A Place of Storms (11 page)

He raised his eyebrows. 'I think it is entirely suitable. Tomorrow you will look as the world expects you to look. Don't look so anguished,
ma mie
. Regard it as a costume for a carnival that you wear for a few hours and then discard for ever.'

There was no way that she could convince him that this was a betrayal of all this lovely dress was meant to represent. He would simply accuse her of being over-emotional, and he could be right. Why couldn't she regard it all as he did, as a masquerade in which she was required to act a role for a few hours? Why couldn't she crush this growing conviction that it wasn't going to be as simple as all that?

When the striped white and silver boxes had been bestowed in the car. Blaise suggested abruptly that they should do some sightseeing. They saw the Place Delille with its charming fountain, where Peter the Hermit preached the First Crusade, and the great black Gothic cathedral towering over the older part of the city. Andrea found it spectacular but oddly oppressive, though this might have been attributable to her emotional state. They had lunch at Royat, on the terrace overlooking the central gardens, and she was glad to be able to relax, and enjoy the sunshine and the wine. Royat had been a fashionable spa in the nineteenth century, and gazing up at the elaborate facades of the hotels, Andrea thought it would not be difficult to imagine the Empress Eugenie with crinoline and parasol descending the steps, acknowledging the bows of the crowd. She smiled at her own fancifulness.

'What amuses you?' Blaise was lounging back in his chair, his eyes narrowed slightly against the sun.

'It doesn't matter,' she said hurriedly, slightly ashamed of allowing her thoughts to wander on such trivial lines. Anyone would think she didn't have a care in the world.

'As you wish,' he shrugged, his lips tightening fractionally.

She wished then that she had told him. Relations were sufficiently strained between them now without him believing she was deliberately keeping things from him. She gave an inward sigh. Even when they had been looking round the cathedral, conversation between them had been kept to a minimum and restricted to purely impersonal subjects. How long did he intend this to go on? Had he no intention of talking about themselves—their future, or did he merely expect the marriage to proceed the following day without any further discussion? It seemed frankly incredible. She stole a sideways glance at him. He was smoking a cigarette and watching the blue smoke curl into the air, as if it were his only concern.

Although it was late in the season, the terrace was busy, and Andrea found herself at first idly and then more intently assessing her chances of losing herself among the chattering groups. Blaise had not yet paid for their lunch. This could delay him for a few minutes, so if she made the excuse that she needed to find a public convenience… A sudden feeling of excitement possessed her. She would go to one of the hotels and book a room. He would be unlikely to look for her there. He would imagine that she would want to get out of Clermont-Ferrand as fast as possible.

She saw that he was looking round for the waiter and rose with a slight yawn.

'Will you excuse me for a moment?' she said.

'Of course.' He rose with her, picking her handbag up from the table and passing it to her. His voice was cool and courteous. 'In case you should be thinking foolish thoughts,
ma mie
, I should perhaps warn you that I took the precaution of abstracting your passport from your bag while you were trying on dresses.'

It took a monumental effort to conceal her chagrin. She said coolly, 'Quite unnecessary,
monsieur
. I am resigned to my fate.'

'I hope you are.' His face was unsmiling. 'Perhaps it will not be the ordeal you imagine.'

Suddenly she was angry, and desperation lent an added bite to her words.

'And what ordeal do you fear, Blaise? Being jilted a second time?'

He was very pale beneath his tan, but she went on relentlessly, 'Does it make you proud,
monsieur
, to know that the only way you can persuade a girl to marry you is by blackmail—by threatening to destroy the people she loves. Will it do your family credit, do you suppose?'

'What are you hoping for?' he asked between his teeth. 'That I'll throw you your passport and tell you to go to hell out of my sight? If so, then I have to disappoint you,
mademoiselle
. Once you're my wife it will be my pleasure to teach you some manners.'

Andrea's cheeks were flaming, and she was acutely conscious of the curious glances being cast at them from neighbouring tables.

