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The French Count's Pregnant Bride
Catherine Spencer
The French Count’s Pregnant Bride
Catherine Spencer
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
Coming Next Month
PROLOGUE
8:00 p.m., November 4
FOR once, Harvey arrived at the restaurant ahead of her, already settled in their favorite corner. She left her satin-lined cashmere cape with the hat-check girl, smiled at the sweet-faced, very pregnant young woman perched on a bench near the front desk and threaded her way through the maze of other diners to where he sat. Twenty-eight red roses, one for each year of her life, and a small package professionally gift-wrapped in silver foil and ribbons, occupied one end of the linen-draped table; a bottle of Taitinger Brut Reserve chilling in a silver champagne bucket and two crystal flutes, the other.
“Am I late?” she asked, lifting her face for his kiss, when he rose to greet her.
“No, I’m early.” Ever the perfect gentleman, he waited until she made herself comfortable on the plush velvet banquette, before reclaiming his own seat.
“What, no last minute emergencies?” She laughed, happy to be with him. Happy that he’d made the effort not to keep her waiting on her birthday. So often, he was delayed, or called away in the middle of whatever they’d planned, be it dinner, the theater, or making love. So often, he seemed preoccupied, distant, tense. Lately he’d even paced the floor some nights, then ended up sleeping in the guest room, worried he’d disturb her with his restlessness. She supposed that was the price a wife paid for being married to such a dedicated, sought-after cardiothoracic surgeon.
“Not tonight,” he said. “Ed Johnson’s covering for me.” He took the bottle of champagne, filled their flutes two-thirds full and raised his in a toast. “Happy birthday, Diana!”
“Thank you, sweetheart.” The wine danced over her tongue, light and vivacious. Not too many years ago, the best they could afford when it came to celebrating special occasions was a bottle of cheap red wine and home-cooked spaghetti. Now, the only things red at the table were the long-stemmed roses, and there was nothing cheap about them.
Lifting the damp, sweet-smelling petals to her face, she eyed her husband mischievously. “These are for me, aren’t they?”
“Those, and this, too.” He pushed the foil-wrapped box toward her. “Open it before you order, Diana. I think you’ll like it.”
What was there not to like about a diamond and sapphire bracelet set in platinum? Speechless with pleasure, she fastened the lobster-claw clasp around her wrist, then tilted her hand this way and that, admiring the way the lamplight caught the fire and flash of the gems. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned,” she murmured, when she could speak. “Oh, Harvey, you’ve really gone overboard, this year. How am I supposed to compete with something like this, when your birthday comes around?”
“You won’t have to.” He smiled and gestured to the leather-bound menu in front of her. “What do you fancy for dinner?”
She studied the list of entrées. “I’m torn between the rack of lamb and the Maine lobster.”
“Have the lobster,” he urged. “You know it’s your favorite.”
“Then I will. With a small salad to start.”
He nodded to the waiter hovering discreetly in the background. “My wife will have the mesclun salad with lemon vinaigrette, followed by the broiled lobster.”
“And you, sir?” The waiter paused, eyebrows raised inquiringly.
Harvey lightly tapped the rim of his champagne flute. “I’m happy with the wine, thanks.”
“You’re not going to eat?” Perplexed, Diana stared at him. “Why not, sweetheart? Aren’t you feeling well?”
“Never felt better,” he assured her, reaching into his inside jacket pocket and pulling out a credit card. “The thing is, Diana, I’m leaving you.”
Why a chill raced up her spine just then, she had no idea. But in less time than it took to blink, all her warm fuzzy pleasure in the moment, in the evening, evaporated. Striving to ignore it, she said, “You mean, you’re going back to the hospital? But I thought you—?”
“No. I’m leaving you.”
Still not understanding, she said, “Leaving me where? Here?”
“Leaving you, period. Leaving the marriage.”
Heaven help her, she laughed. “Oh, honestly, Harvey! For a minute there, I almost believed you.”
There was no answering smile on his face. Rather, pity laced with just a hint of contempt. “This is no joke. And before you ask why, I might as well tell you. I’ve met someone else.”
“Another woman?” Her voice seemed to come from very far away.
“Well, hardly another man!”
“I suppose not.” Very precisely, she set her champagne glass on the table, careful not to spill a drop. “And this woman…how long…?”
“Quite some time.”
When she was six, she’d fallen into the deep end of her family’s swimming pool and would have drowned if her father hadn’t been close by and promptly hauled her to safety. Even so, she’d never forgotten the soundless, suffocating sensation that had briefly possessed her. Twenty-two years later, it gripped her again.
Floundering to find a lifeline in a world suddenly turned upside-down, she blurted, “But it won’t last. These things never do. You’ll get over it, over her…and I’ll get past the hurt…I will, I promise! We’ll pick up the pieces and go on, because that’s what married people do. They honor their wedding vows.”
He reached across the table, took both her hands firmly in his and gave them a shake. “Listen to me, Diana! This isn’t a passing affair. Rita and I are deeply in love. I am committed to a future with her.”
“No…!” She struggled to pull herself free of his hold. To shut out his words, and the cool, clinical dispassion with which he uttered them. As if he were wielding a scalpel on a comatose patient. As if she were incapable of feeling the pain. “You’re in love with me. You’ve said so, a hundred times.”
“Not for a very long time now. Not for months.”
“Well, I don’t care!” Distress and shock sent her own voice rising half an octave. “I won’t let you throw us away. I deserve better than that…we both do.”
He released her hands and sat very erect in his chair, as though to put as much physical distance between himself and her as possible in that intimate little corner of that intimate little restaurant. “Stop making a spectacle of yourself!” he hissed.
She clamped her mouth shut, but inside, every part of her was weeping—every part but her eyes. For some reason, they remained dry and hot and disbelieving. Still clutching at straws, she said, “Then what’s all this about? The champagne and roses and bracelet?”
“It’s your birthday.” He shrugged. “I’m not completely without affection for you, you know. I wanted to give you something memorable to mark the occasion.”
“And you thought telling me our marriage is over wouldn’t do it?”
He regarded her pityingly. “Oh, come now, Diana! I can’t believe you’re entirely surprised. You must have realized things between us weren’t the same anymore—that something vital had died.”
“No. I sensed a change in you, but I put it down to stress at the hospital.” She looked at the roses, at the gleaming sterling cutlery, at the platinum wedding ring on her left hand, and finally, at the man she’d married almost eight years ago. Then she laughed again, a thin, hollow, scraping sound that clawed its way up from the depths of her lungs. “But then, they do say the wife’s always the last to know, don’t they?”
