Count Maxime's Virgin. Susan Stephens
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better.
‘What’s that sigh for?’ Freya demanded suspiciously as Tara started clearing up Freya’s discarded tissues.
‘Nothing…’ Realising Freya had thought her sigh a complaint, Tara rushed to lay out her sister’s coat and bag.
‘See to yourself,’ Freya snapped. ‘I left that skirt out for you specially. Come on, Tara,’ she chivvied as Tara viewed the tight skirt dubiously, ‘we mustn’t be late. And you can leave those cushions,’ Freya snapped, bringing Tara to a standstill. ‘They don’t need plumping. I don’t know why you bought them in the first place. No one’s going to see them. For goodness’ sake, stop tidying the room. You’ll get all hot and bothered and we don’t want that.’
What Freya did want from tonight made Tara very nervous. She knew she was destined to be a failure, because Lucien wasn’t interested in her, and anything nice he’d said was just him being kind. That hadn’t stopped her daydreams, which had a very dark edge to them, for they contained a lot of kissing and touching, which she knew was wrong.
She wasted some precious time fighting with the back zip on the skirt Freya had lent her, which was at least two sizes too small. In the end, she was forced to give up. Flashing a guilty glance at Freya, who thankfully hadn’t noticed, she left the skirt open an inch or two at the top and folded the fabric over.
‘Ready?’ Freya demanded, snatching up her smart new red patent bag.
Ready to try not to show Freya up, Tara thought anxiously, straightening her tights. She hoped she could manage that much.
‘Damn, it’s so cold in here,’ Freya said, rubbing her arms briskly. ‘Come on, it’s probably several degrees warmer outside.’
‘If your fingers weren’t half frozen you’d have been ready ages ago,’ Tara said, laughing nervously in an attempt to cheer up her sister. She so loved to see Freya smile, but Freya was tense tonight, and Tara didn’t need her sister to tell her that a lot hung on the outcome of their meeting with the two men.
Freya soon confirmed these thoughts. ‘Don’t worry, little sister; I don’t plan to be living here much longer.’
Tara blinked at the horror of being separated from Freya. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean there’s a big, wide world out there with a lot of wealthy men inhabiting it, men who want a woman just like me.’
‘Oh…’ Tara bit her bottom lip nervously. Of course Freya deserved a better future, but as her own future rose like an empty canvas in front of her Tara wondered if she would ever get over being separated from her sister. They were orphans and Freya was the only family she had.
‘You can always stay on here,’ Freya said, continuing to touch up her hair as she spoke. ‘Well, it’s a start for you, isn’t it?’ she added, glancing at Tara. ‘I’ll sign the lease over to you before I go, as, most likely, I’ll be living in the south of France—’
Tara knew it was the life her beautiful sister deserved, even if it left her feeling hollow inside. She brushed these selfish thoughts away. ‘You always think of me.’ She smiled, getting off the bed to give Freya a hug.
‘Mind my make up,’ Freya warned, backing away hastily. ‘Now, listen to me,’ she began firmly. ‘You must make sure that count of yours takes you to his place tonight. He mustn’t see this dump—’
‘He isn’t my Count,’ Tara ventured, ‘and I definitely won’t be going home with him—’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that.’ Freya turned and studied Tara keenly. ‘You might be overweight, but you clean up well…’
‘Not as well as you…’
‘Ah, well…’ Freya sighed with satisfaction as she took one last look at herself in the mirror. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry,’ she exclaimed, spinning on her five-inch heels. ‘We can’t risk anyone poaching our men…’
He was restless as he waited for the two girls to arrive. This outing was a first for him. He never accompanied his brother, Guy, on his hunting expeditions, and yet here he was in a high-class pick-up joint, which his brother had persuaded him was the ‘in’place that season.
After the encounter with the two women that afternoon he hadn’t been able to shake the image of a timid young girl who had wanted to disappear into the shadows. And would have done if he hadn’t coaxed her out of them, he remembered, flashing a glance at his watch, wondering what was keeping Tara. An occasion he had been so sure would bore him had acquired piquancy, thanks to her. Tara Devenish must be at least ten years younger than he was, Lucien reflected, though her sister’s colourful reputation suggested Tara was no innocent. His body warmed at that thought, and right on cue the door of the exclusive supper club opened and in she walked.
The Count of Ferranbeaux drew the attention of the whole room as he rose to his feet. People sensed the dangerous edge to Lucien’s mature elegance and it stopped conversation dead. Lucien was accepting of his physical needs, and after a week of non-stop business meetings even he would have admitted that his libido was in the danger zone, though he could not know that the miasma of testosterone cloaking his muscular frame was almost palpable.
Lucien made a silent note to add a London home to his ever-growing property portfolio. Entertaining in nightclubs wasn’t for him, especially not on an evening like this. Tara was even lovelier than he remembered. She was quirkier and a good deal more outlandishly dressed too. Her pencil skirt had clearly been borrowed from her much slimmer sister, and the way she’d been forced to hitch it up had left it a good four inches short of respectable. Her ample breasts were stuffed for the occasion into a tight boob tube that revealed some tempting pale flesh, which for some reason she was trying to cover with a pale blue shawl. Surely, his cynical self calculated, shouldn’t she be putting her wares on view rather than hiding them away?
He noticed nothing other than Tara as she walked towards him. He felt her aura of innocence, fear and excitement sweep over him, and when she stopped in front of him and gazed up tremulously he reached for her hand. Bowing over it, he raised it to his lips and, as her gaze sought his face, he felt her tremble.
The evening passed in a blur. The Count was at least ten times more attractive and a good deal more worldly-wise than Tara had remembered. Dressed in an impeccable dinner suit with a crisp white shirt, highly polished shoes and fine black socks, he looked like a film star and couldn’t have attracted more attention from all the ladies present had he tried.
Which he didn’t, and that was one of the nicest things about him. Even nicer than that was the way he looked after her. It was a little unnerving to begin with, because he was so much older than she was and her imagination insisted on working overtime, conjuring up all sorts of forbidden possibilities, but somehow he managed to make her relax. Then it was like a fairy tale. In her dreams she had always favoured the dark, flashing Latin looks of a Mediterranean hero, and Lucien Maxime, the Count of Ferranbeaux, or Lucien, as he had insisted she must call him, took Latin to the extreme.
As he turned to order another bottle of champagne, she stole a proper look at him. Lucien was very tall and very tanned, with hair the colour of roast chestnuts. It was thick and wavy, glossy hair, which he wore a little long, and as the evening progressed Tara decided that with the rough black stubble on Lucien’s face, combined with those dark flashing eyes, he looked like a dangerous pirate. A pirate dressed by Savile Row, of course.
‘Are you all right?’ Lucien enquired, sensing her interest.
Better than all right. But as the keen black stare remained fixed on her face she went all wobbly inside and quickly folded her hands primly in her lap. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied politely.
Her simple remark prompted the wickedest look, as if Lucien knew her innocent pose covered some very naughty undercurrents and she gasped as his hand covered hers, though it was barely there for a moment. When he took his hand away she gazed down, certain his print would be branded there. She remained quite still after that, hardly able to believe