'Can't we go on with this discussion somewhere less public?' she appealed in a low voice.

'There is nothing more to discuss.' A flick of his fingers summoned the waiter, and the bill was paid. Then they were moving off, his hand gripping her arm.

'You're hurting me,' she protested, trying to pull free.

'I wish it was your neck,' he said grimly, and she flinched at his tone.

'So do I.' Sheer bravado drove her on. 'At least then I'd be rid of you!'

They were in the shadow of a tall hedge. He turned suddenly, pushing her against it so violently that she felt twigs snapping against her back, and the scrape of stems and dried leaves through the material of her suit.

'I said I'd teach you manners when we were married.' He grated the words at her. 'I see the first lesson must start now.'

He took her by the shoulders, jerking her towards him so hard that the protest she was going to make was choked off in her throat. Then his mouth came down on hers, and all protest was useless.

When at last he let her go she was trembling so much that she felt she wanted to faint, or be sick. She had been kissed by him in mockery. Now she had been kissed in anger, if one could call that brutal, unrelenting assault on her mouth a kiss. If he wanted her to feel degraded, then he had succeeded, she thought, lifting her hand instinctively to her bruised and swollen lips. And the worst of it was she knew that if she had sensed the slightest glimmer of genuine passion from him, as opposed to violent anger, then she would not have been able to stop herself from responding to it. The briefest sign from him that this was not solely punishment, and her lips would have parted for him voluntarily.

'When you're ready,
mademoiselle
. Gaston will be waiting for us.' With insulting casualness, he brushed some leaves from her hair, his fingers tightening round one silken chestnut strand until she was forced to look up at him. His voice roughened. 'Don't provoke me again, Andrée.'

He took her arm and began to walk her along the path again.

When they arrived back where the car was parked, Gaston was waiting with a Land-Rover. Andrea stood in silence while the dress boxes were transferred from one vehicle to the other, and then she climbed into the passenger seat beside Gaston while Blaise drove the hired car back to the garage it had come from. She was glad of Gaston's phlegmatic company. If he noticed her bruised mouth and generally dishevelled appearance, he gave no sign, seeming content to whistle unrecognisable tunes through a gap in his front teeth.

The return journey to the chateau was quite a different matter. Andrea was obliged to sit squashed between the two men while Blaise drove, and she was acutely conscious of his proximity. What desultory conversation there was related solely to farming matters, and was conducted in French across the top of her head—as if she was a bale of hay, she thought indignantly, flexing her shoulder muscles.

She was cramped and uncomfortable when the Land-Rover finally came to rest in the courtyard, and she climbed down stiffly ignoring Blaise's hand outstretched to assist her.

'Do you wish Gaston to carry your purchases up to your room?' He detained her peremptorily.

It would have given her the utmost pleasure to tell him precisely what he could do with all of them, but she did not dare risk another explosion of his wrath, so she thanked him coldly and walked on ahead.

She found Madame Bresson in the kitchen looking harassed. She had been cleaning a mound of silver, and washing glasses she had unearthed from one of the large cupboards, and Andrea realised with a shock of dismay that these preparations must be for the guests who would presumably be returning to the chateau after the wedding for some kind of reception. She had imagined the whole affair would be so much more private, and she tried rather stumblingly to explain this to Madame Bresson. But Madame obviously did not comprehend, and began to reassure Andrea, under the apparent impression that she was simply suffering from bridal nerves. Andrea excused herself at last, claiming that her day in Clermont had exhausted her, which was not so very far from the truth, and that she would forgo dinner, and have an early night instead. She had half expected Madame Bresson to protest, but the housekeeper obviously saw nothing strange in her decision.

