Loves Choices

The Reverend Mother had a suite of rooms separated from the main school building by a long cloistered walk, and normally Hope would have enjoyed admiring the enclosed garden the Reverend Mother’s rooms looked out on, but today she felt inexplicably nervous, searching her conscience for any sin which might have merited this summons. Skipping tennis hardly seemed worthy of the Reverend Mother’s intervention—and surely, omnipotent though she was, she had not read her charge’s rebellious and resentful thoughts, Hope wondered nervously.

Outside the study door she knocked and waited to be told to enter. The Reverend Mother was only small, barely five foot two to Hope’s five foot seven, but possessed of such a presence, such an aura of calm peacefulness, that it was Hope who felt dwarfed.

‘Sit down, child,’ the Reverend Mother commanded with a smile. She had been the head of the Convent School for nearly thirty years, and she knew her charges better than they knew themselves.

Hope was her only English pupil and the Reverend Mother had been startled at first when the child’s father had told her his wishes. Hope was to be kept cloistered in a way she herself would not even have recommended for a proposed novice. The Reverend Mother was no romantic—those who wished to forsake the world must first experience it. But while she might deplore what she secretly thought of as Sir Henry’s lack of feeling for his only child, with one or two exceptions Hope had been brought up largely as he had wished.

In these enlightened times it was neither wise nor practical to keep young girls ignorant of sexual matters. The Reverend Mother had been of a generation where in Spain this ignorance had been the norm, but it was like trying to hold back the tide to keep mentally innocent, young girls whose families were as wealthy and powerful as those to whom her pupils belonged. Indeed, she herself had had to fight against considerable opposition to have sex education included in the curriculum, and what she knew of Sir Henry made her wonder rather cynically at the double-standards operated by the world. Which made her all the more relieved about today’s turn of events.

Sir Henry had not been in touch with her before Hope’s eighteenth birthday, as she had expected. Most of her pupils left at seventeen, and it grieved her that Hope, who was one of her brightest pupils, would never go on to university. Indeed, it was her own personal view that Hope would fare better in the life she suspected Sir Henry planned for her, if her intelligence was less, and she eyed her sympathetically. In a school comprised of mainly Latin races, Hope’s silvery blondeness was unique. Her bone-structure differed from the other girls, too; like her body it was far more fragile and delicate, betraying her Anglo-Saxon ancestry.

‘Don’t look so worried, Hope. I’ve got some good news for you. You are to leave us and join your father, who apparently is in France at the moment. A friend of your father’s, the Comte de Serivace is calling to collect you tomorrow and he will escort you to your father.’

She busied herself kindly with some papers on her desk, well aware of the changing emotions and turmoil churning Hope’s stomach and mind. If anything, she wished that Hope was less vulnerable, more equipped to deal with the vagaries of life outside the convent, but it was not up to her to question the dictates of her pupils’ families. Sir Henry had been most adamant that Hope was not to be ‘contaminated’ by any contact with the outside world. A strange desire for a man who … Sternly the Reverend Mother suppressed the uncharitable thought, turning her attention to the girl standing before her.

‘I know this has come as something of a shock, Hope. Indeed, we could have wished for your father to give us more notice, but you are eighteen and it is time that you took your place in the world. Remember, child, we will always be here if you should need us.’ It was something she said to all the girls when they left, but some deep instinct told her that Hope was more likely to stand in need of the shelter offered by the convent than any other pupil.

Like someone in a dream Hope made her way back to her room. At sixteen, girls were promoted from sleeping in a dormitory to sharing a room with three other girls. The girls who shared with Hope had all left at Christmas and she had been alone ever since. Not that she minded. Solitude was something one came to appreciate, living in such a busy community. But it had happened at last—her father had sent for her!

In her room, Hope sank down on the narrow bed, staring unseeingly through the window down into the convent grounds. Strange how, after she had longed for something like this to happen so much, she should feel so curiously empty; frightened almost. Although never of a particularly religious turn of mind, Hope found herself praying silently, suddenly terrified of the world she would find outside the convent.

After dinner Sister Teresa sent her to pack her things. Her father had sent her an expensive case, no doubt realising that the one she had taken with her to the convent ten years previously was rather the worse for wear. It was a pity he had not realised the same thing about her clothes, Hope thought unhappily. Apart from her uniform, she had nothing!

After dinner the girls were allowed a free period when they could chat, but Hope found herself strangely reluctant to announce her departure. She was intelligent enough to know how much some of the other girls pitied her, and she had no wish to let them know that after ten years her father was not coming to collect her himself, but had sent someone else.

Daddy was probably too busy, she told herself loyally.

Her father had many business interests, but the most important was his small share in Montrachet’s, the worldwide merchant bankers, whose headquarters were in Paris. Her father had often written to her about the Montrachet family; their wealth and their pride, and once again she shivered, dreading facing the outside world. How contrary she was. Only this morning she had been longing to escape the convent and now … now she was hanging back nervously, confused and alarmed by her own reactions.

