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‘No matter what the consequences?’
He shrugged. ‘For me, they are good. I am gaining a house I want and a woman I desire. And maybe I have reached a time in my life when a home and children have become important to me.’
Her lips parted in a gasp. ‘You think for one minute—you really expect me to have your baby?’
‘Another consequence of marriage,’ Marc drawled unsmilingly. ‘If you still believe in the stork, ma mie, you have been misinformed.’ He paused. ‘But I am forcing you to do nothing, Hélène. Understand that. I merely offer you a solution to your most pressing problem. It is for you to decide whether you accept my proposal or deny me.’
He gave her a measuring look. ‘And you have twenty-four hours in which to make up your mind,’ he added coolly.
She picked up her glass and took a mouthful of cognac, feeling it crackle in her throat. At the same time she was conscious of a faint dizziness. It might be caused by the shocks of the past hour, but could also be ascribed to the amount of alcohol she’d unwittingly taken on board, she realised.
Well, there would be no more of that, at least. She wasn’t accustomed to it, and she needed to keep her wits about her now as never before, she thought grimly.
She looked back at him defiantly. ‘Is this how you usually propose marriage—by ultimatum?’
The hardness of his mouth relaxed into a swift, unexpected grin. ‘Until this moment, cherie, I have never proposed marriage at all. Other things, yes,’ he added shamelessly. ‘But not marriage.’
She gave him a fulminating look. ‘I suppose I should feel flattered,’ she said icily. ‘But I don’t.’ She reached for her bag. ‘May we go now, please?’
He was still amused. ‘D’accord.’ He signalled for the bill while Helen braced herself for the walk to the door, which would involve passing Nigel and his new fiancée.
But when she turned to leave she saw only an empty table, in the process of being cleared by the staff, and checked in surprise.
‘They left about ten minutes ago,’ Marc informed her quietly. ‘They did not seem to be enjoying their evening.’ He paused. ‘Or perhaps your Nigel feared another dousing—from an ice bucket.’
Helen ignored that. ‘Will you ask Reception to get me a taxi, please?’ she requested with dignity.
She realised uneasily that she was having to choose her words, and her steps, with care, so the sooner she was rid of her companion, the better.
His brows lifted. ‘My car and driver will be waiting,’ he pointed out.
‘But I really need to be alone,’ she said. ‘Surely even you can understand that?’
“‘Even you,”’ he repeated pensively. ‘I see I shall have to change your low opinion of me, cherie.’
‘By forcing me into marriage?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ She paused, lifting her chin. ‘And now I’d really like to go home.’
He said lightly, ‘As you wish,’ and went to the reception desk.
‘Your cab will be ten minutes,’ he told her on his return. ‘Shall I wait with you until it arrives?’
‘No,’ Helen said hastily, then added a belated, ‘Thank you.’
She’d half expected a protest, but all he said was a casual, ‘A bientôt,’ and went.
There was no avoiding the fact that she would be seeing him again—and soon, she thought wearily. After all, he’d given her only twenty-four hours in which to make up her mind—or rack her brains for a way out.
She still felt faintly giddy, so she made her way over to a high-backed chair in the shelter of an enormous parlour palm and sat down, leaning back and closing her eyes.
When she heard the main door open she assumed her cab had arrived early, but instead she heard Nigel’s voice peremptorily addressing the receptionist.
‘My mother seems to have mislaid her scarf. Could someone look in the cloakroom for me? See if it’s there?’
Helen, transfixed, had a fleeting impulse to climb into the palm and vanish.
But it was too late. Nigel had seen her and was crossing the foyer. She got to her feet, her fingers tightening defensively round the strap of her bag.
‘All alone?’ he asked unpleasantly. ‘Dumped you already, has he?’
She flushed. ‘No, he hasn’t,’ she said, adding recklessly, ‘On the contrary, I’ll be seeing him again tomorrow.’
‘Well, you’re certainly full of surprises, Helen. I’ll grant you that.’ He scanned her insolently from head to foot. ‘You do know who you’re dealing with, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’
‘So, what the hell’s a high-flyer like him doing in this backwater?’ Nigel demanded.
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps you should ask him that yourself.’
‘Oh, I don’t know him that well,’ he said. ‘It’s Amanda. She’s met him at parties in London and she could hardly believe her eyes when she saw you together. You’re hardly his usual kind of totty.’
Helen steadied her voice. ‘I’m sorry if she’s disappointed.’