The boxes containing her dress and veil and other things were piled neatly on the bed, and Andrea surveyed them moodily as she kicked off her shoes. Much as she wanted to ignore them, she knew she would have to take that lovely gown out of its wrappings and hang it up. It didn't deserve to spend a night in creases. She put it away in the wardrobe on a padded hanger, and laid the coronet and veil along her dressing table, glancing at herself with sudden self-criticism in the mirror as she did so. A light make-up would suffice, she thought, and she would put her hair up under the coronet. A quick pang of regret smote her. On the rare occasions when she had imagined her own wedding, it had always been with her family there—Clare to act as bridesmaid, and Aunt Marian to advise her on colour schemes and hairstyles. She had never envisaged that she would be totally alone like this. Her throat was aching suddenly and her eyes stung, and throwing herself across the bed, she gave way to a fit of desolate weeping.

When it was over she lay for a long time, the damp ball of her handkerchief pressed against her mouth, and tried soberly to face the facts. The trouble she was in she had brought upon herself. Tomorrow she was to be married to a man who had demonstrated his utter indifference to her as a woman, and had made it plain she was merely being used by him, Unfortunately, and she resolutely smothered a little choking sob, she did not echo his indifference. It was ironic to think how she had always despised women who were ruled by their senses and emotions, and now she was one of them, as vulnerable as any. One essential was to keep this vulnerability from Blaise. He must never know the aching, trembling need he could rouse in her almost at his lightest touch, or his total cynicism might prompt him to take advantage of the fact that she was there, his wife and available. A union like that, she thought, simply fulfilling a physical need, would be the ultimate in degradation. All she could do was keep out of his way as much as possible and avoid provoking him as she had done today when she was forced to be in his company.

She was half-dozing through sheer emotional weariness when she heard the knock on the door. She didn't reply. It was bound to be Madame Bresson coming to persuade her to have some dinner, and if she kept quite still, Madame would, with luck, assume she was asleep and go away again. She bit her lip with irritation when she heard the door open quietly and someone enter the room. Then her body went rigid as she realised that the step she could hear approaching was certainly not Madame's. She made herself lie still, and breathe slowly and deeply, thankful that her back was turned away from the door.

It was torture, lying there in the still room, knowing that he was standing looking down at her and waiting for him to say something. She tried to control a nervous swallow, afraid that he would guess she was only counterfeiting sleep. After what seemed an eternity, he turned away and she heard the door dose, equally softly. It was a long time before she dared turn around. She had the absurd impression that he might be still there, waiting for her to reveal the fact that she was awake and aware of his presence, but the room was empty in the evening shadows. She sat up with a little shiver. She would be more comfortable if she undressed and got under the covers. She put out her hand listlessly for her folded nightdress and paused. There was another package lying on the bed.

Andrea was bewildered. For a moment she wondered if she had simply overlooked one of the packages Gaston had brought upstairs, but a moment's rational thought convinced her that this could not be the case and that she had unpacked all the things she had chosen in Clermont and put them away. So what was this?

She picked it up. It was a flat parcel, and very light, tied elegantly with ribbons. Was this why Blaise had entered her room so quietly, to leave this on the bed beside her? It seemed incredible and totally out of character. But then what did she really know about his character anyway? she asked herself, recalling the bruising pressure of his mouth on hers in the gardens at Royat.

At last she could not restrain her curiosity any further and she untied the ribbons and unfolded the paper wrappings. Her hands seemed suddenly full of filmy lace, and as she turned wonderingly towards the window, she realised with an indrawn breath that what she was holding was a nightgown, white and sheer as gossamer with slender ribbon shoulder straps, and a matching ribbon drawstring giving Empire line emphasis to the bustline. For a moment she stared down at it unbelievingly, then with burning cheeks she thrust it back into its wrappings.

What did he mean by buying her so intimate a gift? she asked herself, dry-mouthed at the implications which presented themselves. How did this transparent piece of enticement fit in with the business arrangement he had promised her? Oh God, what was she getting herself into with this marriage? Just as she thought she had got it all sorted out in her own mind, he had come and upset all her preconceptions and decisions. She was a prey once more to all her earlier doubts and misgivings. Was this gift an unequivocal warning that she could not rely on his previous undertaking to forgo his marital rights? And how would her own strength of will withstand such an onslaught?