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Helen took another restorative gulp of brandy. ‘It was mentioned,’ she said shortly. ‘But he seemed more interested in bad-mouthing you.’
His brows lifted. ‘I was not aware I had the pleasure of his acquaintance.’
‘But you know—his new lady.’ She had to struggle to say the words. ‘Apparently you’ve met—at parties in London.’
‘Ah,’ Marc said softly. ‘But I meet a great many people at a great many parties, cherie. She made no particular impression on me at the time.’
‘Well, she remembers you very well,’ she said, adding recklessly, ‘And your reputation.’
He laughed. ‘Do I have one? I was not aware.’
‘You’re said to be anti-commitment.’ Helen stared down into her glass. ‘You never continue any of your love affairs longer than two months.’ She paused. ‘Can you deny it?’
‘Certainement.’ He was still amused. ‘I can assure you, ma mie, that love has never entered into any of my affaires.’
She bit her lip. ‘Now you’re playing with words. But then you like to do that, don’t you, Mr Delaroche? Proposal versus proposition, for example. Not that it matters,’ she added, ‘because we both know that it’s just some private game for your own amusement, and that you haven’t the slightest intention of getting married to me—or to anyone.’
She drew a breath. ‘So, can it stop right now, please? I’m getting bored with the joke.’
He reached for his jacket, extracted something from the pocket, and put it on the table. Helen saw it was a jeweller’s velvet covered box, and nearly choked on the brandy she was swallowing.
‘This is not the moment I would have chosen,’ he said quietly. ‘But perhaps this will finally convince you that I have indeed asked you to be my wife. And that I am quite serious.’
The diamonds in the ring were a circle of fire surrounding the deeper flame of an exquisite ruby. Helen’s lips parted in a silent gasp that was part wonder, part horror.
‘So, do you believe at last?’ His smile was grim. ‘Now all you need do, ma belle, is make your decision.’
She said huskily, ‘You—make it sound so easy.’
‘Yes, or no,’ he said. ‘What could be simpler?’
She shook back her hair in a defiant gesture. ‘You seem to forget that I’m being asked to choose between freedom and a life sentence—with a stranger.’
‘And what does this freedom allow you, ma mie?’ His voice was hard. ‘The right to struggle, to work endlessly while the house you adore crumbles around you? Never to be able to indulge your beauty—your joy in life?’
He paused. ‘Besides,’ he added cynically. ‘If your informants are correct, the maximum term for you to serve would be only two months. Is that really such a hardship?’
Helen stared at him, aware of a strange icy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Yes, she realised, with sudden paralysing shock. Yes, it would be—if, somehow, I started to care. If, however incredible it may seem, you taught me to want you—to love you—and then you walked away.
Because that would be more than hardship. It would be agony. And it could break my heart for ever…
She said in a small taut voice, ‘I suspect, monsieur, that even one month of your intimate company might be more than I could bear.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Is there really nothing else you would agree to—for Monteagle?’
‘You are brutally frank.’ His mouth twisted. ‘So let me be the same. My answer to that is nothing. I take the house and you with it, Hélène. Or you will be left to your—freedom. The choice is yours.’
Her fingers played with a fold of her dress. ‘I—I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘It is already tomorrow. You are running out of time, ma belle.’
She said with sudden heat, ‘I wish—I really wish you’d stop saying that. Stop pretending that I’m beautiful.’
He studied her for a moment with half-closed eyes. ‘Why do you do this?’ he asked quietly eventually. ‘Why do you so undervalue yourself?’
‘Because I’m a realist.’ She finished the brandy in her glass. ‘I loved Nigel and he chose someone else. Someone beautiful.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t get a chance to look at her at the restaurant, so I assume she is—beautiful.’ Her glance challenged him. ‘You’re supposed to be a connoisseur, Monsieur Delaroche. What do you think—now that you’ve seen her again?’
He was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘She has her charms. Dark hair, a sexy mouth and a good body. And a tigress in bed, I imagine,’ he added sardonically. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’
Colour flared in her face, and her own completely unsexy mouth didn’t seem to be working properly.
She said thickly, ‘That’s rather—too much information.’
‘You hoped I would say she was plain and undesirable and that her only attraction is her father’s money?’ He spoke more gently. ‘I wish it was so.’
‘Don’t pity me,’ she said raggedly. ‘Just don’t—bloody pity me.’
He watched her for a moment, his expression wry. ‘I think, Hélène, that you have had enough brandy.’
‘Well, I don’t agree.’ She held out her glass defiantly. ‘In fact I’d like some more—lots more—if you don’t mind.’
Marc lifted the decanter. ‘As you wish. But it is really too good to be used as an anaesthetic, ma mie.’