“I can see that you’re shocked, but in time you’ll realize that it’s better we make a clean break and end matters now, rather than wait until things deteriorate to the point that we can’t speak a civil word to one another.”
“Better for you, perhaps.”
“And for you, too, in the long run.” He drained his glass, and pushed back his chair. Again like the perfect gentleman he prided himself on being, he bent and kissed her cheek. “Enjoy your lobster, my dear. Dinner’s on me.”
Then he made his way across the restaurant to where the pregnant woman waited. She rose to meet him. He put his arms around her, gave her a lingering kiss full on the mouth, then ushered her out of the restaurant as carefully, as tenderly, as if she were made of blown glass.
Pregnant…
The woman he was leaving her for was having the baby he’d refused to give his wife. And at that, something really did die in Diana…
CHAPTER ONE
4:00 p.m., June 12
AIX-EN-PROVENCE was stirring from its afternoon siesta as Diana eased her ancient rental car onto the road that would take her to Bellevue-sur-Lac, fifty-three miles northeast of the town limits.
Aix-en-Provence: a beautiful city, rich in history, culture and art. The city where, twenty-nine years ago, a seventeen-year-old French girl allowed an American couple in their late forties to adopt her out-of-wedlock baby.
The city where Diana had been born…
Bellevue-sur-Lac, the village where she’d been conceived…
The names, the facts, the minute clues, were etched so clearly in her memory, she could recite verbatim the letter she’d found in her father’s study, after her parents’ death, two years previously.
Admittedly her husband’s desertion had pushed them to the back of her mind for a while. A thousand times or more in the weeks after he left, she questioned where she’d gone wrong. Asked herself what she could have done differently that might have saved her marriage. But in the end, she’d been forced to accept that there was nothing. Harvey had fallen out of love with her, made up his mind he wanted to spend the rest of his life with someone else and that was that. She was alone, and he was not.
Seven months, though, was long enough to mourn a man who’d proven himself unworthy of her tears, and just over a week ago, she’d awoken to the realization that, little by little, her despair had melted away. Without her quite knowing when or how, her resentment toward Harvey had lost its bitter edge and sunk into indifference. If anything, she was grateful to him because, in deserting her, he’d also set her free. For the first time in her life, she could do exactly as she pleased without worrying that she might upset the people closest to her.
Which was why she now found herself in the south of France, heading toward a tiny lakeside village surrounded by lavender fields, olive groves and vineyards; and where, if the gods were on her side, she’d rediscover herself, now that she’d been legally stripped of her title and status as Dr Harvey Reeves’s dutiful but dull little wife.
“You can’t possibly be serious!” Carol Brenner, one of the few friends who’d stuck by her after she found herself single again, had exclaimed, when she learned what Diana had planned.
“Why ever not?” she’d asked calmly.
“Because it’s crazy, that’s why! For Pete’s sake, haven’t you gone through enough in the last seven months, without adding this?”
Shrugging, she said, “Well, they do say that what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.”
Carol shoved aside her latte and leaned across the coffee shop’s marble tabletop, the better to make her point. “I’m not convinced you are stronger. Quite frankly, Diana, you look like hell.”
“Oh, please!” she said ruefully. “Stop beating about the bush and feel free to tell me what you really think!”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. You’ve lost so much weight, you could pass for a refugee from some third world country.”
Diana could hardly argue with that. Once she no longer had to prepare elegant dinners for her husband, she sometimes hadn’t bothered preparing any dinner at all. As for breakfast, she’d skipped it more often than not, too. Which left lunch—a sandwich if she had any appetite, otherwise a piece of fruit and a slice of cheese.
“You’ve been like a ship without an anchor, the way you’ve drifted through this last winter and spring, not seeming to know what day it was, half the time,” Carol went on, really hitting her stride. “And now, out of the blue, you announce you’re off to France on some wild-goose chase to find your biological mother?” She rolled her eyes. “You’ll be telling me next, you’re joining a nunnery!”
“It’s not out of the blue,” Diana said softly. “This is something I’ve wanted to do for years.”
“Diana, the point I’m trying to make is that I’m one of your closest friends, and I didn’t even know you were adopted.”
“Because it’s always been a closely guarded secret. I didn’t know myself until I was eight, and even then, I found out by accident.”
Obviously taken aback, Carol said, “Good God, who decided it should be kept secret?”
“My mother.”
“Why? Adopting a child’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“It wasn’t shame, it was fear. Apparently mine was a private adoption, and although my father made sure the legalities were looked after, the arrangement wasn’t exactly…conventional. Once my mother realized the secret was a secret no longer, things at our house were never the same again.”
“How so?” Carol asked.
Diana had rested her elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand, the events of that long-ago day sufficiently softened by time that she’d been able to relate them quite composedly….
She’d raced home from school and gone straight to the sunroom where her mother always took afternoon tea. “Mommy,” she burst out breathlessly, “what does �adopted’ mean?”
Even before then, she’d understood that her mother was, as their cleaning lady once put it, “fragile and given to spells,” and she realized at once that in mentioning the word “adopted,” she’d inadvertently trodden on forbidden territory. The Lapsang Souchong tea her mother favored slopped over the rim of its translucent porcelain cup and into the saucer. “Good heavens, Diana,” she said faintly, pressing a pale hand to her heart, “whatever makes you ask such a question?”
Horrified at having brought on one of the dreaded “spells,” Diana rushed to explain. “Well, today Merrilee Hampton was mad at me because I won the spelling bee, so at recess she threw my snack on the ground, so I told her she was stupid, so then she told me I’m adopted. And I told her it’s not true, and she said it is, because her mother said so, and her mother doesn’t tell lies.”
“Dear God, someone should staple that woman’s mouth shut!”
Happening to come into the sunroom at that precise moment, Diana’s father had flung himself into a wicker chair across from her mother’s and said cheerfully, “Who are you talking about, my dear, and why are you ready to string her up by the thumbs?”
“Mrs. Hampton,” Diana had informed him, since her mother seemed bereft of words. “She told Merrilee that I’m adopted, but I’m not, am I, Daddy?”
She’d never forgotten the look her parents exchanged then, or the way her father had taken her on his lap and said gently, “Yes, you are, sweet pea.”
“Oh!” Terribly afraid she’d contracted some kind of disease, she whispered, “Am I going to die?”
“Good heavens, no! All being adopted means is—”
“David, please!” her mother had interrupted, her voice sounding all funny and trembly. “We decided we’d never—”
“You decided, Bethany,” he’d replied firmly. “If I’d had my way, we’d have dealt with this a long time ago, and our child would have learned the truth from us, instead of hearing it from someone else. But the cat’s out of the bag now, and nothing you or I can do is going to stuff it back in again. And after all this time, it can hardly matter anyway.”
