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She bit her lip. ‘No. The whole floor needs replacing, including the joists.’
He was pausing to look at the portraits which still hung on the walls. ‘These are members of your family? Ancestors?’
She pulled a face. ‘Mostly the ugly ones that my grandfather thought no one would buy.’
Marc Delaroche slanted an amused look at her, then scanned the portraits again. ‘Yet I would say it is the quality of the painting that is at fault.’
She shrugged, surprised at his perception. ‘No, they’re not very good. But I guess you didn’t pay the fees of someone like Joshua Reynolds to paint younger sons and maiden aunts.’
‘And so the sons went off, sans doute, to fight my countrymen in some war,’ he commented, his mouth twisting. ‘While the aunts had only to remain maiden. My sympathies are with them, I think.’ He paused. ‘Is there no portrait of the beauty so desired by King Charles?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘My grandfather wouldn’t part with it. It’s in the State Bedroom.’
‘I cannot wait,’ he murmured. En avant, ma belle.’
‘Do you mind not calling me that?’ Helen threw over her shoulder as they set off again. ‘What would you say if I greeted you with, Hey, good-looking?’
‘I should advise you to consult an eye specialist,’ he said drily. ‘Tell me something, mademoiselle. Why do you object when a man indicates he finds you attractive?’
‘I don’t,’ she said shortly. ‘When it’s the right man.’
‘And I am by definition the wrong one?’ He sounded amused.
‘Do you really need to ask? You know already that I’m engaged to be married.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But where is your fiancé?’
‘He couldn’t come down this weekend.’ Helen halted, chin lifted in challenge. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours.’
‘This weekend?’ he said musingly. ‘And how many weekends before that? It is a matter of comment in the village, you understand.’
‘The public bar of the Monteagle Arms anyway,’ Helen said tersely. ‘You really shouldn’t listen to idle gossip, monsieur.’
‘But I learned a great deal,’ Marc Delaroche said gently. ‘And not merely about your missing lover. They spoke too about your fight to keep this house. Opinion is divided as to whether you are brave or a fool, but none of them thought you could win.’
‘How kind of them,’ she said between her teeth. ‘That must have done my cause a lot of good.’ She paused. ‘Did they know who you were—and why you were here?’
‘I said nothing. I only listened.’ He shrugged. ‘They spoke of your grandfather with affection, but not of your parents. And you do not mention them either. I find that strange.’
Helen bit her lip. ‘I hardly knew them. They left Britain when I was still quite small, and my grandfather brought me up with the help of various nannies. That’s why we were so close.’
Marc Delaroche frowned swiftly. ‘My father’s work took him abroad also, but I travelled with him always. He would never have considered anything else.’
‘My father didn’t work—in the accepted sense.’ Helen looked past him, staring into space. ‘He’d been brought up to run Monteagle and the estate, but after the financial disasters we’d suffered that no longer seemed an option. Also, he knew he would never have a son to inherit what remained. My mother, whom he adored, was very ill when I was born, and needed an immediate operation. The name was going to die out.’
‘He had a daughter. Did he not consider that?’
Helen’s smile was swift and taut. ‘I never had the chance to ask him. There’s always been a strong gambling streak in our family—fortunes won and lost down the centuries—and my father was a brilliant poker player. He had a load of friends among the rich and famous, so he travelled the world with my mother, staying in other people’s houses and making a living from cards and backgammon.’ Her mouth twisted wryly. ‘At times he even earned enough to send money home.’
‘But then his luck ran out?’ Marc Delaroche asked quietly.
She nodded, and began to walk along the corridor again. ‘They were in the Caribbean, flying between islands in a private plane with friends. There was some problem, and the aircraft crashed into the sea, killing everyone on board. My grandfather was devastated. Up to then he’d always believed we would recoup our losses somehow, and carry out the restoration work he’d always planned. That we’d be reunited as a family, too. But after the crash the fight seemed to go out of him. He became—resigned. Instead of winning, he talked about survival.’
She stared ahead of her, jaw set. ‘But Monteagle is mine now, and I want more than that.’
‘Has it hurt you to tell me these things?’ His voice was oddly gentle.
‘It’s all part of Monteagle’s history.’ She hunched a shoulder. ‘So you probably have a right to ask. But that’s as far as the personal details go,’ she added, giving him a cool look. ‘You’re here on business, and I feel we should conduct ourselves in a businesslike manner.’
Oh, God, she groaned inwardly. Just listen to yourself. Miss Prim of the Year, or what?
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And therefore all matters of gender should be rigorously excluded?’ His grin was cynical. ‘How do you do that, I wonder?’
She bit her lip. ‘That is your problem, monsieur. Not mine.’
She reached the imposing double doors at the end of the corridor and flung them open. ‘And here, as you requested, is the State Bedroom.’
The curtains were half drawn over the long windows, and she walked across and opened them, admitting a broad shaft of dust-filled sunshine.