Helen tilted her chin. ‘Maybe I want to be…’ She tried the word ‘anaesthetised’ under her breath, but decided not to risk it. The room seemed very warm suddenly, and her head was swimming. ‘Drunk,’ seemed a safer alternative, and she said it twice just to make sure.
‘I think you will achieve your ambition,’ he told her drily. ‘And sooner than you believe.’
She hoisted the refilled glass in his direction, aware that he seemed to have receded to some remote distance. Which was all to the good, of course. Perhaps, in time, if she went on drinking, he might disappear altogether.
‘Cheers, monsieur,’ she articulated with great care, and giggled at her success. Fine, she told herself defiantly, swallowing some more brandy. I’m—perfectly fine.
‘Salut, petite.’ His voice sounded very close. She felt the glass being removed from her hand, gently but firmly. Felt herself drawn nearer so that she was leaning against him, her cheek against his shoulder.
She knew she should resist, and swiftly, but her senses were filled with the warm male scent of him, and she was breathing the musky fragrance of the cologne he used. An odd weakness seemed to have invaded her body, and she wasn’t sure she could get to her feet even if she tried, or stand upright if she did.
She was suddenly aware, too, that his hand was stroking her hair, softly, rhythmically, and she was shocked by this unexpected tenderness from Marc of all men. Because it seemed as if he had, in some strange way, become her sole rock in an ocean of desolation.
But that, she knew, was impossible. The complete opposite of the truth. Because he was danger, not comfort. Her enemy, not her friend. The predator, with herself as prey.
She moved suddenly, restlessly, trying to free herself, but the arm that held her was too strong, and the caressing hand almost hypnotic as it moved down to smooth the taut nape of her neck and the curve of her shoulder.
‘Sois tranquille.’ His voice was gentle. ‘Be still, Hélène, and close your eyes. There is nothing to fear, I swear it.’
And somehow it was much simpler—almost imperative, in fact—to believe him and obey. To allow herself to drift endlessly as her weighted eyelids descended. And to surrender her own body’s rhythms to the strong, insistent beat of his heart against hers.
She was never sure what woke her, but suddenly she was back to total consciousness, in spite of her aching head and her eyes, which some unfeeling person had filled with sand.
She took a cautious look round, then froze, all self-inflicted wounds forgotten. She was still on the sofa, but stretched out full-length in the arms of Marc, who was lying asleep beside her, his cheek resting on her hair.
She was so close to him, she realised, alarmed, that she could feel the warmth of his bare, hair-roughened chest through the thin fabric of her dress.
One arm was round her shoulders and the other lay across her body, his hand curving round her hipbone, and her movement was further restricted by the weight of his long leg, which was lying slightly bent over both of hers, imprisoning her in an intimacy as disturbing as it was casual.
Dear God, she moaned silently. How did I let this happen?
Her only small comfort was that apart from their shoes, which were on the floor, they were both dressed. But she could hardly have felt more humiliated if she’d woken up naked.
And just how long had this been going on anyway? she wondered miserably.
The lamp was still burning, but the fire was a pile of grey ash covering just one or two glowing embers.
Moving her arm carefully, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly four a.m.
She took a steadying breath. I have to get out of here, she thought. Right now.
It didn’t appear as if anything untoward had happened—in fact, she knew it hadn’t—but she felt totally vulnerable like this, in his embrace. She certainly couldn’t risk his waking and finding her there with him, in case he decided, after all, to—take advantage of the situation.
With the utmost caution she pushed his leg away, then slid, inch by wary inch, from beneath his arm, putting down a hand to balance herself before lowering herself slowly to the floor.
She sat motionless for a moment, listening intently, but he did not stir and there was no change in his even breathing.
In spite of the pounding in her head, she managed to get to her feet. Then, sandals in hand, she tiptoed to the door and let herself out into the dark house. She knew every step of the way, every creaking floorboard to avoid as she fled to her bedroom. Once safely inside, out of breath and feeling slightly sick, she turned the key in the lock, and for good measure pushed a small wooden chair under the handle.
Then she stripped, letting her clothes lie where they fell, and crept into bed, pulling the covers over her head.
All that damned brandy. She groaned, fighting her nausea and praying for the bed to keep still. I must have been insane. Why, anything could have happened while I was unconscious.
Only to her own bewilderment it was apparent that nothing had. Instead, Marc had let her sleep, peacefully and comfortably.
So he can’t have wanted me that much, after all, she thought, turning over and burying her face in the pillow. It’s the house—just the house. And found herself wondering why that particular realisation should sting so much?
She certainly didn’t need to be desired by a serial womaniser, she reminded herself forcefully.
She had to think, clearly and rationally, she told herself. Find a watertight reason for turning him down and dismissing him from her life, whatever the consequences for Monteagle’s future.