Then he’d turned back to Diana, tugged playfully on her ponytail and smiled. “Being adopted means that although another lady gave birth to you, we were the lucky people who got to keep you.”
Trying to fit together all the pieces of this strange and sudden puzzle, Diana said, “Does that mean I have two mommies?”
“In a way, yes.”
“David!”
“But you’re our daughter in every way that counts,” he went on, ignoring her mother’s moan of distress.
Still unable to grasp so foreign a concept, Diana said, “But who’s my other mommy, and why doesn’t she live with us?”
At that, her mother mewed pitifully.
“No one you know,” her father said steadily. “She was too young to look after a baby, and so, because she knew we would love you just as much as she did, and take very good care of you, she gave you to us. After that, she went back to her home, and we brought you here to ours.”
“Well, I can see why you’d want to learn more about this woman,” Carol said, when Diana finished her story. “I guess it’s natural enough to be curious about your roots, especially when they’re shrouded in so much mystery. What I don’t understand is why you waited this long to do something about it.”
“Simple. Every time I brought up the subject, my mother took to her bed and stayed there for days. �Why aren’t we enough for you?’ she’d cry. �Haven’t we loved you enough? Given you a lovely home, the best education, everything your heart desires? Why do you want to hurt us like this?’”
“Uh-oh!” Carol rolled her eyes again. “I realized she was a bit over the top temperamentally, but I’d no idea she stooped to that kind of emotional blackmail.”
“She couldn’t help herself,” Diana said, old loyalties coming to the fore. “She was insecure—very unsure of herself. I don’t know why, but she never seemed to believe she deserved to be loved for herself, and nothing I said could convince her that, as far as I was concerned, she and my father were my true parents and that I adored both of them. In her view, my wanting to know about my birth mother meant that she and my father had failed. So eventually I stopped asking questions, and we all went back to pretending the subject had never arisen. But I never stopped wanting to find answers.”
“Then tell me this. If it was that important to you, why didn’t you pursue the matter after she and your father died, instead of waiting until now?”
“Harvey didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“Why ever not?”
“I think he was…embarrassed.”
“Because you were adopted?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
Carol made no effort to disguise her scorn for the man. “What was his problem? That you might not be blue-blooded enough for him?”
“You guessed it! �You’re better off not knowing,’ he used to say, whenever I brought up the subject of my biological mother. �She was probably sleeping around and didn’t even know for sure who the father was. You could be anybody’s brat.’”
“And you let him get away with that kind of crap?” Carol gave an unladylike snort. “You should be ashamed, Diana, that you let him walk all over you like that!”
“At the time, what mattered most was my marriage. I wanted it to succeed, and Harvey was under enough stress at the hospital, without my bringing more into our private life, as well.”
“A fat lot of good it did you, in the end! He walked out anyway, and left you an emotional wreck.”
“For a while, perhaps, but I’m better now. Stronger, in some ways, than I’ve ever been.”
“Enough to stand the disappointment, if you don’t find what you’re looking for?”
“Absolutely,” Diana said, and at the time, it had been true.
The car coughed alarmingly and clunked to a halt at the foot of a hill. It serves you right, Carol would have said. If you’d taken the time to book ahead, you wouldn’t have been stuck with an old beater of a car no right-minded tourist would look at.
With some coaxing, she got the poor old thing running again, but as she approached a fork in the road, and found a sign pointing to the left, showing Bellevue-sur-Lac 31 kms, panic overwhelmed her and, for a moment, she considered turning to the right and heading for Monaco and a week of reckless betting on the roulette wheel, rather than pursuing the gamble she’d undertaken.
What if Carol was right, and she was inviting nothing but heartache for everyone by chasing her dream?
“The chances of your finding this woman are slim to nonexistent, you know,” her friend had warned. “People move around a lot, in this day and age. And even if you do find her, what then? You can’t just explode onto the scene and announce yourself as her long-lost daughter. You could blow her entire life apart if she’s married and hasn’t confided in her husband.”
“I realize that. But what’s to stop me talking to her, or even to people who know her, and trying to learn a little bit about her? I might have half brothers or sisters, aunts and uncles. Grandparents, even. She was seventeen when she had me, which means she’s only forty-five now. I could have a whole slew of relatives waiting to be discovered.”
“And how will that help you, if they don’t know who you are?” Carol asked gently.
It had taken all her courage to admit, “At least I’ll know I’m connected to someone in the world.”
“You have me, Diana. We might not share the same blood, but you’re like a sister to me.”
“You’re my dearest friend, and I’d trust you with my life, which is why I’m confiding in you now,” she replied. “But first and foremost, you’re Tim’s wife and Annie’s mother.” She opened her hands, pleadingly. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” Carol said, and her eyes were full of tears suddenly. “But I care too much about you to want to see you suffer another disappointment. You give your heart so willingly, Diana, and sometimes people see that as an invitation to trample all over it. Hotshot Harvey’s done enough damage. Please don’t leave yourself open to more. Don’t let anyone take advantage of your generosity. Just once, think of yourself first, and others second.”
The advice came back to her now as the car rattled around another bend in the road, and crossed a little stone bridge above a wide stream that burbled over brown rocks. Bellevue-sur-Lac 25 kms, a sign said.
What if she found her birth mother destitute? Abandoned by her family for her adolescent indiscretion? How could any decent person not lift a finger to help?
“I’ll find a way,” Diana promised herself, thumping the steering wheel with her fist. “I’ll buy her a house, clothes, food—whatever she needs—and donate them anonymously, if I must.”
It was the least she could do, if she was to live with herself, and heaven knew, she could afford it. Within reason, she could afford just about anything money could buy. In his eagerness to be rid of her and married to his mistress before the birth of their child, Harvey had been generous. Added to what she’d inherited from her parents, it added up to a very tidy sum. But would it be enough?
Probably not, she thought. When all was said and done, money never could buy the things that really mattered.
The car wheezed around another bend in the road. In the distance, she saw tidy rows of grapevines climbing a steep hillside. In the valley below, a subdued purple touched the earth. Lavender fields just bursting into bloom.
Another sign post, painted blue with white lettering. Bellevue-sur-Lac 11 kms.
Hand suddenly clammy with sweat, Diana eased the car over to the side of the road and rolled down the window. Wild-flowers grew in the ditch, filling the air with their scent.
“Let me come with you,” Carol had begged. “At least you’ll have me in your corner if things don’t go well.”
Why hadn’t she taken her up on the offer?