It was a big room, the walls hung with faded brocade wallpaper. It was dominated by the huge four-poster bed, which had been stripped to its mattress, although the heavily embroidered satin canopy and curtains were still in place.
‘As you see,’ she added woodenly, ‘it has not been in use since my grandfather died.’ She pointed to a door. ‘That leads to a dressing room, which he always planned to convert to a bathroom.’
Her companion gave it a cursory glance. ‘It is hardly big enough. One would need to include the room next door as well.’
‘Just for a bath? Why?’
He grinned lazily at her. ‘A leading question, ma mie. Do you really wish me to enlighten you.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Marc Delaroche took a longer look around him, then walked over to the fireplace and studied the picture hung above it. The girl in it looked steadily, even a little shyly back at him, a nimbus of warm-toned ringlets surrounding her face. She was wearing pale yellow satin, cut decorously for the fashion of the time. There was a string of pearls round her throat, and she carried a golden rose in one hand.
He whistled softly. ‘I wonder how long she fought before she surrendered to your king?’ he said, half to himself.
‘You think she did surrender?’
‘Eventually. As all women must,’ he returned, ignoring her small outraged gasp. ‘Besides, there is no question. You have only to look at her mouth.’ He held out an imperative hand. ‘Viens.’
In spite of herself, Helen found she was crossing the worn carpet and standing at his side. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘She is trying hard to be the virtuous lady, but her lips are parted and the lower one is full, as if swollen from the kiss she longs for.’
‘I think you have a vivid imagination, monsieur,’ Helen retorted, her voice slightly strained.
‘And I think that you also, mademoiselle, are trying much too hard.’ His voice sank almost to a whisper.
Before she could guess his intention and move away, out of range, Marc Delaroche lifted a hand and put his finger to her own mouth, tracing its curve in one swift breathless movement, then allowing his fingertip delicately to penetrate her lips and touch the moist inner heat.
In some strange way it would have been less intimate—less shocking—if he’d actually kissed her.
She gasped and stepped backwards, the blaze in her eyes meeting the mockery in his. Her words became chips of ice. ‘How dare you—touch me?’
‘A conventional response,’ he said. ‘I am disappointed.’
‘You’re going to have more than disappointment to deal with, Monsieur Delaroche. You’ll live to regret this, believe me.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Because I, too, shall be making a report to your committee, informing them how you’ve abused their trust while you’ve been here, conducting enquiries on their behalf. And I hope they fire you—no matter how much money you have,’ she added vindictively.
‘I am desolate to tell you this, but you are in error, ma belle,’ he drawled. ‘The committee is not concerned with my visit. It was my decision alone to come here.’
She looked at him, stunned. ‘But—you’ve asked all these questions…’
He shrugged. ‘I was curious. I wished to see this house that means so much to you.’
The breath caught suddenly, painfully in her throat. She turned and marched to the door, and held it open. ‘And now the tour is over. So please leave. Now.’
‘But that was not all.’ He made no attempt to move. ‘I came most of all because I wanted to see you again. And ask you something.’
‘Ask it,’ Helen said curtly. ‘Then get out.’
He said softly, ‘Will you sleep with me tonight?’
Helen was rigid, staring at him with widening eyes. When she could speak, she said hoarsely, ‘I think you must have taken leave of your senses.’
‘Not yet,’ he drawled. His eyes went over her body in lingering, sensuous assessment. ‘For that I shall have to wait a little, I think.’
She pressed her hands to the sudden flare of hot blood in her face.
‘How dare you speak to me like this?’ she whispered jerkily. ‘Insult me in this way?’
‘Where is the insult? I am telling you that I desire you, and have done since the first moment I saw you. And please do not insult me by pretending you did not know,’ he added silkily, ‘because I did not hide it.’
It seemed altogether wiser to ignore that. Helen struggled to control her breathing. ‘You—you seem to have forgotten that I’m about to marry another man.’
‘He is the one who has forgotten, ma belle,’ he said, a touch of grimness in his voice.
‘And you imagined that because he’s not here I would turn to you for—consolation?’ Her voice rose. ‘Oh, God—how dare you? What do you take me for? I love Nigel, and I intend to belong to him and no one else. And I’ll wait for him for ever if necessary. Not that someone like you could ever understand that,’ she added, her voice ringing with contempt.
There was an odd silence as he studied her, eyes narrowed. Then, ‘You are wrong, ma mie,’ he said softly. ‘Parce que, enfin, je comprends tout.’ He gave a brief, harsh sigh. ‘I see I shall have to be patient with you, Hélène, but my ultimate reward will make it worthwhile.’
‘Damn you,’ she said violently. ‘Can’t you see I’d die rather than let you touch me again?’
He reached her almost before she had finished speaking, and pulled her against him, crushing the breath from her as his lips descended on hers.
Nothing in her life had prepared her for the heated relentlessness of his kiss, and he took all the time he needed, exploring deeply, draining every drop of sweetness from her startled mouth.
