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‘I don’t think you understand what a shock this has been—for all of us.’ She bit her lip. ‘We didn’t even know that my—that your father was ill.’
‘Nor I,’ he said quietly. ‘It was a matter he chose to keep to himself.’
‘Like so many others,’ Ginny said before she could stop herself.
The dark face was cynical. ‘Perhaps he realised that news of my existence would be unwelcome.’
She said defensively, ‘My mother could hardly blame him for something that happened long before she met him. If she’d been warned what to expect, she might not have this—sense of betrayal.’
‘She feels betrayed?’ The firm mouth curled. ‘How interesting that she should think so.’
She moved restively. ‘Well, I didn’t come here to argue the rights and wrongs of the situation. I’ll go and leave you to your inspection.’ She began to descend the stairs, then paused. ‘I almost forgot. I have an invitation for you.’
‘An invitation,’ he repeated, as if the word was new to him.
‘Yes—to have dinner with us. Tomorrow evening.’ She saw the look of incredulity on his face, and wished she’d never thought of the idea, let alone mentioned it. But it was too late now, so she hurried on, ‘I was going to leave it at the hotel, but as you’re here...’
She continued her descent, fumbling in her bag for the envelope, missed her footing on the uncarpeted stairs and stumbled forward, to be caught and lifted to safety in arms like steel bands.
Momentarily, her face was pressed against his chest, her nose and mouth filled with the scent of clean wool, soap and the more alien aroma of warm male skin, before she was set, ruffled and breathless, on her feet.
‘You should have more care, mademoiselle,’ he told her coolly. ‘You do not need another tragedy in your family.’
Ginny flushed. ‘I—I’m not usually so clumsy.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘You don’t have to decide immediately, of course.’ She added quickly, ‘And we won’t be offended if you’re too busy.’
‘But naturally I shall accept,’ he said silkily. ‘I am most intrigued that your mother should offer this olive branch.’ He paused. ‘It does, of course, come from her?’
She said quickly, ‘Oh, yes.’ But the brief hesitation preceding it had been fatal.
Strong fingers captured her chin, forcing her face up to meet his gaze.
‘To be a good liar requires practice, ma mie,’ he said softly. ‘Let us hope you are not obliged to be untruthful too often, as I doubt you will ever excel. But clearly your powers of persuasion with Maman are formidable.’
Ginny wrenched herself free and stepped back. ‘If it’s frankness you want, monsieur, may I ask if you ever shave?’
‘Bien s?r—on occasion. Especially if I am going to be in bed with a woman. But I doubt I shall be so fortunate,’ he added pensively. ‘Your beautiful sister already has a lover, hеlas.’
She felt jolted as if her heart had skipped not one beat but several.
She said quietly, ‘My sister is engaged to be married, monsieur. She has a fiancе.’
‘And a rich one, according to the talk in the bar last night.’ He shrugged. ‘What no one can decide is if the affair will end in marriage, or simply end when he decides he has paid enough for his pleasures.’
Ginny gasped, and her arm swung back, but before she could wipe the cynical mockery from his face, his hand had grasped her wrist.
‘So,’ he said. ‘The polite little girl has spirit. And what else, I wonder?’
He jerked her forward, his other arm going round her, pulling her against him, and as her lips parted in furious protest, his mouth came down hard on hers.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_b3bf6920-7ebc-52ca-998d-8c1042d1d9e3)
SHE COULDN’T STRUGGLE, or cry out. She could scarcely breathe. He was holding her too closely, her hands trapped between their bodies. Nor could she resist the practised movement of his lips on hers, or the slow sensual exploration of his tongue as he invaded the innocence of her mouth, tasting her sweetness. Drinking from her. Draining her, as she swayed in his arms, her mind reeling from the shock of it. And yet in some incalculable way—not wanting it to stop...
Only to find herself just as suddenly released.
‘Oh, God,’ she choked when she could speak, caught between anger and something dangerously like disappointment. ‘How dare you?’ And, her voice rising, ‘How bloody dare you?’
‘Sois tranquille.’ He had the audacity to grin at her. ‘It took courage, sans doute, but what experiment does not?’ He paused. ‘So, ma douce, do I still have that invitation to dinner, or have I offended too deeply?’
Ginny was in a cleft stick. The dinner party was being held at her insistence. How could she cancel it without involving herself in truly hideous explanations? And if she claimed he was unavailable, she had no guarantee he would not find some way of letting the truth be known.
She swallowed hard. ‘The invitation stands.’
He said slowly, ‘You surprise me. Your family must want something very badly.’