It wasn’t until after breakfast that the Reverend Mother sent for Hope. Breakfast was eaten early at the convent, although this morning Hope hadn’t been able to touch hers, and she had had nothing to do for several hours afterwards, other than walk in the gardens, trying to suppress her nervousness. No doubt the Comte, who would probably be staying in Seville, the nearest town to the convent, would have breakfasted at leisure, perhaps in his room, unaware and uncaring of her growing tension. For some reason she didn’t like the Comte, which was surely ridiculous as she hadn’t met him. Deep down inside her Hope acknowledged that her resentment probably sprang from the fact that she would have preferred her father to come for her, and that she was transferring her resentment, because he had not, from her father to the Comte—but knowing this still did not change her feelings.

She was walking slowly through the gardens for the third time when Sister Teresa came hurrying towards her, breathless and hot, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘Hope, mon petit … the Reverend Mother wishes to see you.’ Sister Teresa was the youngest and friendliest of the Sisters. She taught French and often lapsed into this language, forgetting the rules. Today, by rights, was Italian day, but Hope answered her in French automatically, aware that her cheeks were suddenly burning with a colour that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun, as she followed Sister Teresa back to the cloisters.

As before, she paused and knocked outside the Reverend Mother’s door, catching the soft murmur of the Reverend Mother’s voice, and the deeper, masculine tones of her companion. When she entered the room the Reverend Mother smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Ah, Hope, my child, let me introduce you to Monsieur le Comte, who has come on behalf of your papa.’

Stubbornly, Hope refused to look in the direction of the Comte until the last moment, her eyes widening in stunned astonishment when she finally did so. This man was not at all as she had imagined a friend of her father’s to be. For one thing, he was so much younger. Thirty, or thirty-five at the most; considerably older than her, but far, far younger than her father, and for another …

Feeling like someone who has suddenly been deprived of breath, Hope forced herself to glance a second time into the face of the man watching her. Was it because she was used to seeing only softer female features that the harsh masculinity of high, sharply defined cheekbones and a dark, taut jaw had such an impact on her?

Hope’s eyes returned almost dazedly to the angles and planes of a face so totally male that she felt the shock waves of seeing it reverberating strongly through her. Green eyes, dangerous, predatory eyes, half concealed by thick black lashes, studied her coolly for several achingly long seconds, before subjecting her to an assessingly keen stare, holding her gaze deliberately until Hope felt she was drowning in emerald seas.

Tearing her gaze from the Comte’s eyes, Hope made an effort to study him as objectively as he had done her, her cheeks still hot with colour from the knowledge that he had deliberately and quite cynically stripped her of every article of clothing when he studied her—and in the Reverend Mother’s presence! She could not match his savoir-faire, but she did make a valiant attempt to study the sharply defined bone-structure of his face, wondering why it should be vaguely familiar and yet so different from what she had imagined. His mouth curled sardonically as though he was aware of her mental rejection of him, his thick, black hair brushing the collar of his shirt as he lazily flicked back his cuff to study a pale gold watch.

Taking the hint, the Reverend Mother came forward, kissing Hope gently on each cheek. ‘Remember, my dear, we are always here if you want us.’ She spoke in Italian and Hope responded in the same language, startled when the tall, dark man at her side drawled cynically in perfect Italian:

‘We must hope that life treats her too kindly for her to need a refuge, Reverend Mother,’ and then he was opening the door, one dark, long-fingered hand on Hope’s shoulder, her fragile bones feeling as though they were burning beneath his touch as he pushed her gently through the open door.

Outside in the front courtyard of the convent, a long, squat car glinted darkly in the sunlight, a fitting means of transport for this dark, almost menacing man, Hope thought, shivering a little as she recognised instinctively the power and threat of two such masculine objects.

Her case was placed in the boot, and the passenger door opened for her, dark eyebrows rising in a sardonic appraisal which hinted that he was not entirely surprised as he drawled, ‘Surely you have something else to wear? Or does the good Reverend Mother seek to remind me of what you are?’

Not entirely understanding the reason for his comment, Hope told him coolly that she had no other clothes.

‘None? Your father is not a poor man.’

‘My father … My father is not a wasteful man,’ she managed primly at last, trying not to notice the way in which the fine fabric of his dark pants stretched over his thighs as he slid into the driving seat, and her hands folded tensely in her lap.

‘You think it wasteful, to spend money on clothes? But you cannot spend the rest of your life in garments which, rather than reinforcing your schoolgirl status, draw attention to the fact that it is past time for you to change them for something a little more … womanly.’ His eyes rested meaningfully on the taut fabric stretching across her breasts and Hope blushed fiery red, hating the way he was looking at her, and yet curiously excited in some strange way.

‘You must fasten your seat-belt,’ the Comte told her coolly. ‘Like this.’ He reached across her, the dark fabric of his suited arm brushing the fullness on which his eyes had so recently rested. Something like an electric current shot through Hope making her stiffen automatically, shrinking into her seat as he secured the belt around her, apparently unaware of the effect of their momentary physical contact.

