Loves Choices. PENNY JORDAN
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it is important that they are able to conduct themselves properly.’
‘But you are the exception to the rule?’ the Comte prodded. ‘No marriage has been arranged for you?’
Hope’s revolted expression gave her away. ‘So what are your plans for your life? Do you expect to act as your father’s hostess?’
Hope did have some hazy idea that this was what might happen to her. Her own feeling was that, having placed her in the convent, her father had turned his mind to other matters. As an English girl, the thought of an arranged marriage was totally abhorrent to her, and she had often wished rebelliously that her father had allowed her to have a more normal upbringing. Perhaps now she would be able to persuade him to let her go to college, to gain some commercial skills.
‘What do you do, Comte?’ Hope questioned politely, remembering the Sisters’ lectures on conversation. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and Hope hated him for laughing at her.
‘That is very good, mon petit,’ he mocked, watching her fingers tighten on her knife and fork. ‘But it is customary to show a little more enthusiasm. Your stilted enquiry reminds me of a child reciting its lessons. However, I shall answer you, since conversation, like any other skill, only comes with practice.’
For some reason his words made Hope remember how he had kissed her. Was that another field in which he found her lamentably lacking? What did it matter if he did? she asked herself crossly.
‘As I have already told you, my mother was Russian. My father’s family owned vineyards near Beaune. Some of the wines we produce are what is known as Premier Cru.’ He saw Hope’s expression and smiled. ‘Ah, so the Sisters have taught you something about the world, mon petit?’
‘I know of the great vintages, the classifications for wine.’
‘So! You will understand then when I tell you that Serivace wines are Premier Cru wines. This was so in my grandfather’s time, as it is during mine. I have other estates, near Nice, which I visit during the summer; during the winter I stay in Paris where I have an apartment. I am considered a moderately wealthy man, not perhaps wealthy enough to merit one of the docile doves of your convent as a bride, mon petit, but certainly no pauper.’
‘You aren’t married, then?’
When he shook his head, Hope asked hesitantly, ‘Do you have any family?’
Was it her imagination or did he pause fractionally before answering? Whatever the case, there was certainly no trace of hesitation in his voice when he responded firmly, ‘None. One day I shall marry—I owe it to my name to ensure that there will be someone to follow me, but that day has not arrived yet.
‘It is a tradition in our family that the men do not marry early. My father was forty when he married my mother.’ Just for a moment, with the lamplight casting shadows along the high cheekbones, he looked sinister and withdrawn, more Russian than French, and Hope’s heart beat fiercely as she acknowledged that no matter how sophisticated he appeared, somewhere inside that sleekly suave covering was hidden all the ruthless passion of his Russian ancestry. ‘What is the matter, ma jolie?’
Hope hadn’t realised that he was watching her, studying the pensive thoughtfulness of her eyes and the vulnerability of her mouth.
‘Nothing—I was just wondering about my father,’ she told him huskily. ‘It is so long since I have seen him.’
‘And you fear that you will meet as strangers?’ he asked perceptively. ‘Do not. I am sure you are all that your papa hopes you will be—and more,’ he added almost beneath his breath, ‘much, much more,’ leaving Hope to puzzle over what he had said as she picked at her vanilla dessert and watched him eat cheese and biscuits, fascinated against her will by the lean masculine fingers; the taut planes of his shadowed face.
‘It is time you were in bed,’ he announced eventually. ‘You are falling asleep in your seat. Such a baby still—would you like me to carry you to bed and kiss you goodnight?’ He caught the tiny fluttering movement of rejection she made and laughed softly. ‘How very confusing it is, isn’t it, little one? The good Sisters tell you one thing and your body tells you another.’ He stood up and came round to stand beside her, bending to take her in his arms as though she weighed no more than a child, carrying her to her bed, her face pressed into the curve of his shoulder, her senses absorbing the scent and feel of him as he pulled back the covers and placed her carefully on the bed. He folded the covers back over her, the lean fingers of one hand resting briefly on the pale flesh of her shoulder before they were withdrawn and he was gone.
After the door had closed behind him, Hope didn’t know whether it was relief or disappointment that touched her body so achingly. But surely it must be relief? She couldn’t have wanted him to kiss her again!
‘If you are now ready, I suggest we continue our journey.’ They had breakfasted on soft, warm rolls and fresh apricot jam, and Hope felt as though she could never eat another thing. Today she was wearing a pleated skirt with a toning blouson top in soft green silk. Her hair had retained its new style and she had found it easier to apply her new make-up than she had anticipated, any nervous trembling of her fingers surely more due to the thought of coming face to face with the Comte again rather than anything else.
In the event she need not have worried, the half-frightening, taunting man she remembered from the evening had been banished and in his place was a smiling, almost avuncular man she couldn’t recognise at all.
They drove all through the morning, the tapes the Comte inserted into the machine on the dashboard obviating the need for any conversation, allowing Hope to concentrate on the scenery, lulled by the music.
At lunchtime the Comte pulled off the main road and drove into a small, French market town, parking the car on the forecourt of what he told her had once been a famous coaching inn.
The building was old, wreathed in wisteria, heavy racemes of violet-purple flowers hanging from its branches. The owner led them to their table himself, hovering solicitously to proffer advice on the menu. At first Hope supposed this was because the Comte was known to him, but when he had disappeared to greet some other diners, the Comte explained to her that lunch was often the main meal of the day in French households and that this particular auberge had a particularly good reputation.
‘Since we are travelling again this afternoon and cannot drowse off the effects of a heavy meal, I suggest we confine ourselves to three courses,’ he added with a humorous smile. ‘Would you like me to choose for you?’
Shaking her head, Hope reached for the menu. The Sisters had taught their pupils well, and when she had made her choice and conveyed it to the waiter in correct and fluent French she had the gratification of knowing she had not let them down.
The food was everything Hope had expected it would be and she had not made the mistake of ordering anything too rich or heavy. Meals at the convent were always light, but carefully balanced, and Hope found that she had automatically chosen with the same careful precision. When she shook her head over a sweet the Comte raised his eyebrows a little. Hope had been surprised to see that he too was equally selective and that his plate, while it held more food than hers, showed a healthy regard for the nutritional value of food rather than simply its taste.
‘You surprise me, mon petit,’ he commented when the waiter had withdrawn. ‘I thought a sweet tooth was the prerogative of the very young.’
‘Ice-cream and sticky cakes, monsieur?’ Hope queried with a smile, shaking her head as she explained the lectures all the students were given by the convent’s dietician.
‘So, what you are saying is that we are what we eat?’ he asked when she had finished. ‘That is true to a large extent, but one must make allowances for other … desires. One is not simply a machine functioning on fuel, one must allow for the needs of the senses.’
‘You didn’t drink any wine with your meal,’ Hope pointed out. ‘Nor did you have any rich sauces.’
‘The