But her mind was still teeming with images and sensations, and it was difficult to focus somehow. To stop wondering what form his promised wooing of her might have taken. And to forget, as she must, the way he’d looked at her, the things he’d said, and—his touch. That, dear God, above all else.
Once he’d gone she’d be able to put him out of her mind, and devote herself to the on-going struggle to make Monteagle financially viable. She wouldn’t have time to think about anything else—especially ludicrous might-have-beens.
She stayed awake, her brain going in weary circles, until sunlight penetrated the curtains, then dressed and went downstairs to go for a walk round the lake. Every movement was a penance, but the fresh air might help to clear her head, she told herself optimistically.
The door of the sitting room remained closed, and to her relief she had the kitchen to herself too, as she made some strong black coffee and drank it, wincing.
She stood by the water, looking across at the grey mass of Monteagle’s half-ruined keep, wondering how much longer she could keep it standing without a substantial cash windfall.
Football pools, she thought. The Lottery. Quiz shows paying out thousands. What hadn’t she considered in her efforts, however forlorn the hope? And now no other avenues suggested themselves.
However, she looked at it, Helen thought wretchedly, she was between a rock and a hard place.
Time was running out, and she still couldn’t figure how to frame her refusal to Marc Delaroche.
With most men a simple ‘I don’t love you’ would be enough. But he didn’t want her love anyway. He wants Monteagle, she thought, her throat tightening, and maybe a son to inherit it. And a wife who’ll pretend not to notice when he becomes bored and starts to stray. Or when he stops coming back altogether.
And, if I’m truly honest with myself, that’s what really scares me—that I’ll begin to love him because I can’t help myself. That last night I felt safe and secure, for the first time in months, with his arms round me. And that in the end I’ll be left alone and lonely, because that’s what he does.
And I know now I couldn’t bear that. It would kill me.
And that’s something I can never let him guess—which is why I have to say no, once and finally.
She walked slowly back to the house. She would bathe, she thought as she went upstairs, and change. Put on a brave face.
She gave herself a little heartening nod, then flung open the bathroom door and marched in.
‘Bonjour,’ Marc said softly from the depths of the tub. He picked up the sponge and squeezed water over his head, letting it run in rivulets down his face and chest. ‘Have you come to say that you will marry me? If so, you could begin your wifely duties by washing my back.’
‘Oh, God,’ Helen said, appalled, and backed out into the passage, slamming the door behind her to shut off the sound of his laughter.
Daisy was at the sink in the kitchen, dealing with the cups and glasses from the previous night, when Helen arrived, flushed and breathless from her headlong dash downstairs.
‘Why,’ she demanded, ‘is Marc Delaroche still here? And what is he doing in my bathroom?’
‘My guess would be—having a bath.’ Daisy gave her a disapproving look. ‘I dare say he could do with a bit of pampering—after last night.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
Daisy turned, hands on her hips, her gaze deepening into real severity. ‘The very idea, Miss Helen—making the poor young man sleep on that wretched sofa when there was a perfectly good bedroom all ready for him upstairs. And Sir Henry always was such a hospitable man too. He must be turning in his grave.’
Helen took a deep breath. ‘It’s not a question of hospitality—’ she began, but Daisy was firm.
‘He told me when I saw him this morning that you were expecting him, Miss Helen. Isn’t that so?’
Helen abandoned the struggle. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged wearily. ‘I suppose it is. I—I just wasn’t sure when it would be.’
‘Ah, well,’ Daisy said comfortably. ‘That’s all right, then.’ She hesitated, giving Helen a shrewd glance. ‘I get the idea we’ll be seeing more of Mr Marc in future.’
Helen murmured something non-committal.
I saw more than I needed just now in the bathroom, she thought, filling the kettle and placing it on the stove.
She was just making coffee when the bell at the front entrance jangled with two imperative bursts.
‘Now, who on earth’s calling at this time on a Sunday?’ Daisy wiped her hands and moved towards the door. ‘Have you invited anyone else, Miss Helen?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Helen attempted lightness. ‘But maybe we’d better make up another room, just to be on the safe side.’
Of course it could be Lottie, curious to know how the previous evening had gone, so she turned, beaker in hand, prepared to be welcoming when Daisy returned. But the housekeeper was alone, her face set and stony. ‘It’s that Mr Newson,’ she said shortly. ‘He insists on having a word with you, so I’ve put him in the library.’
‘Oh.’ Helen abandoned her coffee and went reluctantly to join him, wishing that she looked tidier, more like the lady of the house instead of the hired help.
The room looked neat and cheerful in the sunlight pouring through the window, and her unwanted visitor was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, looking round him with his usual narrow-eyed appraisal.