Because this was something she had to do by herself, that’s why.
Reaching into her travel bag, she pulled out the single sheet of stationery she’d hoarded for so long. Spreading it over her lap, she smoothed out the creases, searching as she had so often in the past for any clues she might have missed that would help her now. The ink was faded, the script elegant and distinctly European.
Aix-en-Provence
December 10
Dear Professor Christie,
I write to inform you that Mlle. Molyneux has returned to her native village of Bellevue-sur-Lac. From all accounts, she appears to have put behind her the unhappy events of this past year, the nature of which she has kept a closely guarded secret from all who know her. I hope this will ease any concern you have that she might change her mind about placing her baby with you and your wife, or in any other way jeopardize the adoption.
I trust you are well settled in your home in the United States again. Once more, I thank you for the contributions you made to our university program during your exchange year with us.
With very best wishes to you, your wife and your new daughter for a most happy Christmas,
Alexandre CastonguГ©s, Dean
Faculty of Law
University Aix-Marseille
Did Mlle. Molyneux ever regret giving up her baby? Wonder if her little girl was happy, healthy? Or was she so relieved to be rid of her that she never wanted to be reminded of her, ever again?
There was only one way to find out.
Refolding the letter and stuffing it back in the side pocket of her travel bag, Diana coaxed the car to sputtering life again, shifted into gear and resumed her journey. Seven minutes later, the silhouette of a chГўteau perched on a cliff loomed dark against the evening sky. Immediately ahead, clustered along the shores of a long, narrow lake, buildings emerged from the dusk of early evening, their reflected pinpricks of light glowing yellow in the calm surface of the water.
Passing under an ancient stone arch, she drove into the center of the little village.
Bellevue-sur-Lac, the end of her journey.
Or, if she was lucky, perhaps just the beginning?
CHAPTER TWO
CROSSING the square en route to his car, which he’d left in the inn’s rear courtyard as usual when he’d spent the day with the supervisor of his lavender operation, Anton noticed the woman immediately. Strangers who lingered in Bellevue-sur-Lac after sunset were a rarity, even during the summer months when travelers flocked to Provence. Usually they came for the day only, arriving early by the busload to tour the château, winery, lavender distillery and olive mills.
By now—it was almost half-past five o’clock—they were gone, not only because accommodation in the village was limited to what L’Auberge d’Olivier had to offer, but because they preferred the livelier nightlife in Nice or Marseille or Monaco.
This woman, though, sat at a table under the shade of the plane trees, sipping a glass of wine, and what captured his attention was not so much her delicate features and exquisite clothing, but her watchfulness. Her gaze scanned the passing scene repeatedly, taking note of every person who crossed her line of vision. At this moment, it was focused on him.
“Who’s the visitor, Henri?” he asked, leaning casually against the outdoor bar where the innkeeper was busy polishing glasses in preparation for the locals, who’d gather later to drink cassis and play dominoes.
Henri paused in his task long enough to shoot an appreciative glance her way. “An American. She arrived last night.”
“She’d reserved a room here?”
“No, she just showed up unannounced and asked if I could accommodate her. She’s lucky the man you were expecting canceled at the last minute, or I’d have had to turn her away. Too bad he broke his leg, eh?”
“For him, and me both. I’m going to have to find someone to replace him pretty quickly.” Again, Anton looked at the woman, observing her from the corner of his eye. Not just watchful, he decided, but nervous, too. Drumming her fingers lightly on the tabletop as if she were playing the piano. Keeping time by tapping her foot on the dusty paving stones. “What do you know about her, Henri?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Not much. She speaks very good French, the high society kind. And she’s in no hurry to leave here. She’s taken the room for a month.”
“A month?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Did she happen to mention why?”
“She did not.”
When Marie-Louise died, reporters had descended on the area within hours, posing as innocent tourists to disguise the fact they were sniffing out scandal, real or imagined, with which to titillate their readers. In less than a week, Anton had been front-page news throughout France and most of Europe. COMTE’S WIFE’S MYSTERIOUS DEATH, the tabloid headlines screamed. MURDER OR SUICIDE? POLICE QUESTION HUSBAND.
Although public appetite for sensationalism eventually found other victims on which to feed, having his private life exposed to malicious speculation had been a nightmare while it lasted, not just for him and his immediate family, but for everyone in Bellevue-sur-Lac. Since then, he’d been mistrustful of strangers who chose to linger in such a backwater village, content to live in a small inn where they’d be sharing a common bathroom with other guests. And with the third anniversary of his wife’s death coming up, he was especially wary. Like those which had gone before, it promised a burst of renewed interest in the whole tragic mess.
“One has to wonder how she plans to occupy her time,” he remarked.
“Perhaps she’s an artist.”
She, and a hundred thousand others—would-be Cézannes, Van Goghs, Picassos, sure if they breathed the golden light of Provence, genius would ooze from their pores. They came looking suitably tormented by their muse, right down to their disheveled appearance and the paint under their fingernails.
Not this woman, though. She wouldn’t allow a speck of dust to settle on her shoe.
Anton did not, as a rule, patronize the inn. Tonight, though, he was inclined to make an exception. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but something about the woman—the set of her slender shoulders, perhaps, or the tilt of her head—seemed vaguely familiar. That alone was enough to increase his suspicions. Had he seen her before? Was she one of the rabid reporters, come back for another helping of empty speculation?
“Pour two glasses of whatever the lady is drinking, Henri,” he said, arriving at a decision.
Although Henri knew better than to say so, his face betrayed his surprise. Much might have changed since feudal times, but the people of Bellevue-sur-Lac and the surrounding area had been under the protection of the de Valois family for centuries. Whether or not he liked it, Anton reigned as their present-day seigneur.
They came to him to arbitrate their differences, to seek his advice, to request his help. That Monsieur le Comte would choose to sit among them at the L’Auberge d’Olivier, drinking the same wine they drank, would do more for Henri’s reputation than if he’d been awarded the Legion of Honor.
As far as Anton was concerned, being the object of such reverence was nothing short of ludicrous. When all was said and done, he was just a man, no more able than any other to control fate. His wife’s death and the reason behind it was proof enough of that. But tragedy and scandal hadn’t been enough to topple him from his pedestal, any more than his disdain for his title relieved him of the obligations inherent in it.
“I should serve it immediately, Anton?” Henri wanted to know, still flushed with pleasure.
“No,” he said, turning away. “I’ll signal when we’re ready.”
The square was deserted now. No faces for the stranger to scrutinize. Instead she stared at her hands where they rested on the table.