Tiny fires were dancing in the dark eyes when, at last, he released her.
‘You see,’ he told her ironically, ‘you still live. So learn from this, and do not issue ridiculous challenges that you cannot hope to win.’ He took her hand and raised it to his mouth, palm uppermost, and she cried out in shock as his teeth grazed the soft mound beneath her thumb.
‘Au revoir, ma belle,’ he said softly. ‘And remember this—on my next visit I shall expect to spend the night.’
And he left her standing there, mute and shaken as she stared after him, her tingling hand pressed to her startled, throbbing mouth.
A lot of those weeds you’re pulling out are plants, Miss Helen,’ George told her reproachfully.
Helen jumped guiltily, looking at the wilted greenery in her trug. ‘Oh, Lord,’ she said dismally. ‘I’m sorry.’
She’d hoped that some intensive gardening would calm her down and restore her equilibrium, but it wasn’t working out like that.
The thought of Marc Delaroche was interfering with her concentration at every level, and this infuriated her.
She had tried to call Nigel and beg him to come down, even if it was only for a couple of hours, so she could talk to him. But his mobile phone was permanently switched off, it seemed.
And even if she had managed to contact him, what could she have said? That she needed him to hold her and kiss her and take away the taste of another man’s mouth?
The only other man, in fact, who had ever kissed her in passion.
Her mouth still seemed swollen and faintly tingling from the encounter, but maybe she was just being paranoid. Someone had made a pass at her, that was all. The sort of thing that she should have been able to take in her stride if she’d possessed an ounce of sophistication. She could even have laughed about it, telling Nigel, You’d better stake your claim, darling, because I’m being seriously fancied by someone else.
And he would have laughed too, because he knew she’d never looked at anyone but him since she was thirteen, and that they belonged together.
Anyway, her best plan would be to put the whole thing out of her mind. Marc Delaroche had simply been amusing himself, she thought, and he probably had his next target already lined up. Quite apart from his admittedly diabolical attraction, he was rich enough to ensure that he didn’t get many refusals. And he wouldn’t waste time repining over any of the few women who resisted him. Or risk another rejection by returning.
He’d called her ‘ma belle’, but that had to be just a seduction ploy, because she wasn’t beautiful at all. Moderately attractive was the best she could honestly claim, and he knew it. He’d probably thought she would fall into his arms through sheer gratitude, she told herself, viciously slicing her trowel through a dandelion root.
All the same, she wished desperately that he hadn’t sought her out and forced this confrontation on her.
She might not like him, and she certainly didn’t trust him, but she could have done with him on her side when the committee came to make their decision.
No chance of that now, of course. And she still couldn’t understand what had possessed him. Yes, she’d been aware of him too, she admitted defensively, but only because she’d had no choice. During the interview he’d hardly taken his eyes off her. But she certainly hadn’t offered him any encouragement to—pursue her like this. Quite the opposite, in fact.
At the same time she felt oddly depressed. She absolutely didn’t want him as a lover. She probably wouldn’t choose him as a friend, but she surely didn’t need him as an enemy either, she thought, and sighed without quite knowing why.
The sun went down that evening behind a bank of cloud, and the following day brought grey skies and drizzle and the temperature dropping like a stone.
Outside work had to be halted, and if the miserable conditions persisted to the weekend, the tourists would stay away too, Helen fretted.
She caught up on the household accounts—a depressing task at the best of times—helped Daisy bake for the freezer, and waited feverishly for the mail van to call each day. The committee chairman had said she would hear before the end of the month, and that was fast approaching. All she could hope was that no news might be good news.
Thankfully, Marc Delaroche had made no attempt to contact her again. Maybe he’d decided to cut his losses and retire from the fray after all. But the thought of him still made her uneasy, and her attempts to blot him from her memory did not appear to be working too well.
It would have made things so much easier if she’d been able to talk to Nigel, she acknowledged unhappily. But there’d been no reply from his flat after the weekend, so she’d gritted her teeth and made the unpopular move of phoning him at work—only to be told that he was working in Luxembourg all week. And when she’d asked for the name of his hotel, she’d been told briskly that the bank did not give out that sort of information.
Back to square one, she realised without pleasure. Unless he called her instead, of course, and how likely was that?
She stopped herself right there. She was being critical, which was only one step removed from disloyal. Especially when she knew from past experience that these trips were often landed on him at ridiculously short notice. And he was bound to be home at the weekend, she told herself, because this time it was his mother’s birthday.
Helen didn’t know what kind of celebration was being planned, but she’d managed to find a card with a Persian cat on it that was the double of the bad-tempered specimen occupying its own special chair in Mrs Hartley’s drawing room. She’d signed it ‘Best wishes’ rather than ‘Love from’, in tacit acknowledgement that her relationship with Nigel’s mother had always been tricky. That was one of the reasons they’d delayed making their engagement official.