‘She’s not interested one way or the other,’ Nigel said rather stiffly. ‘He’s certainly not her type. Nor does he believe in long-term relationships,’ he added waspishly. ‘Just in case you were hoping. Apparently he has a very low boredom threshold where women are concerned. Two months is the top limit for his involvements. None of his girls are kept around for longer. He’s notorious for it.’ He grinned nastily. ‘And you haven’t even lasted the night, sweetie.’ He paused. ‘So how did you meet him—as a matter of interest?’
‘I can’t imagine why it should be any of your concern,’ she said, ‘but he happened to be on the committee that turned me down the other day and he was curious about the house. It’s as simple as that.’
Oh, God, she thought with a pang. If only it were…
‘Oh, the house,’ he said disparagingly. ‘That explains it.’
‘Thank you.’ Helen said coldly, wishing desperately that her cab would arrive—or that she would be abducted by aliens.
He flushed slightly. ‘Believe it or not, I’m trying to warn you for your own good. Although why I should bother after the trick you played on me this morning, God only knows,’ he added sulkily. ‘Do you know how long it took me to come up with an excuse for being soaked to the skin?’
‘Am I supposed to care?’ Helen threw back at him.
He shrugged, giving her a faintly injured look. ‘We’ve known each other for a long time. I assumed it might be possible to remain friends.’
‘Difficult,’ she said, ‘when we don’t even occupy the same planet. And here’s my taxi.’ She offered him a small polite smile. ‘Goodbye, Nigel, and—good luck.’
‘And you,’ he said venomously, ‘deserve everything that’s coming to you. When your house has gone, and your French millionaire has used you up and spat you out, don’t come to me for a handout.’
There wasn’t even a fountain to push him into this time, Helen thought, let alone the preferred swamp. And that was her sole regret as she walked away from him and out into the night.
Nor was it because of this brief confrontation that she found herself trembling as she sat huddled in the back of the taxi taking her home through the darkness.
It was Marc Delaroche who occupied her mind, imprinting himself indelibly on her inner vision.
My first real proposal of marriage, she thought, fighting back the bubble of hysteria rising within her. And it’s from him.
She looked down at the hand he’d caressed and found she was clenching it into a fist.
As they headed through the village towards Monteagle her driver slowed as a car approached them, travelling smoothly and swiftly in the opposite direction.
Helen recognised it instantly. Oh, God, she thought, as she shrank further into her corner. His car. On its way back to the Monteagle Arms, no doubt.
But where on earth could he have been up till then? she asked herself in bewilderment. He should have returned long before her. Had his chauffeur become lost in the twisting lanes?
Whatever, he was far too close for her comfort. But perfectly poised for tomorrow, just an hour or so away, when he would come for his answer.
His package deal, she thought bitterly, for which he was apparently offering a blank cheque. Her house and herself—not necessarily in that order—and no expense spared. Or so he wanted her to believe…
It was—almost flattering. But she wasn’t fooled, Helen told herself with sudden, desperate decision. It wasn’t a genuine offer—not in a civilised society. It couldn’t be…
He was merely testing her resolve, and of course he expected her to refuse. He probably relied on it.
After all, why should he want to spend a fortune on a place he’d seen briefly a couple of times?
And, besides, even a marriage that was only a business arrangement had too permanent a sound for someone who counted his relationships in days rather than years.
It’s a wind-up, she thought with an inward sigh of relief, as the cab turned into Monteagle’s gates. It has to be, and unfortunately I fell for it. Let him see I was rattled. Big mistake.
But at least she had a whole day to decide how to deal with it.
She considered, and immediately discarded, the idea of trying to rattle him in turn. Of letting him think she was actually tempted by his proposition and allowing him to talk her out of it. It might be amusing, but it was also dangerous.
He was too unpredictable, and—which annoyed her even more—invariably several steps ahead of her.
The sensible plan would be to tell him unsmilingly that the joke was over and request him to leave her in peace—seriously and permanently.
Except that might not be as simple as it sounded. Marriage might not be in the equation, but Marc Delaroche still wanted her. Inexperienced as she was, Helen was unable to deny that. If she was honest, she’d recognised it from their first encounter, with a stark female instinct she’d never known she possessed until that moment. And he was determined for his desire to be satisfied, however fleetingly.
It was that knowledge which dried her mouth and set up that deep inner trembling when he was near, invaded her thoughts when he was far away.
Nigel had never looked at her with such hungry intensity, she admitted painfully. Had never touched her skin as if he was caressing the petals of a flower. Had never stirred her senses to the edge of fear.
That alone should have warned her, she thought, as she paid off the driver and turned to go into the house.
There was no sign of Daisy, but the kitchen was filled with the aroma of coffee and the percolator bubbled away cheerfully.
