Blackmail

Her voice was surprisingly deep, a husky purr as she placed one scarlet-tipped hand on Gilles’ arm and raised her face for a kiss which, her seductively pouted mouth informed the onlookers, was no mere formality.

The scarlet, pouting mouth was ignored, and to Lee’s surprise Gilles lifted her hand to his lips instead. Perhaps he was embarrassed about kissing her in front of them, she deduced, although she had thought him far too arrogant to mind about that.

‘Forgive me for not dressing more formally,’ she purred, indicating the sea-green chiffon gown which Lee was quite sure came from one of the famous couture houses. ‘But I have only this afternoon returned from Paris. And these are your guests …’

Gilles introduced them.

‘Louise—Lee Raven, and Michael Roberts. Madame Beauvaise. Her father is my closest neighbour. Another wine grower …’

Louise’s lips pouted, her eyes narrowing slightly as she scrutinised Lee, so thoroughly that Lee felt there wasn’t anything about her which had not been inspected and priced—including her stockings.

‘Come, chéri,’ she protested lightly, ‘you make it sound so formal and dull. We are more to each other than mere neighbours, you and I. And you, Miss Raven—you are wearing a betrothal ring, I see. Do we take it that you and Mr Roberts are to marry?’

First the housekeeper and now this woman; there seemed no shortage of people willing to thrust her into Michael’s arms, it seemed.

‘No, we are not,’ she said shortly, not prepared to elucidate. There had been a suggestiveness behind the Frenchwoman’s words which she had disliked intensely; it had almost been that of a voyeur, distasteful though the thought was, and for the first time Lee saw the sensuality behind the redhead’s elegant poise, the greedy hunger of her mouth as it parted suddenly when she looked at Gilles. Feeling faintly sick, Lee wished she could escape to her room. There was something about Louise which reminded her of a particularly deadly species of orchid, all dazzling beauty on the surface, but underneath … poisonous.

The meal was as delicious as Lee had envisaged—soup served with a perfect, dry rosé which cleansed the palate; deliciously tender lamb with a full-bodied red which brought out the subtle flavour of the roast meat, and finally a cheese board with a choice of Rocamadour, Picodon, and Charolles, all chosen to complement the dry, fruit white wine.

Michael was a skilled raconteur, and the talk around the dinner table was general and light, only Louise pouting occasionally as though longing to be alone with the man Lee now no longer had any doubt was her lover. It was there in every look she gave him, the constant touch of her fingers on his arm; the intimate possessive glances which said quite plainly, this man is mine.

After dinner they returned to the salon. The housekeeper brought in the coffee; like the dinner service the cups were beautiful porcelain, and had not, Lee suspected, been purchased from any store.

Louise got up gracefully to pour the coffee, but to Lee’s amazement Gilles restrained her.

‘Perhaps Lee will be mother?’ he suggested with a slight inclination of the arrogant dark head. Lee was astounded, but such was the authority of his voice that it never occurred to her to refuse.

The hauteur with which Louise surveyed her almost made her laugh out loud.

‘Mother?’ she repeated disdainfully.

‘An English expression,’ Gilles informed her. ‘I should have mentioned it earlier, but Lee and I are old friends. We have an aunt in common.’ He reached for Lee’s hand as he spoke, such a look of tender amusement in his face that she almost caught her breath in disbelief.

Louise seemed to share her bemusement. She was staring from Lee to Gilles with narrowed eyes, her face no longer beautiful, but hard and dangerous.

‘I hope that as such an old friend, Lee will not mind sharing you with … newer friends …’

There was a warning as well as a question in the silky words, and Lee realised with a sense of shock that the redhead actually thought she might be a contender for Gilles’ affections. As though she would attempt anything so foolish!

She was even further astonished when Gilles carried her fingers to his lips, an expression which in anyone else might almost have been called doting, in the slate-grey eyes, now warm and smouldering.

‘Well, darling?’ he enquired in tones of deepest affection. ‘Will you be jealous of my old friends?’

‘Darling?’

For a moment Lee thought she had been the one to say the word, and then a look at Louise’s furious white face informed her that although they had heard the endearment with equal shock, the Frenchwoman had been the first to announce her shock verbally.

Lee glanced at Michael to see what he was making of all this strange behaviour on the part of their host, but he was simply relaxing in his chair, a small smile playing round his lips as he waited for the explosion none of them were in any doubt was imminent. Unless of course it was Gilles, who was looking for all the world as though there was no reason why he should not call Lee ‘darling’ in front of his mistress, and none at all why she should resent it. That look of icy hauteur would certainly have been enough to make her think twice about creating a scene, Lee reflected uncertainly, but then perhaps she had more experience of exactly how brutal Gilles could be when he wanted to than the infuriated Frenchwoman.