“A beautiful woman should not sit alone on such a night, with only an empty glass for company,” he said, approaching her. “May I join you?”
Startled, she looked up. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom, and he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, only that they were large. He’d addressed her in English, and she replied in kind. “Oh, no…thank you, but no.”
It was his turn to be taken aback. Her slightly panicked rejection smacked more of propriety than guile. Hardly the response of a seasoned scandal-hunter, he thought. Or else, she was very good at hiding her true identity.
Covering his surprise with a smile, he said, “Because we haven’t been formally introduced?”
She spared him the barest smile in return. “Well, since you put it that way, yes.”
“Then allow me to rectify the matter. My name is Anton de Valois, and I am well-known in these parts. Ask anyone. They will vouch for me.”
He thought she blushed then—another surprise—though it was hard to be sure, with night closing in. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. She had a low, musical voice, refined and quite charming.
“Nor did you. It pays to be cautious these days, especially for a woman traveling by herself.” Then, even though he already knew the answer, he paused just long enough to give his question the ring of authenticity before suggesting, “Or perhaps I’m mistaken and you’re not alone after all, but waiting for someone else. Your husband, perhaps?”
“No,” she replied, far too quickly, and lowered her eyes to stare at her left hand which was bare of rings. The lights in the square came on at that moment, glimmering through the branches of the plane tree to cast the shadow of her lashes in perfect dusky crescents across her cheeks. “No husband. Not anymore.”
Again, not quite the attitude or the response he expected. Rather, she seemed lost, and very unsure of herself. On the other hand, he knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving. That being so, he led into the subject she’d surely latch on to with a vengeance, if she was indeed, as he suspected, a brash journalist with a hidden agenda.
“Then we share something of significance in common,” he remarked, sliding into the chair across from hers without asking permission this time. “I also lost my spouse several years ago.”
“Oh, I’m not a widow!” she exclaimed, meeting his gaze again. “I’m…divorced.”
She uttered the word as if it were something of which she was deeply ashamed. A clever ploy, perhaps, designed to deflect attention from her true motives.
“What kind of man would be fool enough to let you go?” he inquired, sickened by the taste of false sympathy on his tongue. He was normally a straightforward man with little use for subterfuge.
“Actually…” She gave a tiny shrug and bit down briefly on her lower lip. She had a very lovely mouth, he noticed. Soft, sensitive, defenseless. “He’s the one who left me.”
Afraid that the longer he engaged in a game of cat and mouse with such a woman, the duller the sharp edge of his suspicions might grow, Anton observed her closely, willing himself to uncover artifice, but finding only sincerity. Was he overreacting? At the mercy of his own paranoia—and she its innocent victim?
Suddenly despising himself for toying with memories she clearly found painful, he murmured with honest compassion, “In that case, he is a double fool and a cad. I can see that he’s caused you much unhappiness.”
“At the time, yes, but I’m over it now.”
“And over him?”
She managed another smile, and if it was a trifle hesitant, it was also unmistakably genuine. “Oh, yes. Most definitely over him.”
Choosing not to examine the real cause of the relief flooding through him, he nodded to Henri, who scooped up a tray bearing the two glasses of wine and a lighted candle, and brought it to the table. “Then we shall celebrate your freedom with a toast.”
“No,” she began. “It’s very kind of you, but I meant what I said before. I really—”
Sweeping aside her objection, Anton said, “Henri, your lovely guest isn’t certain it’s safe to get to know me. Reassure her, will you, that I’m quite respectable?”
He’d switched to French, aware that Henri’s English was minimal, at best. Without waiting for Henri to reply, she spoke, also in French, and it was, as the man had said, flawless. “I’m sure you’re respectable enough. I’m just not accustomed to being approached by strange men.”
“Strange men?” Henri set down the tray with a distinct thump. “Madame, you speak of the Comte de Valois!”
“A real live Comte?” She tipped her head to one side and this time managed a slight laugh. “In this day and age?”
Henri drew himself up to his full one hundred and seventy-five centimeters—about five feet eight inches in her part of the world. “A gentleman remains a gentleman, regardless of the times, Madame, and you may rest assured Monsieur le Comte fits the description in every way.”
“Thanks, Henri,” Anton intervened, knowing he scarcely deserved the accolade in the present circumstances. “That’ll be all, for now.”
She watched the innkeeper march back to the bar, his spine stiff with outrage, then switched her gaze to Anton again. “He wasn’t joking, was he? You really are you a Count.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Oh, dear! Then I owe you an apology. You must think me incredibly rude, not to mention gauche.”
“I find you quite delightful,” he said, and with the sense of floundering ever deeper into dangerous waters, realized he spoke the truth.
She clasped both hands to her cheeks. “I don’t quite know how to behave or what to say. I’ve never had drinks with royalty before.”
“I don’t consider myself royalty. As for how you should behave, simply be yourself and speak your mind freely. Isn’t that always the best way?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “It hasn’t done me a lot of good, in the past.”
He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Then let us drink to the future. À votre santé.”
“À votre santé aussi, Monsieur le Comte.”
Continuing in French, he said, “To my friends, I am Anton.”
“I hardly think I qualify as a friend on such short acquaintance.”
The candle flame illuminated the classic oval of her face, the dimples beside her cupid’s bow mouth and the delicate winged brows showcasing her eyes which, he saw now, were the same deep, intense blue as a Provencal sky in high summer. Her shoulder-length hair, worn simply, shone with the luster of a newly polished, old gold coin.
Was she beautiful?
Not in the conventional sense, no, he decided. Hers was a more subtle appeal, one he found quite irresistible. “Sometimes,” he said earnestly, “friendship, like love, can strike instantly, as I believe it has between you and me.”
“How can that be? You don’t even know my name.”
Returning her smile, he said, “You think I haven’t noticed? I’ve been trying to learn it from the moment I saw you, but you’ve evaded me at every turn.”
“It’s no secret. I’m Diana. Diana…Reeves.”
He noticed her slight hesitation, but decided not to push the point. She was skittish enough as it was. Instead, taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Diana Reeves. What did you have for dinner, last night?”
“Beef stew with potato dumplings.”
“Then we’ll order something different, tonight.”
“I don’t recall saying I’d have dinner with you. Not that that seems to mean much,” she added ruefully. “I didn’t agree to have a drink with you, either, but I’m doing it anyway. Do you always get your own way?”
“If I want something badly enough, I do. It’s one of the perks of being a Count.”
She regarded him soberly. “You’re being very charming, Anton, and I’m sure most women would be flattered by your attention, but I think it’s only fair to tell you that I’m not very good at flirting.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s one of the qualities about you that I find most attractive.”
