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‘Who was that?’
Madame pursed her lips. ‘Dominique Lavaux.’ She added, ‘Her uncle owns a parcel of land adjacent to our domaine. She is also the godchild of Mademoiselle Chaloux.’
Well, you asked, thought Ginny. And now you know.
Back at the château, she admitted mendaciously to the headache and accepted the tisane with its pleasant, slightly smoky flavour that Madame brewed for her before retiring to her bedroom.
She removed her coat and kicked off her boots, then lay down on the bed, on top of the covers.
Where something—whether it was the tisane or the walk, the fresh air or the deep solid comfort of the mattress—persuaded her taut body and troubled senses to relax, assuring her that it would do no harm to close her eyes and drift—just for a moment—in the pale afternoon light.
But when she awoke, it was to the glow of the lamps that flanked the bed, signifying that hours rather than minutes had passed. Moreover, she realised with alarm, she was no longer alone. Because Andre was sitting in an armchair a few feet away, his face brooding, even bleak as he stared down at the floor, his hands loosely clasped round his knees.
She was struck by the sudden unexpected agony of wanting above all else to go to him and take him in her arms, holding his head against her breasts as she stroked his hair and told him everything would be all right.
Which, of course, it never could be, because he looked like a man realising what an afternoon’s folly in an English hotel room had actually cost him, and struggling to come to terms with his bitter regrets.
She stirred uneasily, trying to sit up, and his head lifted sharply.
He said, ‘Your headache—it has gone?’
‘Yes, I—I think so.’ She bit her lip. ‘Is that why you’re here—to ask about my health?’
He said slowly, ‘No, that is not the only reason.’
She thought, aware of a swift stammer in her heartbeat, Oh God, he’s going to tell me that if I say again I want to leave, he won’t prevent it any longer.
And why is it only now—now—at this moment that I know it’s the last thing in the world I want to happen?
And if I leave, however will I be able to bear it?
Aware that she was holding her breath, she waited for him to speak.
He said haltingly, ‘Virginie, I wish to ask your pardon for last night. I had no right to behave as I did, having given my word, and I am ashamed. Please believe that I intended no more than to offer you some comfort.’
He paused, his eyes searching hers with a kind of desperation, and she knew that he had more to say but could not find the words.
Words that could destroy her.
She said quickly, ‘I’m sorry too. I was—upset. I’d also had more than usual to drink. But I would have come to my senses before any more harm was done.’
‘Harm,’ he repeated. ‘Is that how you regard what has happened between us since we met?’
‘What else?’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘We made a terrible mistake, but we don’t have to wreck our lives because of it.’
‘Nor should we damage the future of the child you may be carrying.’
‘Even if that’s true, I know that to stay here and marry you would be a disaster.’
The dark brows lifted. ‘How can you be so certain—and so soon?’
How indeed? she thought desperately. What argument could she possibly produce as a clincher?
‘Because, when you came to England, marriage must have been the last thing on your mind.’
His mouth twisted. ‘It has been mentioned. But, like most men, it has not been a priority for me so far.’
She took a deep, steadying breath. ‘And because we don’t—love each other.’
‘Love?’ Andre repeated the word musingly, as if he had never heard it before. ‘When did that become part of our bargain?’
Bargain, she repeated silently. Deal—trade-off—call it what she might, how could she ever have thought it would be enough? Or, from that first moment, had she been secretly hoping for so much more?
Oh, you idiot, she thought. You pathetic little fool.
She swallowed. ‘You—you’re right. It didn’t. I expressed myself badly, so I’ll try again. I’m not your type, and you’re certainly not mine.’
The dark brows lifted. ‘So, what is your type? The estimable Monsieur Welburn?’
‘If that’s what you want to think.’ She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘What I really mean is—I don’t want you.’
‘Vraiment?’ His tone expressed polite interest. ‘And yet we both know that if Gaston had not interrupted us, we would have spent the night here in that bed and you would have woken in my arms this morning.’