She still felt fuzzy round the edges. Daisy’s rich brew would clear her head and hopefully remove the shakiness in her legs too. Because she needed to be in total control, able to think positively. To plan tomorrow’s response to Marc. Convince him once and for all, and with some force, that both she and Monteagle would remain forever beyond his reach.
She locked the back door, then took a mug from the big dresser and carried it, with the percolator, along to the library. She had some heavy decisions to make, so why not in comfort?
The lamps were lit, and a small fire was burning briskly in the hearth. God bless Daisy, she thought gratefully, and took one step forward into the room, only to halt in startled disbelief as she realised suddenly that she was not alone.
As she saw, with stomach-lurching shock, who was rising from the sofa to greet her.
‘So, you are here at last,’ Marc said softly. And his smile touched her in cool possession.
CHAPTER SIX
HER heart was beating like a stone being thrown against a wall. She stared back at him, her eyes widening endlessly in dismay. His jacket and tie had been discarded, tossed over the arm of the sofa, and his shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist, the sleeves rolled back over his forearms.
He could not, she thought numbly, have announced his intentions any more clearly.
Her voice, when she finally found it, was hoarse. ‘We—we said goodnight earlier. I saw your car on the way to the village—the hotel. So, what are you doing here?’
‘You have a short memory, ma belle. It was my unfortunate chauffeur you saw going to the hotel.’ The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘I told you that on my next visit I intended to spend the night here in this house.’
‘Yes, but I never thought…’ She stopped, biting her lip, struggling for dignity. For some kind of rationality. Most of all, for some way of keeping him at arm’s length—or an even greater distance. ‘I prefer my guests to wait for an invitation.’
‘I feared I might be made to wait for ever.’ His mouth curled sardonically. He walked across and took the percolator from her wavering hand. ‘Before you damage yourself, Hélène,’ he added drily. ‘Or me. Now, come and sit down.’
If she turned and ran he would only follow her, she knew, and she didn’t want to demonstrate that kind of weakness—let him see that she was scared in any way.
So she moved on legs that did not seem to belong to her to the sofa, and sank down, grateful for its sagging support. A small table had been drawn up, holding a tray with cups, a cream jug and sugar bowl, plus a decanter of brandy and two glasses.
She said shakily, ‘You certainly believe in making yourself at home—in every way.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps because I believe that very soon this will be my home.’ He sat down at the other end of the sofa and began to pour out the coffee.
She gave him a swift, wary glance. ‘Isn’t that a premature assumption?’ She tried to keep her voice toneless. ‘After all, you said you’d give me twenty-four hours to answer you.’ She paused. ‘And I also thought you’d have the decency to allow me to consider your proposition in private,’ she added, with a touch of hauteur.
‘But I decided I would pay court to you instead, cherie,’ he drawled. ‘Decency has always seemed to me such a dull virtue.’
His words, and the amused glance which accompanied them, were like an icy finger on her spine. Her hands were clamped round each other in an attempt to conceal the fact that they were trembling.
But she lifted her chin. ‘Virtue?’ she echoed cuttingly. ‘I’m surprised you even know what the word means.’
‘What a low opinion you have of me, ma chère,’ Marc drawled, pouring measures of brandy into the glasses. ‘But at least it releases me from any obligation to behave well.’
He leaned towards her and Helen flinched instinctively, realising too late that he was simply putting her coffee and brandy within her reach on the table. She saw his mouth tighten with sudden harshness, but when he spoke his voice was casual.
‘And I made you a proposal, not a proposition. Perhaps you would like me to demonstrate the difference?’
‘No,’ Helen said too hastily. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘To hear you,’ he said softly, ‘one would think that your namesake in the portrait had been a Vestal Virgin and that you were following her example.’ His gaze rested fleetingly on her mouth. ‘Yet all the evidence denies this.’
‘I dislike being railroaded,’ Helen told him, flushing. She was searingly aware of the lean body lounging so casually beside her—and alarmed by her awareness. ‘That does not, however, make me a prig.’
‘I am glad of the assurance.’ His tone was faintly mocking. ‘So,’ he went on after a pause, ‘what did Nigel say to you that has put you so much on edge?’
Avoiding his gaze, she picked up her glass and drank some brandy. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘But you don’t deny that there was another rencontre, I hope.’ He spoke pleasantly enough, but she was aware of a faint, harsh edge in his voice. ‘You are not the only one to take note of passing traffic, ma mie. I saw his car returning to the restaurant. You must still have been there. Also,’ he added judiciously, ‘you are paler than before, and your eyes look bruised. Was he angry, perhaps, at your attempt to drown him?’