“My ex-husband said I took things far too seriously and didn’t know how to have fun.”
“I thought we already established that your ex-husband is a fool.”
Her dimples deepened as another smile lit up her face. “You’re right, we did.”
“Then forget about him and concentrate on us and friendship at first sight. When did you arrive in France?”
“Just yesterday.”
“And you came straight here, to Bellevue-sur-Lac?”
At his question, tension emanated from her, so fierce that he half expected to see blue sparks crackling from the ends of her hair. “As a matter of fact, I did. What’s wrong with that?”
Why so defensive, all of a sudden? he wondered, his suspicions on high alert again. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong, Diana,” he replied mildly.
Color swept into her cheeks. “Well, you sounded as if you did.”
“Perhaps you interpreted surprise as disapproval.”
“Why should you be surprised?”
He shrugged. “Bellevue-sur-Lac is barely a dot on the map of Provence, and has little to offer a tourist, yet you chose it over the many other, more interesting villages in the region.”
Avoiding his glance, she said, “You might not think it interesting, but I find it thoroughly delightful.”
“And on behalf of everyone living here, I thank you. But how did you discover it?”
She took a moment to consider her answer. “By chance,” she said finally. “I’d fallen into a rut after my marriage ended, and decided I was ready for a little adventure. I knew I wanted to visit the south of France, so I stuck a pin on the map, promised myself I’d explore the spot I found, no matter what, and here I am. I consider myself lucky that I ended up in a place that offers food and lodging, and not on top of a mountain with nothing but the stars for company.”
“Yet you’re wasting the opportunity to see the best Provence has to offer. Why else do you think we make no real effort to accommodate tourists here?”
“I’m not exactly your average tourist. I don’t care about seeing the sights. I just want a place where I can find a little peace.”
A plausible enough story on the surface, and one he might have accepted were it not that she still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Not nearly as lucky as I consider myself, that you chose here,” he returned smoothly. “Fate brought us together, no question about it, which means we definitely must dine together. I highly recommend Henri’s bouillabaisse.”
But she’d already gathered up her straw handbag and was preparing to leave. “Some other time, perhaps, but not tonight, thank you. After my earlier faux-pas, I’m afraid Henri might poison me. I even wonder if he’ll still allow me to stay here.”
A pity he couldn’t keep her a little longer and discover the reason for her sudden uneasiness, Anton thought, but he had a whole month in which to uncover her secrets, and could afford to bide his time. “I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that,” he said, coming around the table to pull out her chair. “Henri Molyneux is one of the most equable fellows you’ll ever meet.”
In her eagerness to escape him, she must have risen too quickly because she staggered, and if he hadn’t steadied her with a hand at her shoulder, he thought she might have fallen. As it was, her bag slipped from her grasp and fell on the table, knocking over her wineglass and sending it rolling to the dusty paving stones where it shattered.
Concerned, he said, “Diana? Are you okay?”
“No,” she muttered distractedly, as breathless as if she’d run five kilometers in under five minutes. “I spilled my wine and broke the glass.”
“Alors, don’t worry about that. It happens all the time. See, Henri’s already coming to clean it up.”
“No,” she insisted. “It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
Pressing her down onto the chair again, he said firmly, “You’ll do no such thing. You’re shaking, and white as a sheet. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” she cried. Then, as if she realized she was behaving oddly, she made a concerted effort to pull herself together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just that I haven’t eaten all day, and two glasses of wine on an empty stomach…”
“That settles it, then. We’re having dinner.” He nodded to Henri who, having shoveled up the broken glass, was wiping down the table. “How’s the bouillabaisse coming along, my friend?”
“Not ready for another fifteen minutes, I regret to say,” he replied, and cast an anxious glance at Diana. “You did not cut yourself, madame? You are not hurt?”
Diana stared at him wordlessly, her eyes huge. Two bright spots of color bloomed in her cheeks, making the rest of her face that much paler by comparison. Although the evening was pleasantly warm, she shivered as if it was winter and the mistral blew.
Baffled, Henri swung his glance to Anton. “Perhaps a little cognac might help?”
Equally mystified, Anton shook his head. There was more going on here than a missed meal. He was no doctor, but he recognized shock when he saw it. What he couldn’t determine was its cause. In fact, nothing about this woman quite added up. “No alcohol,” he said, laying his hand against her forehead and finding it clammy. “She’s cold. Bring her a tisane and some bread instead.”
She flinched at his touch, as if she’d been startled from sleep. “I don’t need tea,” she mumbled, struggling to her feet. “I’ll get a sweater from my room.”
“Send someone else for it. Those stairs—”
“No. I felt a little faint for a moment, but I’m fine now, and I’ll be even better after I’ve freshened up a little.”
“Very well,” he conceded. “But don’t think for a minute I’ll allow you to miss dinner. If you’re not back down here by the time the bouillabaisse is ready, I’m coming up to get you.”
She managed a smile, as if the very idea of trying to avoid him would never cross her mind, and turned to Henri. “Fifteen minutes, you said?”
“At the very most, madame.”
“Okay. I’ll be ready and waiting.”
Yesterday, when the chambermaid had shown her to her room, Diana had considered it barely acceptable. At little more than twelve feet square, with its old, mismatched furnishings, it was, without question, the least sophisticated space she’d ever occupied, and certainly not one in which she planned to spend much time. Now, leaning against the closed door, she surveyed the narrow, iron-framed bed, hand-painted night table, carved armoire and three-drawer chest, with fond gratitude for the haven they represented.
Even the age-spotted mirror hanging above the old-fashioned washstand held a certain charm. Its most grievous sin lay in distorting her reflection on its wavy surface so that one half of her face looked as if it didn’t quite belong to the other. Unlike Comte Anton de Valois, who possessed an unnerving talent for seeing clear through to her brain and detecting every nuance of hesitation, every carefully phrased falsehood.
She doubted he’d swallowed her excuse that hunger had left her light-headed, but it had been the best she could come up with on short notice, most especially since she really had been thrown for a loop at learning that Henri was a Molyneux.
“You are alone?” he’d inquired, when she’d shown up last night and requested a room.
She’d nodded and murmured assent, so captivated by everything she saw that it simply hadn’t occurred to her to ask his full name. It had been enough that everyone called him Henri.
Bathing her in a welcoming smile, he’d pushed an old-fashioned ledger across the counter for her to sign. “Then you’re in luck. It so happens a single room just became available.”
