for your own kind. I have no wish for them.’ With that she flung out of the car and, stumbling on the gravel in her high heels, reached the front door.

Henri had given her a heavy key before dinner. Now she inserted it in the lock, her fingers struggling nervously to undo it. ‘Oh, bother,’ she exclaimed, when it wouldn’t turn.

‘May I?’ Raoul, composed and gentlemanly once more, stepped forward.

‘Oh, just go away and leave me alone,’ Natasha exclaimed crossly, her nerves still jangling from their unexpected encounter.

‘But you’ll be stuck out here in the night,’ he remarked matter-of-factly. ‘Let’s be reasonable about this, ma chère, after all it was only a kiss.’

With an annoyed huff Natasha stepped back and let Raoul take over. After one expert twist the key turned. ‘Voilà,’ he said, smiling down at her with that same mischievous twinkle which had the effect of making her melt inside. ‘Bonne nuit, lovely lady. May you have sweet dreams.’ Then he turned abruptly, just as he had the other day. And the next thing she knew he was driving off down the drive as she let herself into the dimly lit hall.

Sleep was impossible. She simply must pull herself together. Instinctively Natasha walked to the library and switched on a lamp. Perhaps another drink would do her good—a nightcap. Or maybe that was the problem. She wasn’t used to much alcohol, and, although it hadn’t seemed much at the time, over the course of the evening she must have consumed quite a bit. Perhaps a book might do the trick—distract her from the evening’s adventure.

But, as she skimmed the packed shelves of classics, Natasha could still feel the touch of Raoul’s lips on hers, the tingling sensation that caused her breasts to peak even now, and a strange delicious throbbing travelling through her. It was ridiculous, she reasoned. Outrageous that a man she barely knew could cause such havoc. Why, she hadn’t had a boyfriend since Paul, and even then she’d been hesitant to sleep with him, as though something deep down inside had warned her of his future behaviour. But she had. And it hadn’t been a success. She’d been afraid, unexcited, but determined to do what she had to. Never in the two years they’d gone out together had she felt anything close to the extreme rush of pleasure she’d derived in those few minutes with Raoul in the car.

‘Absurd,’ she muttered, glancing at the rows of titles, determined to find something to distract her. All at once her eyes fell upon a large leatherbound volume. A Concise History of the Famille d’Argentan, she read. Extracting the large volume from its slot, where it had obviously remained for many years, she brushed off some dust. There was nothing concise about it, she reflected with a grimace, carrying the enormous book over to the sofa.

Wrapping herself in a rug, Natasha opened the stiff cover and began curiously to turn the pages. There was a long detailed family tree. Suddenly her eye fell upon Regis. His dates were interesting. 1768 to 1832. So he had been a young man during the French Revolution. Then, to her amazement, she read a name that was all too familiar: Natasha de Saugure.

The name was not printed, in the manner of a wife’s, but inscribed as a handwritten side-note. A shiver ran down her spine. So she had been named after an ancestor. Her father had never mentioned the fact. Avidly she glanced at Natasha’s dates. 1775 to 1860. The woman had lived to a ripe old age. But what had been her relationship to Regis? There were no details. Just the scribbled note. How strange, she thought, flicking through the pages, that her namesake should be inscribed next to the name of the man nobody seemed to want to talk about.

After a while perusing the book, she felt sleep begin to press upon her, and, laying the volume down on an ornate table, she rose and yawned. Time to go upstairs and rest. Tomorrow she would seek further information.

As she wandered up the grand stairway Natasha glanced up at the portraits on the wall. A lovely grey-eyed girl in a stiff brocade dress with a revealing décolleté—as had been the fashion in the late eighteenth century—stared down at her from one of them. Natasha held her breath as her eyes went to the tiny bronze plaque on the frame. As she’d supposed, it was Natasha de Saugure. Who had she married and had she been happy? she wondered suddenly. Her eyes in the portrait looked bright and filled with hope. But there was something else, a mysterious melancholic twist to the smile.

Natasha glanced at the painting a moment longer, then, letting out a sigh, she climbed the rest of the stairs and headed to her room.

CHAPTER FOUR

A WEEK passed and still Natasha hadn’t taken any definite decision regarding her future. To her annoyance she experienced a moment’s disappointment when there was no sign of Raoul at the end of the week. But she shook it off, reminding herself that it was for the best. He’d obviously seen the light, realized how embarrassing any involvement would be. After all, they might be neighbours for the next half-century for all she knew.

Neither had she had time to further her investigation into the lives of Regis d’Argentan and her ancestor Natasha, for Monsieur Dubois had appeared at the château the morning following her evening with Raoul, armed with heavy manila files overflowing with documents needing to be signed and filed, and others she needed to read to become familiar with her grandmother’s estate.

‘And you should visit your grandmother’s apartment in Paris immediately,’ the notaire had admonished in his precise legal tone.

So now here she was, a week later, sitting on a train headed to Paris.

Except for an old schoolfriend, she knew no one in that city. But, despite this somewhat daunting fact, Natasha was excited. Here she was, going to Paris to stay in her very own apartment. It seemed incredible. It was a long time since she’d visited the city with her parents, and the thought of rediscovering such exciting places as the Louvre and the Centre Pompidou, and ambling down the Champs Elysées, stopped her being anxious for long. Perhaps she would even hit Avenue Montaigne, now that she’d discovered the novel and intriguing delight of creating a new wardrobe.

As the train drew up to the platform at the Gare du Nord, Natasha stepped down with her practical roll-on case. She was about to follow the crowd down the platform towards the main station entrance when she heard her name called.