Loves Choices. PENNY JORDAN
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it was back to Rafael for her hair to be blown dry, Hope openly astonished by the shining waves he coaxed from what she had always been convinced was perfectly straight hair, now subtly shaped to frame her face and cascade over her shoulders.
Ten minutes later, standing in Madame’s shop, her new clothes stored in the shiny black boxes with gold lettering on them, Hope felt her nervousness increase, her fingers itching to touch the silken fineness of her hair. But the habits instilled at the convent went too deep to permit her to fidget or in any way betray her inner anxiety. Outwardly she looked so calm and composed that Madame, who had been apt to dismiss her as a naïve, rather stupid child, revised her opinion. Telling herself that she recognised a well-brought-up young girl when she saw one, she unbent enough to assure Hope that the Comte would not keep her waiting very long.
Almost before she had finished speaking the door opened and the Comte paused, framed there, nowhere near as out of place in the essentially female surroundings as Hope would have imagined. No doubt he was perfectly accustomed to buying his women-friends clothes, Hope thought distastefully. Although in many ways naïve, she was by no means unaware of the relationships entered into by men like the Comte; rich worldly men who could afford to pay for their pleasure and then discard their playthings when they grew bored, with scant regard for any pain they might cause.
The Reverend Mother would have been shocked had she known of the dislike for the Comte which had already taken deep root in her heart, Hope acknowledged, unaware of the picture she made as she waited, unmoving and hesitant, a pale silver girl whose fragility made the man watching her feel that she might break between his hands if he attempted to touch her.
She would serve his purpose even better than he supposed. Sir Henry was a very clever man. With such tempting bait, no wonder he was so sure of persuading Alain Montrachet to take it. An innocent bride for the white hope of the house of Montrachet; a bride to bear the sons who would one day inherit the Montrachet name; a child untouched by man or the corruption of what he had made of his world—a beautiful innocent.
He looked at her, knowing all that he planned for her, untouched by compassion or second thoughts, and Hope, watching him, suddenly realised where she had seen such a face before; an illustration of the young men of Tsar Alexander’s Imperial Guard at the time of the Napoleonic Wars. Among them had been men with just such bone-structures, proudly arrogant, haughtily disdainful, dangerously wild for all their veneer of sophistication.
‘Well, Hope, if you’re ready?’ His tone was so calm and mundane that Hope thought for a moment that someone else spoke, but no, the Comte was holding the door open politely for her, and outside the snarling Ferrari awaited them, while Madame smiled obsequiously as they made their goodbyes.
On the pavement, Hope hesitated. The Comte opened the car door for her, letting her get settled as he put her boxes in the boot, and then went round to his own door. When he was inside, and she had safely managed to secure her seat-belt, she blurted out impulsively, ‘Do you … do you have Russian blood in you, Comte?’
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. Her comment was impolite. The nuns had taught her never to ask personal questions, but somehow the question asked itself.
‘Some,’ he agreed, watching her, making her wonder what thoughts went on behind those green eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’
Haltingly, she told him about the illustrations. ‘So … you are learning Russian? You obviously have a talent for languages. My mother was Russian,’ he explained. ‘Her parents left Russia during the Revolution. Fortunately they were among the lucky ones. My grandfather had investments in Paris and they were able to live comfortably, if not in the same style they had known in St Petersburg; and certainly well enough for my mother to be considered a more than adequate match for my father, and the Serivace title.
‘The Serivace name is an old one,’ he further explained when he saw that she was frowning. ‘It goes back to before the French Revolution, but then I suppose the good sisters have taught you that pride is a sin, as indeed is vanity,’ he added half mockingly, making Hope wonder if he had guessed how bemused she was by her altered appearance and was simply changing the subject.
‘You would be well advised to try and get some sleep, mon petit,’ he added. ‘We have a long drive ahead of us. I do not want to stop until we reach Serivace.’
‘Serivace?’
‘My estate.’ He glanced at her, and then smiled. ‘It is very beautiful. You will like it.’ But he made no mention of her father and when she could expect to be reunited with him, and all at once Hope sensed that to ask this man any questions he did not want to answer would be a foolish and pointless exercise.
‘All in good time, mon petit,’ she heard him murmur as she obediently tried to relax and closed her eyes, giving the disconcerting impression that he had seen into her mind and read the thoughts imprinted there as clearly as though her forehead were a sheet of glass.
HOPE woke several hours later, stiff and uncomfortable, despite the fact that the Comte had reclined her seat for her. He seemed to know by some sixth sense that she was awake and she felt the decrease in speed of the powerful car as he turned to her. ‘Do you feel better for your sleep?’
Hope managed a smile. In point of fact she felt terrible—her head ached and she felt vaguely nauseous, her body stiff from lying too long in the same position.
‘You are not well?’ The Comte frowned as he looked into her pale face. ‘What is it?’
‘A headache,’ Hope told him, ‘but it is nothing. It will soon go.’
‘It’s probably the result of too much excitement,’ the Comte said wryly. ‘I forget that your convent life has not prepared you for the hurly-burly of real life.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I think we had better find somewhere to stay tonight and then continue our journey tomorrow. When I said we would drive straight to Serivace I had forgotten that you are not as used to travelling as I am myself.’
Hope wanted to protest. She didn’t want to spend any more time with the Comte then she needed to.
‘I shall not eat you, mon petit,’ she heard the Comte drawl mockingly above her. ‘The good Sisters should have taught you that it is not always wise to look at a man the way you are looking at me. Your eyes have all the dread and fear of the persecuted for the persecutor, and who would blame me, if, when I look into them, I am tempted to make your fears reality.’ He saw her flinch and smiled. ‘You shrink from shadows, Hope. Do you really fear me so much?’
His mockery brought a flash of rebellion to Hope’s eyes. She was not so foolish that she didn’t know when she was being deliberately baited. The nuns had taught their pupils from an early age to give respect and obedience to their elders, and the fact that the Comte was her father’s friend, coupled with his manner towards her, had made Hope defer to him. Now she faced him with stormy eyes, her slender body braced against retaliation as she said defiantly, ‘I am not afraid of you, Monsieur le Comte.’
‘Just as cautious as a gazelle penned up with a leopard,’ the Comte added wryly. ‘Tell me, how long is it since you last saw your father?’
Not sure what had prompted the change of conversation, but nonetheless grateful for it, Hope told him.
‘Two years?’ His eyebrows drew together, darkly.
‘My father has many business interests, it is not always possible for him to visit me, and … and during the holidays there is not always someone to accompany me …’
‘But now you are no longer a schoolgirl, but a young woman. Have you any plans for your future?’ He was talking to her now more in the manner she would expect a man of his years and sophistication to address her, and Hope did her best to respond, explaining that the training at the convent did not