Having fastened his own belt, he started the car, the powerful roar of the engine drowning out the hurried thud of Hope’s heartbeat as she tried not to give in to the desolation gripping her as the car swept along the drive and out of the convent gates.

‘I cannot drive you all the way to France wearing those garments,’ the Comte told her when they had gone several miles. ‘I have no wish to be arrested for attempting to kidnap a child.’

‘I expect my father has forgotten that I have grown,’ Hope offered unhappily, feeling that some explanation was needed. ‘I haven’t required any other clothes as …’

‘As your father has never permitted you to leave the convent,’ her companion finished for her. ‘Yes, I am aware of that.’ His attention momentarily diverted from the road to her, and Hope felt herself flushing again under his thoughtful scrutiny. ‘However, you have left it now, and your father’s past deficiencies will soon be remedied.’

Hope looked into the man’s face as he spoke, surprised to see the grim coldness in his eyes, tiny feathers of alarm curling along her spine, and a tension she couldn’t understand infiltrating the atmosphere in the car until every muscle in her body was taut in response to it.

After that her companion didn’t speak, and although there was a good deal she wanted to ask him, his silence prevented her from speaking, instinct telling her that he had no wish to engage in conversation, and she made use of the silence to study him covertly; the arrogant aquiline profile, the power of the lean fingers holding the steering wheel, sinewy and brown.

Would his skin be that dark mahogany all over? The intimacy of her thoughts shocked Hope into further flushes, hastily averting her eyes from the muscles of his thighs as the Comte changed gear and the fabric pulled tautly, reminding her of drawings she had seen, books she had studied in the convent library, knowing suddenly and overwhelmingly that the old masters had not, as she had childishly imagined, overemphasised the masculine frame, and that this man seated at her side could easily have modelled for them. And yet there was an elusive, alien look about him that suggested another culture, not entirely Latin—something about his face that tormented her memory.

Within half an hour they were in Seville. The city was not entirely unfamiliar to Hope as she had visited it with the school on several occasions, but the narrow street of fashionable shops where the Comte parked the car was somewhere she had not seen before. Her fingers fumbled with the seat-belt as she tried to release it, and this time when the Comte leaned impatiently across she withdrew so that he would not touch her, flinching beneath the sardonic mockery in his eyes as he released the belt and then turned to look at her, green eyes on a level with grey as he drawled softly, ‘So, even innocence has some awareness. Was it from the good nuns that you learned to shrink from anyone male, mon petit, or is it an instinct that goes far beyond any teaching?’

‘I …’ Torn between embarrassment and the angry feeling that he should not be talking to her in this fashion, mocking her naïvety with one breath and yet somehow, she sensed, deliberately making her aware of his maleness all the same, Hope reached for the door, shaky with relief when it opened and the Comte moved back to his own seat.

Several curious glances came their way as the Comte guided Hope along the pavement, and when she caught sight of herself in a shop window, she shrank from the image she presented in her too-tight uniform, her hair dragged back off her face.

The shop he took her to was small and yet somehow overpowering, so imbued with an atmosphere of money and elegance that Hope felt ill at ease.

The woman who emerged to serve them surveyed Hope with raised eyebrows, her demeanour only altering when she saw the Comte, changing from haughty disdain to almost fawning complaisance within the space of a few seconds.

The Comte spoke to her in Spanish, as flawless as his Italian, but when Hope heard the word for trousseau she frowned and opened her mouth, only to be silenced by the Comte who turned to her and said in French, ‘I am only fulfilling your father’s wishes, so please oblige me by keeping silent.’

Having given the saleswoman his instructions, the Comte turned to Hope and told her that he had business of his own to transact and that he would return for her in two hours. ‘Your hair needs attention,’ he added, studying it. ‘I shall ask Madame if she can recommend a good stylist.’

‘I have wanted to have it cut for ages,’ Hope offered, ‘but …’

‘Cut! Mon Dieu! Are you mad! To do so would be sacrilege,’ he told her unequivocally, adding softly, ‘Has no one told you, you little innocent, that on your wedding night your husband will want to see you covered in nothing other than this silver veil?’ He flicked her hair as he spoke, apparently unconcerned by the hot colour beating up under her pale skin.

Her wedding night! Hope was still turning the words over in her mind when he left the shop. Strangely enough she had not thought much about marriage. She would like to have children and them she could visualise quite easily, plump and dark—but a husband? She shivered suddenly. Why had her father sent this disturbing stranger to collect her? Why hadn’t he come himself?

Two hours later she was staring round-eyed at the pile of garments Madame had put on one side; separates in cool, soft silk in misty pastel lilacs and greys to tone with her eyes; dresses; underwear in the finest crěpe de Chine, embroidered in silver and grey with butterflies, so fine and sheer that Hope blushed to see herself in it, imagining the disapproval of the nuns.