Desperate Measures. Sara Craven
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over the apartment with a certain amount of ceremony. It seemed evident from the covert glances she’d seen them exchanging that not only was the marriage itself a shock to them, but that the Giscards considered her the last kind of wife they would have expected Alain de Courcy to choose. Her lack of sophistication and experience must be woefully apparent, she thought bitterly, and if she couldn’t fool the servants, how could she hope to deceive his family and friends?
She managed to contain her sigh of relief when Madame Giscard expressionlessly showed her to her bedroom, a pretty Empire-style room immediately adjoining the one used by Alain himself. In spite of the neutral attitude he had adopted towards her up to now, she had still secretly feared some confrontation over the sleeping arrangements once they were actually married. It was good to know he could be trusted after all.
She requested a light dinner, and was served promptly and without fuss with a cup of bouillon, and a perfectly grilled sole with fresh fruit to follow. Afterwards she telephoned the New York clinic, as she always did, to ask after Gavin. She received the usual response—that it was still too early for any definite prognosis—and after that she was left pretty much to her own devices.
She decided to conduct her own, more leisurely exploration of the apartment without Madame Giscard’s chilly presence at her side. She found the place slightly austere and unwelcoming, with its large, high-ceilinged rooms, and vaguely reminiscent of Lowden Square in its elegant formality. There was nothing in the least homelike about it, Philippa decided, hearing the clatter of her heels on the polished floor. The furniture and curtains seemed to warn, ‘Look, but don’t touch.’ She found herself wondering how much time Alain actually spent there.
But there was one blessedly familiar touch—Gavin’s painting of the bridge at Montascaux which hung over the elegant marble fireplace in the salon. She stood, her hands behind her back, staring up at it. She had loved their time at Montascaux. She sighed soundlessly as she remembered the jumble of roofs on the steep hillside sweeping down to the river, with the ruined château towering above the gorge. They’d rented a house high above the village, with a wood behind it. The house in the clouds, she thought nostalgically. While Gavin painted, Philippa had done her own sketching, then shopped at the small but cheerful market, concocting what she now recognised must have been some weird and wonderful meals for them both. But her father had never complained, she thought, a smile trembling on her lips.
As she turned away, uttering a wordless prayer for her father’s safety and restoration to health, she noticed the exquisite clock which occupied pride of place on the mantelpiece.
Certainly Alain seemed in no hurry to return, she thought. Not that she wanted him to, of course, she hastily reminded herself, but, on the other hand, he could have made slightly more effort to ease her into her new environment. Didn’t he realise how totally strange and isolated she must be feeling? she asked herself with faint resentment.
She tried to watch some television, but found it required more concentration than she was capable of. And a more extensive vocabulary too, she realised uneasily. She would probably have to have some intensive language coaching before she and Alain did any proper entertaining, although she could not imagine herself ever acting as hostess in these frankly formidable surroundings.
In spite of her new hairstyle and new dress, she was still a fish out of water. It was an oddly desolate thought, and her throat constricted suddenly.
Oh, no, she told herself determinedly. You’re not going to cry. You’re just tired and rather fraught after one hell of a day, so you’ll go to bed—and, in the morning, you can start keeping your side of the bargain by getting to grips with this new life of yours.
She was on her way across the wide entrance hall when the telephone rang. For a moment she hesitated in case the Giscards reappeared from whatever fastness they had retired to and thought she was usurping their prerogative, but when its shrill summons went on and on unchecked, she reached out and gingerly lifted the receiver.
‘Alain?’ It was a woman’s voice, low, warm and husky. ‘C’est toi, mon coeur?’
For a second, Philippa felt as if she’d been turned to stone. But what the hell was she surprised about? Alain had made no secret of his proclivities, after all. It was because of them that she was here at all. She just hadn’t expected this kind of confrontation so soon.
She said curtly in French, ‘I’m afraid Monsieur de Courcy is not here, madame.’
‘And who are you?’ Some of the warmth had dissipated.
‘His wife,’ said Philippa, and put down the phone.
PHILIPPA WAS SHAKING with temper, and another less easily defined emotion, when she closed her bedroom door behind her. If the phone rang again, it could burst into flames before she’d answer it, she told herself. Turning a blind eye to Alain’s amours, as required, was one thing, taking messages from them quite another.
She stood still for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to restore her equilibrium. Madame Giscard must have unpacked for her, she realised, as she looked round her. Her toilet things were waiting for her, and one of the new nightgowns Monica had insisted on was lying, elegantly fanned out, across the turned-down bed.
Philippa looked at it with distaste. Its oyster satin and lace had cost more than she’d been used to paying for a whole term’s clothes at art school, she thought with irritation. What a terrible waste of money for a garment no one would see but herself!
The bed itself came in for its fair share of disapproval too. She glanced at the draped and ruched green silk bed-head, and wondered if she would ever be able to sleep amid such opulence.
She shook herself mentally, telling herself she was now being petty. Maybe a warm bath would relax her a little.
The bathroom, needless to say, was the last word in luxury. Philippa, accustomed to fighting for her turn with half a dozen others, was in the seventh heaven as she lay back in the deep, scented water, feeling the tensions slowly seeping out of her.
She dried herself slowly on one of the enormous fluffy bath sheets, then experimented with some of the deliciously perfumed lotions and colognes provided before putting on the nightgown. She looked at herself judiciously in one of the long mirrors, and grimaced. The tiny lace bodice hugged her small high breasts, and each side of the sleek shimmering skirt was slashed, almost to the thigh. With her hair hanging, straight as rainwater, almost to her shoulders, she looked like a child playing at being an adult, she thought disparagingly.
She flicked the soft brown strands away from her face and walked back into the bedroom, halting with a gasp as she found herself face to face with Alain.
He looked almost as taken aback as she did herself, she realised, her face flaming.
He was still wearing the formal dark suit in which he’d been married, but he had discarded the jacket and silk tie, and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice was husky with embarrassment as she looked round vainly for a robe, or some other covering to shield her from the totally arrested expression in his green eyes. ‘What do you want? It’s late.’
He said slowly, ‘I came to wish you goodnight.’
‘Well, now you’ve said it, perhaps you’ll go.’ Her tone was curt, and his dark brows lifted in surprise and hauteur.
‘I also brought some champagne to drink to our future.’ He indicated the ice bucket and glasses waiting on a convenient table.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary.’
‘But it’s traditional—for a wedding night.’
‘But it isn’t—not really—I mean, we’re not …’ Philippa ground to a halt, her flush deepening. ‘Oh, you know what I mean.’
Alain