L’Auberge d’Olivier was a picturesque building with the date, 1712, stamped above the open front door. Its thick plaster walls were painted a soft creamy-yellow. Flowers tumbled from baskets perched on the sills of its sparkling, deep-set windows. Outside, under a huge plane tree, candles flickered on wrought-iron tables where old men hunched over glasses of dark wine and smoked pungent cigarettes.
Charmed, she’d seen it as a fortuitous start to her search. Because Bellevue-sur-Lac was so small, she’d thought it would be easy to unearth clues that would lead her to her birth mother. Had spent this entire day combing the narrow streets, convinced success was around the next corner. Behind the protection of her sunglasses, she’d scrutinized every woman she came across, searching for a physical resemblance, a visceral intuition, that would tell her she’d found the right one. But the very smallness of the village turned out to be a serious drawback.
“How do you plan to tackle this harebrained scheme of yours?” Carol had asked, just before she’d dropped her off at SeaTac airport.
“Very discreetly,” Diana had replied smugly. “I’ll be so smooth and subtle, no one will even notice me, let alone guess what I’m after.”
In fact, she’d been an object of suspicious curiosity everywhere she went. Although they’d been polite enough, people had closed ranks against her, not trusting a lone American wandering the area, and she’d come back to the inn that evening, no farther ahead than she had been when she’d left there that morning.
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?”
“The youngest is a sister, and just as well, according to Henri’s father. Gérard always said that if the seventh baby had been another boy, he’d have been kicked out of the house and made to spend the rest of his days with the cows in the barn. Not that anyone believed the story. He and his wife were devoted to each other, and to their sons. But from what I understand, there’s no doubt that Jeanne was special. Their whole family adored her.”
“Does she have children, too?”
“No,” he said coolly. “Tell me, Diana, why are we talking about people who can’t possibly be of interest to you, when we could be spending the time getting to know one another better?”
Back off! the voice of caution advised. You’re betraying too much interest in the Molyneux family and arousing his suspicion! But increasingly convinced she was finally onto something, Diana ignored the warning and leaned forward urgently. “I don’t agree. Even the lives of strangers are interesting, so please go on.”
“Go on?” The chill in his voice was more pronounced than ever. “Go on with what, exactly?”
She needed to stop. To dismiss the subject with a laugh, and turn the conversation to something light and inconsequential. And she would have, if it hadn’t been that so much of what he told her fit the profile of her birth mother. Henri was almost sixty and the eldest of seven. He had only one sister, the baby of the family, and the woman Diana had traveled halfway around the world to find was forty-five. Mental arithmetic might never have been her strong point, but even she could do the math on this one.
“With what you were telling me about Henri’s family,” she said, hard-pressed not to reach across the table and literally shake the words out of him. “The whole idea of seven children in one family fascinates me.”
“Really,” he said, with marked skepticism.
“Yes, really!”
He regarded her steadfastly over the rim of his glass, and took a slow sip of his wine. “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you but there’s nothing else to tell. The Molyneux’s are good people, and that’s about it.”
He was wrong. One ambiguity remained, and terrified though she was of what she might learn if she questioned it, the prospect of remaining in ignorance terrified her even more. She’d lived with enough uncertainty to last her a lifetime. She wouldn’t allow it to derail her now. So, clearing her throat, she plunged ahead. “But I notice you speak of Henri’s sister in the past tense. Is that because she died?”
Oh, how horribly blunt the words sounded, and Anton must have thought so, too, because he almost choked on his bouillabaisse. “Mon dieu, non!” he exclaimed. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, fumbling for a plausible reply. “It was just the way you spoke of her, that’s all. It made me feel…sad.”
“But why? You don’t even know these people. Why do you care about them?”
“I don’t,” she whispered, blinking furiously to stem the sudden rush of tears welling in her eyes.
But he was too observant to be so easily fooled. “That simply isn’t true. Clearly you care very much—indeed, far more than the occasion warrants. Did my speaking of the Molyneux’s somehow revive unhappy memories of your own family?”
The candle flame bloomed into a multihued disc, perforated at its rim with pinpricks of brilliance. She blinked to clear her vision and a tear rolled down her face. “In a way. Hearing you talk about families and marriage brought home to me that I don’t have either anymore.”
“Your parents—?”
“Died within six months of each other, two years ago.”
“And you were an only child?”
I don’t know for sure, she cried inwardly. That’s what I’m trying to find out. “Yes.”
“Then we have even more in common than I first supposed,” he said, with more kindness and compassion than Harvey had ever shown, “because I, too, was an only child. My parents died in a train derailment when I was seven, and I was left in the care of my two aunts who live with me still.”
“Oh, Anton!” she cried, mortified. “You must think I’m incredibly self-absorbed, to be wailing on about my own woes, when you had a much tougher time of it.”
“Not at all. My aunts are exceptional people and came as close as anyone could to taking the place of my mother and father. Of course, I grieved, but I never felt alone or abandoned, because those two women, who never married or bore children of their own, stepped into the role of parents as naturally and wholeheartedly as if they’d been preparing for it their entire lives. They loved me unconditionally, gave me the gift of laughter, instilled in me a respect for others, taught me the meaning of integrity and never once lied to me.”
He paused a moment, seeming lost in thought, then suddenly lifted his gaze and stared at Diana. The absolute candor in his eyes, the utter integrity shining through, struck her with such force that, with a sudden sense of shock, she found herself wishing he’d been the man she’d married.
Yes, he was a stranger, and yes, he made her uneasy with his probing gaze, but she knew instinctively that he’d never have cheated on her. Never have lied so cruelly.
“At the end of the day, they’re the qualities that define us as human beings. Without them, we’re not worth very much at all,” he finished soberly. “Don’t you agree?”
Shame flooded through her. How was she supposed to reply, knowing as she did that she was deliberately misleading him about herself and her reason for being there? Yet he was too astute not to notice if she tried to evade his question.
“In principle, yes,” she finally allowed, steering as clear of outright deceit as possible. “Unfortunately no one’s perfect, and even the best of us sometimes fall short.”
He continued his close observation a few unnerving seconds longer, then dropped his gaze to her hands, playing nervously with the stem of her wineglass. “I appear to have a talent for making you uncomfortable, ma chère.”
“Whatever makes you think that?”
“You keep fidgeting with your glass.”
“Well, if you must know,” she said, somehow managing to meet his unwavering gaze without flinching, “I think I might like a little more wine, after all.”
“As you wish.” He poured an inch into the bowl of her glass. “This is a Syrah and something of an experiment for us. Take a decent taste, this time, and save your dainty sipping for afternoon tea with English royalty.”
Add “insufferably arrogant” to his list of qualities, she told herself, bristling at his tone, and just to let him know she wasn’t a complete ignoramus, she took her time going through the ritual of sniffing, swirling and tasting the wine.