‘Isn’t that how one normally addresses a fiancée?’ Gilles murmured smoothly.

‘A … You mean …’

‘Lee and I are engaged to be married,’ he agreed silkily, obviously realising that while Louise had grasped the meaning of his words, she was, as yet, incapable of vocalising her reaction to them.

‘She is not wearing the Chauvigny betrothal ring.’

‘A small omission,’ Gilles said coolly. ‘It has been an understood thing between us for many years that we should marry, but on my last visit to England I found her so grown up and … desirable that I could not wait to … seal our betrothal. Since I do not carry the Chauvigny emerald around with me—which I am sure, my dear Louise, you will have already marked, will match Lee’s eyes exactly—I had to make do with this small trifle.’

Drew’s diamond was removed from Lee’s finger before she could protest, Gilles shrugging aside Louise’s impatient questions as though he found them both boring and impertinent. After a long tirade in French which Lee was mercifully relieved that she could not understand, the redhead got up and stalked over to her, eyes venomous as they stared down into her oval face.

‘You may have made this innocent your betrothed, Gilles—do not think I do not know why. The woman who gives birth to the Chauvigny heir must of course be above reproach, but she will never bring you the pleasure in bed that I did. She will have milk and water in her veins, your English bride, not blood. And as for you …’ her eyes swept Lee’s pale face. Events were moving much too fast for Lee. She ought to have denied Gilles’ statement right from the start, but she had been far too stunned, and he, taking advantage of her bemusement, had spun a tale around them which pointed to him being a skilled and resourceful liar.

‘Do you really think you will keep him?’ Louise demanded scornfully. ‘How long will it be before he leaves your bed for someone else’s, in Paris or Orléans, while you are left to sleep alone? Look at him!’ she insisted. ‘He is not one of your cold, passionless Englishmen. He will take your heart and break it as he did mine, and feed the pieces to the vultures. I wish you joy of him!’

Gilles, looking unutterably bored, held open the door as she stalked towards it, and through it, leaving a silence behind her which could only be described as deafening.

CHAPTER TWO

‘AND what,’ Lee asked dangerously, when the front door had slammed behind the furious Frenchwoman, and Michael had discreetly left them to it, ‘was all that about?’

Far from looking ruffled, Gilles appeared enviably calm—far calmer than she was herself. He lit a thin cheroot with an expensive gold lighter, studying the glowing tip for a few seconds before replying coolly,

‘I should have thought it was obvious. You are not, I think, lacking in intelligence. You must surely have observed that Louise considered her position in my life far more important than it actually was.’

His sheer arrogance took Lee’s breath away.

‘An impression which you of course did nothing to foster!’ she smouldered, too furious now for caution. Of all the hypocritical, arrogant men! To actually dare to use her to get rid of his unwanted mistress!

‘Louise knew the score,’ he replied emotionlessly. ‘If she decided she preferred being the Comtesse de Chauvigny, rather than merely the Comte’s mistress, it is only natural that I should seek to correct her erroneous impression that she may step from one role to the other merely on a whim.’

‘Her place is in your bed, not at your side, is that what you’re trying to say?’ Lee seethed. Really, he was quite impossible! ‘She was good enough to sleep with, but …’

‘You are talking of matters about which you know nothing,’ Gilles cut in coldly. ‘In France marriage is an important business, not to be undertaken without due consideration. Louise’s first husband was a racing driver, who was killed during a Grand Prix; for many years she has enjoyed the … er … privileges of her widowhood, but a woman of thirty must look to the future,’ he said cruelly, ‘and Louise mistakenly thought she would find that future with me. A Chauvigny does not take for a bride soiled goods.’

Lee made a small sound of disgust in her throat and instantly Gilles’ eyes fastened on her face.

‘You think it a matter for amusement?’ he demanded. ‘That a woman such as that, who will give herself willingly to any man who glances her way, is fit to be the mistress of this château?’

‘She was fit to be yours,’ Lee pointed out coolly.

Hard grey eyes swept her.

‘My mistress, but not my wife; not the mother of my children. And before you say anything, Louise was well aware of the position. Do you think she would want me if it were not for the title, for this château?’

‘Possibly not.’ Now what on earth had made her say that? Lee wondered, watching the anger leap to life in Gilles’ eyes. What woman in her senses would not want Gilles if he owned nothing but the clothes he stood up in? The thought jerked her into an awareness of where such thoughts could lead. What woman would? she demanded of herself crossly. Certainly not her, who knew exactly how cruel and hateful he could be!

‘I am not interested in your emotional problems, Gilles,’ she told him firmly. ‘What I want to know is why you dared to drag me into all this, or do you still enjoy inflicting pain just for the thrill of it?’