At The French Baron's Bidding. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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Baron stayed for several more minutes, making polite small talk, then rose. ‘If there is anything I can help you with, Henri has my numbers. As you’ve probably gathered,’ he said, a sudden wicked smile curving his well-defined lips, ‘I am your neighbour.’
‘That much became pretty obvious the other day,’ she muttered dryly, smiling despite her initial desire to dislike him.
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry for the way I greeted you that day. It was rude and bad-mannered. I’m hoping that, to make up for it, you might come and dine with me one day. Perhaps I can bring you up to speed on the area.’ He took her hand and squeezed it in his, holding it slightly longer than necessary, and again Natasha experienced that same pulsating tingle.
‘That would be very nice,’ she accepted, surprising herself as she extricated her fingers from his.
‘Good. Then I’ll expect you tomorrow.’ He gave a satisfied nod.
‘I—I haven’t got my schedule here,’ she mumbled.
‘Oh? Your timetable is already very booked up?’ He smiled down at her, his dark eyes brimming with mirth.
Natasha blushed once more. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Then in that case I’ll expect you at eight tomorrow evening. Henri will drive you.’ With a quick nod he turned on his heel and left the room.
‘Well,’ Natasha exclaimed under her breath as she walked to the window and let out a long huff. The man certainly didn’t lack nerve. Why, he was impossibly authoritarian. And, since she hadn’t refused, she was now stuck with having dinner with him. Which reminded her of her desperate need to buy some clothes. Not that it mattered what she looked like, she qualified hastily; he was just a neighbour, and quite a rude one at that. But still, for some inexplicable reason she wanted to look her best. Perhaps it was part of her new-found duty to her name. After all, she must keep up the family reputation.
What on earth had caused him to invite this dowdy-looking Englishwoman to dinner when he’d had every intention of leaving for Paris immediately? Raoul wondered as he drove down the driveway and out onto the country road beyond. It was nonsensical and stupid to delay his return to town. Particularly to dine with someone as un-chic as his new neighbour. The woman’s hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a hairdresser in years, and her clothes didn’t bear mentioning!
Perhaps, he concluded, shaking his head as he entered the castle gates, it was because he didn’t want to go back to Paris, where he would have to deal with another of Clothilde’s jealous rages.
Slowing the car to a halt in front of his massive oak front door, Raoul glanced at his mobile. Just as he’d thought, there were several missed calls from her. He rolled his eyes and huffed, passing a hand thoughtfully over his bronzed chin. He really must bring this relationship to an end. Apparently staying away for longer periods of time than he usually did wasn’t doing the trick. Raoul sighed and alighted from the car. Like most men, he hated facing disagreeable situations. And Clothilde was certainly that, with her hysterical scenes and childish moods. Why, he wondered, had he got involved with her in the first place?
Stepping into the morning breeze, Raoul watched as the stable boys led two of his favourite horses across the cobblestoned yard, then stood for a moment on the edge of the well, dropping a pebble inside. Why not admit to himself that he’d succumbed to Clothilde’s charm for the same reason he had all the others: because it was easier to date top models who shimmied in and out of his life than commit to anything more serious. At thirty-six he was a confirmed bachelor, and had no intention of changing his single status. Much to the disappointment of several mothers of suitable candidates to become the future Baroness d’Argentan.
His mouth took on a cynical twist. Women were ambitious gold-diggers, as he’d found out to his cost several years earlier. He would not repeat the mistake of falling for one again. And, speaking of gold-diggers, he reflected, making his way towards the medieval castle that had been in his family for centuries, perhaps Natasha de Saugure was yet another one. After all, this sudden arrival of hers was too damned coincidental to be mere fluke. He just hoped she hadn’t frightened her grandmother into having a heart attack.
But as he walked through the great hall Raoul realized with a smile that this was probably a foolish thought. He had known Marie Louise de Saugure since he was a child. If anyone had done the terrifying it could have been her. Still, he felt wary of Natasha. As he would be of any Saugure. Which was obviously why he’d felt the need to ask her to dine: to delve deeper into her motives for coming here in the first place. The more he could glean about her, the better; for the past had taught every member of his family to be wary of Saugure women.
And he was no exception.
CHAPTER THREE
NATASHA tilted her head and took another satisfied look at herself in the gilded three-way mirror. It was a long time since she’d bothered about clothes and looking nice. The last few years, tucked away in the African bush with two pairs of jeans and a few faded T-shirts, had not helped her improve her fashion skills. Still, she’d spent time in Deauville that afternoon and taken the advice of a charming shop assistant who, seeing her in doubt, had helped her select a number of items, discarding others with a disparaging wave of her well-manicured hands, saying that beige did not favour mademoiselle.
Now, as she looked at her reflection, Natasha had to admit that the woman had been right. Everything she’d chosen—from the pretty pink tweed Chanel suit to the sleek trousers and the attractive cream dress she now wore—spelled chic, smart, and made her look very different from the girl who’d stepped off the plane a few days before. Suddenly she’d been transformed from average to head-turning, thanks to the make-over that Martine, the shop assistant, had insisted on. Upon her excellent advice, Natasha had gone to the top hairdresser in town and had her long hair shaped, washed and blow-dried. The effect, combined with the new outrageously expensive outfit, was staring her right in the face, and she was finding it hard to reconcile the woman in the mirror with who she was inside.
Oh, well, she conceded with a shrug, surely she could get used to improvement? Plus, she was damned if she was going to dine at Raoul d’Argentan’s castle looking like something the cat had brought in on a bad day. Which made her wonder uncomfortably, as she turned away from the mirror and stepped into the bathroom to put on some makeup, why he’d asked her over in the first place. Perhaps it was curiosity. After all, everyone must be wondering who she was and why she was here. Although no doubt Monsieur Dubois, the notary, had dropped hints in his various clients’ ears. She could imagine just how intriguing it must be for a small community such as this to have her as the new châtelaine.
Which in turn brought her back to the problem of what she was going to do. Was she really prepared to turn her life around one hundred and eighty degrees and come and live in Normandy, away from the world she knew, to pick up a legacy left to her by a woman who’d denied her that same legacy all her life?
Glancing at the ormolu clock on the pink marble mantelpiece, Natasha realized it was getting late and wasn’t the moment for soul-searching. She’d think about her life later. Right now she needed to get downstairs, where Henri would be waiting to drive her over to the Baron’s.
After a last peek in the mirror, she picked up a smart evening purse and stepped into her new, amazingly comfortable high heels. She took a few tentative steps. Not bad, considering she’d only worn sandals and sneakers for the past three years.
Hoping she wouldn’t totter too badly, Natasha made her way to the grand stairway and accomplished her descent without mishap, glad to see Henri waiting for her in the hall.
As the car drew up at the floodlit drawbridge Natasha caught her breath. The Baron’s château was amazing. Her grandmother’s Manoir was beautiful, but it was also stiff and formal. This place, in contrast, was a maze of twelfth-century turrets, built of heavy stone and obviously impregnable. The men who’d built it were not to be tampered with, was the message it conveyed. All at once she shuddered and wondered about its present owner.
‘It