“Well?” he demanded imperiously. “Will it do?”
Still playing for time, she let the mouthful she’d taken linger on her tongue a moment longer, swallowed, then closed her eyes and did that weird little trick of exhaling down the back of her throat to catch a final bouquet—the mark of a true oenophile, according to Harvey, who’d always made an exorbitantly big deal of conferring approval on the wine, when they entertained or dined out.
“Delightfully complex, with a remarkable nose,” she conceded.
Harvey would have been tickled pink by her performance. Anton, on the other hand, didn’t seem at all impressed. He simply poured more wine into both their glasses and returned to a subject she’d hoped he’d forgotten about. “You mentioned earlier that you came here looking for a little peace.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve always seen peace as a state of mind, not a place on the map.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, but I needed a change of scene, as well.”
“Why is that?”
“Because running into my ex-husband all the time wasn’t helping me recover from the breakup of my marriage.”
“You live in a small town where that sort of thing happened often, do you?”
“No. I live in Seattle.”
“Ah, the Space Needle city.” He raised his elegant eyebrows derisively. “Large enough, I’d have thought, that you could easily avoid one another, unless, of course, you work together.”
“Hardly! He’s a surgeon.”
“And what are you, Diana?” he inquired, imbuing the question with unspoken skepticism.
“Nothing,” she said, rattled as much by his questions as the cool disbelief with which he received her answers. “I was his wife, and now I’m nothing. Why are you giving me the third degree like this?”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“Well, what would you call it?”
“Getting to know you.” He permitted himself a satisfied little smile and lifted his shoulders in a perfectly executed Continental shrug. “You surely can’t blame me for that?”
He was playing with her the way a cat plays with a mouse before closing in for the kill. And she was helpless to put a stop to it.
Oh, he was too suave, too sure of himself, too…everything, with his chiseled features, and sexy, heavily lashed eyes, and tall, elegant frame! “How am I supposed to answer that, Anton?”
“You can start by relaxing, and not judging every man you meet by your former husband. As for your remark about being nothing, that’s absurd. You’re intelligent and beautiful and sensitive, three good reasons for any man with half a brain to find you interesting. How long do you plan to stay here?”
The man had the unnerving habit of infiltrating a woman’s defenses then, before she could regroup, firing a sudden question in her face. “A few weeks,” she admitted, bracing herself for further interrogation.
“Good. That means we can see more of each other.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to start dating again.”
“I’m not casting myself in the role of suitor,” he informed her dauntingly. “I’m extending the hand of friendship to a stranger, in an effort to ensure she leaves here satisfied that it was worth the time and effort it took her to make the journey in the first place.”
Good grief, was the man never at a loss for just the right words? “I already feel that way.”
“Excellent!” He added more wine to her glass. “So tell me, Diana, what were you, before you became a wife?”
“A university student, majoring in modern languages. I’d hoped to become a teacher after I graduated.”
“But you changed your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Because you decided you didn’t like children enough to want to spend six or more hours a day with them, ten months of the year?”
“Not at all! I love children. If it had been up to me—” She stopped, Harvey’s ultimate betrayal flaring up like a nagging toothache that never quite went away. “But it wasn’t.”
“You couldn’t have children?” Anton asked, his voice hypnotizing in its sudden deep sympathy.
“I don’t know, because I never tried. Harvey thought we should wait until he was established before we started a family, so I quit university and went to work as a translator for a law firm whose major clients were European.”
“What you’re saying, in a very nice way, is that you put your own career and wishes on hold, in order to promote your husband’s.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“I wonder how long it will be before this foolish man realizes what a treasure he cast aside—which is, of course, exactly what will happen, in time.”
“I rather doubt that.”
Reaching across the table, he wrapped her fingers warmly in his in a way that gave her palpitations. “But if it did, and he asked, would you take him back?”
“Never,” she managed breathlessly, and wondered what it was about him that left her feeling as if she’d never held hands with a man before.
Whatever the reason, she steeled herself to resist him. Because, of course, he was coming on to her, whether or not he admitted it, and given half a chance, he’d probably be quite happy to take her to bed and make love to her.
The problem was, although he’d probably dismiss such a happening as a pleasant summer interlude, she was an all-or-nothing kind of woman, no better at casual sex than she was at flirting. Emotionally vulnerable and needy as she knew herself to be, she couldn’t afford to lay her heart on the line again, just to have him trample all over it when he decided he’d had enough of her. She’d already gone through that with Harvey, and once was enough.
“That’s what I was hoping to hear,” Anton said, bathing her in a slow, seductive smile that threatened to reduce her rational judgment to a blob of molten hormones. “I’d hate to have to challenge him to a duel at dawn.”
She untangled her fingers from his while she still retained a smidgeon of common sense. “There’s no danger of that. My ex-husband is no more interested in me than I am in him.”
“What does interest you, then?”
“Catching up on my sleep.” She faked a yawn behind her hand. “It’s past my bedtime.”
He made a big production of looking at his watch. “You’re surely not serious?”
“I surely am.”
“But the night is still young, ma belle ange.”
Withstanding his flattery was definitely more than she could handle. “Not for me, it isn’t,” she insisted, forcing herself to her feet and clutching her purse to her breasts like a shield. “I’m fading fast, and your wine, excellent though it was, isn’t helping any. Good night, Anton. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
Before she could make the speedy exit she’d planned, he was on his feet and blocking her escape. “The pleasure was all mine,” he murmured, brushing his lips over the back of her hand.
That she could deal with. He was French, after all, and a Count, to boot. But then, instead of releasing it, he turned her hand over and pressed a soft, warm kiss in the center of her palm. And for reasons that completely eluded her, she felt the effect all the way to the soles of her feet. She wasn’t absolutely certain, but she thought she might even have let out a tiny whimper of pleasure, too.
Accurately guessing exactly the effect he’d had on her, he folded her fingers over the spot, and fixed her in a gaze veiled by his fringe of dense black lashes drooping at half-mast. “Until tomorrow, Diana,” he murmured.
Not if she had any say in the matter! Vividly aware of his gaze measuring her every step, she resisted the urge to bolt, and schooled herself to walk with a reasonable facsimile of decorum through the inn’s front door. Then, when she was quite sure she was out of his sight, she did bolt, scuttling up the stairs and down the narrow corridor to the sanctuary of her little room as if the devil himself were in pursuit.
The woman was a mass of contradictions, he decided, watching as the light came on in her room. Educated, refined and with a certain sophistication, on the one hand; on the other, curiously naive and unsure of herself.
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