She walked past him to the front door, and paused. ‘A truce,’ she said. ‘Is the most that’s hoped for. So, we’ll expect you at seven-thirty.’
His smile still lingered. ‘I shall look forward to it. ? demain.’
Her hair had been loosened in the encounter, and whipped around her face as she walked to the car. She slid into the driving seat and gripped the wheel, waiting for the fierce trembling inside her to subside a little before starting the engine. As she probed her throbbing mouth with the tip of her tongue, it occurred to her that she could still taste him and felt her body clench harshly in response.
Get a grip, she adjured herself tersely. You’ve been kissed and by someone who knows how. You tried to hit him. He taught you a lesson. That’s all there is to it.
But it was a learning curve she could have well done without.
She drove off with exaggerated care until Keeper’s Cottage was a long way behind her, then pulled into a lay-by just outside the village and sat there until she felt calmer and more focused.
You have a dinner party to prepare for, she told herself. Concentrate on that. Forget everything else.
She’d discussed a possible menu with Mrs Pelham that morning, and they’d settled on salmon mousse, followed by Beef Wellington with roasted vegetables, and ending with white grapes in champagne jelly, and some good cheese.
She had returned the key to Mr Hargreaves’ office, and was just emerging from the speciality cheese shop in the High Street, when she saw Sir Malcolm and Lady Welburn leaving the Rose and Crown, and waved to them.
As she reached the opposite pavement, she said breathlessly, ‘I’m so glad I’ve seen you. I know it’s terribly short notice but my mother would be delighted if you’d come to supper tomorrow evening, with Jonathan if he’s free, and meet Andrew’s son and heir, Andre Duchard.’
‘My dear Virginia, what a very nice idea.’ Lady Welburn’s slight air of constraint fell away, and she smiled with her usual warmth. ‘We were just inquiring for him at the hotel, but he’s out.’
She lowered her voice. ‘I confess I was a little worried by Lucilla’s attitude yesterday evening, so I’m very glad that Rosina’s decided to do absolutely the right thing. Such a difficult situation for everyone otherwise. Thank your mother and tell her we’ll all be there.’
Ginny smiled back, well aware that Lady Welburn was under no illusion whose scheme it really was.
‘She’ll be so pleased.’
Two hours later, she returned to the house, laden with bags from the supermarket at Lanchester. In the hall, she met her mother.
‘Hi, she said. ‘I’ll just unpack this stuff, then I’ll tell you about the cottage.’
‘No need,’ Rosina said airily. ‘Because I’m not moving there.’
Ginny put down her carriers. ‘Then where are you planning to live?’
‘I’m staying right here. It’s the obvious solution.’
‘To what problem exactly?’
Rosina waved an impatient hand. ‘To the future of Barrowdean. This Duchard individual will go back to France soon. He doesn’t belong here and he must know it. But—he owns this house and he needs someone to look after it in his absence. Hiring resident caretakers would cost him a fortune, so I continue to live here rent-free and, in return, I make sure Barrowdean flourishes. I’d say it was a no-brainer.’
‘I would too, but my definition of “no-brainer” is rather different.’ Ginny shook her head. ‘How did you dream up this fantasy?’
‘It’s a matter of hard practicality,’ Rosina said sharply. ‘You seem to have forgotten Cilla’s wedding. The marquee and the caterers have already been booked, and well over two hundred people will be coming.’
She nodded briskly. ‘Maybe this dinner party scheme isn’t as ludicrous as I thought. It will give us a chance to talk him round.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ Ginny said drily. ‘It’s tomorrow night—and the Welburns are coming too.’
Rosina frowned. ‘Well, hopefully, they’ll get him to see reason, especially over the wedding.’ She paused. ‘You saw him, did you—the Duchard man? How did he seem when you issued the invitation?’
Dangerous, thought Ginny, as a shiver ran through her. Aloud, she said, ‘Surprised.’
Her mother shrugged. ‘Judging by his appearance, I wouldn’t think many dinner parties come his way. I only hope he knows how to use a knife and fork properly.’ She shuddered. ‘I cannot imagine how Andrew, always so fastidious, ever became involved with some peasant woman.’
Ginny, about to correct her, thought better of it, being unable to guarantee how Rosina might use any information she could garner.
She picked up her carriers. ‘I must see to this food.’
‘Well, come back as soon as you’ve done so. There were a lot more letters of condolence in the post just now, and I find them so painful. Perhaps you’d reply on my behalf, and get them out of the way.’
‘Maybe Cilla could help.’
Rosina sighed. ‘Cilla is lying down with one of her headaches. She’s so sensitive, poor darling, and this awful business has shaken her very badly.’
‘This awful business’ seems to have the right idea, Ginny thought bitterly as she went off to the kitchen. I’d like to shake her myself.
She threw herself into preparations for the dinner party, doing as much advance food preparation as possible, then cleaning silver, washing glasses, and giving her favourite tablecloth a crisp ironing.
By the time she took the tray with afternoon tea, egg and cress sandwiches and a Victoria sponge into the drawing room, Cilla had come downstairs and was sprawled in an armchair.
‘Did you visit this cottage?’ she asked, without turning her gaze from the old black and white movie she was watching. ‘What’s it like? How many bedrooms?’
‘Two reasonably sized and one like a storage cupboard,’ Ginny returned briefly as she set down the tray.
‘Two?’ Cilla sat up. ‘Did you hear that, Mummy? How on earth are we going to manage?’
Rosina glanced up from her magazine with a catlike smile. ‘We’ll worry about that when it happens, darling. I’ll have lemon with my tea, Virginia,’ she added. ‘I need to be careful about my weight.’
‘Well, I’m never sharing a bedroom,’ Cilla said sharply.
‘Do you include Jonathan in that sweeping statement?’ Ginny asked mildly, handing her mother her tea.
Cilla shrugged. ‘Plenty of married couples have separate bedrooms. It’s supposed to make it more exciting. Retain that air of mystery.’ She giggled. ‘And when you are available—it makes men so much more grateful.’
Ginny took her tea and a sandwich and headed for the door. ‘I never knew you were such a romantic,’ she said drily as she left.
She collected the pile of letters from the hall table and took them to the study where Barney was lying by the newly kindled fire. He looked up as she entered and tentatively thumped his tail on the carpet, clearly bewildered as to why he spent so much time in the kitchen quarters these days.
‘You and me both, sweetie,’ she told him as she sat down.
The letters were just as difficult to deal with as she’d suspected. They were imbued with grief for Andrew’s death and warmth and gratitude for his life. She read about his generosity, his fairness, and his personal kindness, particularly to former members of his workforce.
And after the first half dozen or so, she put her head down on the desk and wept a little, wondering where this man had gone, and why he’d changed so much.
* * *
By Sunday evening, winter had returned inside and out, with brief snow showers adding to the general chill.
Because all Ginny’s attempts to reason with her mother over the caretaker scheme had got nowhere.
‘Then at least ask him privately,’ she’d begged at last, but Rosina waved her away.
‘No, it’s a perfect opportunity,’ she declared buoyantly. ‘The Welburns are our nearest neighbours and he’ll want to make a good impression.’
‘Well, I don’t believe Mr Duchard will give a damn about what the neighbours think of him,’ Ginny returned wearily. ‘His home is in France so he won’t be around long enough to care.’
Her mother tutted impatiently. ‘Really, Virginia. Can you please stop being so negative. It’s very depressing.’
And being a widow isn’t? Ginny thought bitterly.
Working companionably and efficiently with Mrs Pel to produce the meal itself lifted her spirits however, and if she could only have put on her ‘Miss Finn’ pinny and simply served the food without having to join the party round the table, she’d have been happier still.
For one thing, she had no idea what to wear.
Most of the clothes in her wardrobe were of the workaday variety, entirely through her own choice. After a day on her feet in the cafе, followed by the domestic demands of Barrowdean, she was glad of the excuse to avoid the local social whirl, such as it was.
Lady Welburn had the right idea, she thought wistfully, generally appearing in a series of long skirts in jewel-coloured velvet run up for her by the village dressmaker, and teaming them with plain black cashmere tops.
She, however, would have to wear the Dress. She took it from the wardrobe and pulled a face at it. Mid-calf-length, long-sleeved and high-necked in taupe jersey, it had been bought for the Christmas before last when she was running short of time and temper.
And she could say with total truth it did nothing for her at all, except fit where it touched.
Never mind, she told herself. The best thing you can be at this blighted party is insignificant. And no more bright ideas either. They have this way of coming back to bite you in the rear.
She showered, dried her hair into its usual smooth bob, put on the taupe dress and went downstairs, knowing that neither her mother nor Cilla would put in an appearance until the last minute.
She checked the fire in the drawing room, and the drinks tray, then went along to the kitchen to fetch the bowls of nibbles.
She pushed open the door, and halted, her throat tightening in shock. Because Andre Duchard was there, perched on the edge of the kitchen table—a thing Mrs Pel never permitted—helping himself from a packet of cashew nuts.
He was wearing the dark suit again, with a white shirt setting off the sombre magnificence of a grey silk tie. That mane of hair was still too long but had at least been combed into some kind of order and, as she saw instantly, her own face warming, he had shaved.
