A Place of Storms (9 page)

Altogether it was a very masculine room, the furniture dark and unadorned, and uncompromisingly arranged around the walls. A faint aroma of the cigarettes he smoked still hung in the air, and the riding breeches and jacket he had worn earlier in the day were flung carelessly across a chair. Andrea eyed them disapprovingly, wondering if she dared hang them in the wardrobe where they belonged, and eventually deciding she did not. The most hopeful piece of furniture seemed to be the dressing table which was lavishly supplied with drawers. She walked over and sank down on to the dressing stool, then biting her lip, she opened the first drawer. But her hopes sank with each succeeding drawer she opened. All they contained was clothes—until she came to the shallow central drawer at the top. If this contained clothes, they must be very valuable ones, for the drawer was locked. Frustrated, she tugged at the handle, wondering if there was any way she could force it open, and then, suddenly and chillingly, she knew she was being watched.

She looked up into the mirror and her eyes met Blaise Levallier's. He was leaning casually in the open doorway, watching her across the room. Her heart came up into her throat. She let her hands drop into her lap and sat there, feeling utterly humiliated and more than a little afraid.

'I have to disappoint you,
mademoiselle
.' He did not even sound particularly surprised. 'All my personal papers are lodged with my lawyer in Clermont-Ferrand. I assume that is what you are looking for—your cousin's letter.'

For one incredulous moment she thought her ears were playing tricks. Then she saw the derisive smile playing round his mouth, and realisation burst over her.

'You know!' she whispered. 'But how?'

He strolled forward. 'I have known from the very first. Did you really think I would make enquiries into your cousin's background and not take the trouble to find out her appearance? You could not be more different.'

'But you never gave the slightest sign…'

He shrugged. 'It amused me to find out how far you were prepared to go with your little masquerade, and exactly what you hoped to achieve by it.' He looked at her dryly. 'You should not have capitulated so readily tonight,
ma mie
. My suspicions were aroused at once.'

She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. 'I'll leave at once,' she told him unevenly. 'Would you be kind enough to allow Gaston to drive me to Clermont-Ferrand?'

His eyebrows rose. 'At this time of night? All the shops will be shut.'

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. 'Shops?'

'You cannot have forgotten so soon,' he said. 'We are to be married the day after tomorrow.'

She sprang to her feet with a little cry. 'You're mad!'

'I am perfectly sane. Nothing has changed. I still need a wife. Your cousin Clare has decided not to fulfil her obligation to me, so I will take you instead, Andr
é
e—that is your name, is it not?'

'Well, I won't be taken,' she said wildly.

'I think you will,' he said calmly. 'My enquiries about Clare also revealed a great deal about you. For example, I know that Clare's father regards you more in the light of a second daughter than a niece. Am I not correct?'

She made no reply and after a pause he continued. 'I think your uncle would be almost as distressed were you to become involved in a public scandal as he would have been over his own daughter. Surely you don't wish to injure his health by upsetting him?'

'There can be no scandal about me.' She lifted her head and stared at him. 'I have made you no promise, in writing or otherwise.'

'There is more than one sort of scandal,
ma mie
,' he said quite gently. 'I can think of circumstances under which even you might be quite glad to marry—even me. But that is beside the point. What I promise you is that if you do not marry me as I have arranged the day after tomorrow, I will drag your family's name through the English courts and newspapers. I have an ace in my hand, after all —Philippe. The English love such stories—what is it you call them? Tug-of-love babies?'

'Blaise, I beg you.' Her eyes swam with sudden tears. 'It would be the death of Uncle Max—the end of everything he's dreamed about.'

'The answer is in your hands, Andrée.' His face was dark and forbidding as he looked down at her. 'Do as I ask, and become my wife so that I can obtain legal custody of Philippe.' He paused. 'Once the legalities have been satisfied and Simone is no longer a threat, perhaps we can consider some alternative.'

'You'll let me go?' Her white face pleaded with him. 'You'll have the marriage annulled as soon as it's possible to do so?'

He looked at her, taking in the trembling lips and the huge tears which threatened at any moment to spill over, and his face was bleak. Then he bent his head.

'Very well,
mademoiselle
. A year of your life—possibly less—in exchange for a child's happiness. Is it a bargain?'

'A bargain,' she echoed tonelessly. Reality had receded and her mind seemed to be revolving in endless circles of aimlessness. Perhaps when she was alone she would be able to think more clearly, come to terms with this intolerable situation. She still could not believe what had happened to her in these few brief moments. A year, she whispered inwardly, he promised it would only be for a year. But at the same time she was aware of the growing conviction pressing down on her that the whole course of her life had changed. A year is a long time, a warning voice told her. Much can happen in a year. But she wouldn't think about that now.

She moved forward, catching her foot on the worn carpet and stumbling a little. He caught her arm, steadying her so that for a brief instant she leaned against him.

And reality returned with that fleeting, scorching awareness. She tore herself away from him.

'Don't touch me!' She hardly recognised her own voice.

Something came and went in the dark eyes so steadily regarding her, but his voice was calm when he spoke.

'You flatter yourself,
mademoiselle
. Believe me, if I had any urge to touch you, it would not be the kind of furtive contact that would disgrace a boy of sixteen. As it is, my sole impulse where you are concerned is to beat you soundly, and I suggest you leave now before I yield to it.'

She hesitated, her face flaming, then hastily retrieving her shoes, went to the door with as much dignity as she could muster.

Her own room seemed like a sanctuary, and she closed the door and leaned back against it with her eyes shut. What have I done? she thought frantically. Oh, God, what have I done?

It hardly seemed possible that she should sleep, yet she did, overwhelmed by her body's utter weariness, and woke to find the room filled with sunshine and Madame Bresson standing over her, holding a large tray.

'Did I oversleep?' Andrea sat up unwillingly, pushing the cloud- of hair back from her face. 'I'm sorry if I have caused you any trouble.'

But Madame's face was wreathed in smiles. For the bride of Monseigneur, no effort could be grudged, she assured Andrea, and her twinkling eyes suggested that Mademoiselle was wise to sleep while she could…

In spite of her utter disinclination to face the day ahead of her, Andrea could not help enjoying the coffee and warm rolls, and it was a relief not to have to consume them downstairs under Blaise Levallier's caustic gaze. She bit her lip. She intended to keep out of his way today, even if it meant spending all her time in her room.

'Mademoiselle wishes me to run her bath?' Madame Bresson had solicitously returned. 'There is not a great deal of time.'

'Before what?' Andrea replaced her cup on the tray.

Madame looked at her as if she had lost her wits. 'Before it is time to set out for Clermont-Ferrand. Monseigneur is waiting to take you shopping.'

For a moment Andrea sat motionless, then she pushed the tray away. 'I've had enough to eat, thank you,' she said curtly. 'And I'm not going shopping. Perhaps you would tell—Monseigneur that I have a headache.'

Madame stared at her, obviously taken aback. 'But,
mademoiselle
, Monseigneur has cancelled appointments to put this day at your disposal. And Clermont-Ferrand is a fine city. You will enjoy the drive and the fresh air will cure your headache.'

'I think I know what is best for my own headache,'

Andrea said with a snap. She knew she was being childish, but it seemed unimportant compared with the prospect of a day spent with Blaise Levallier. 'You can thank Monseigneur—you can even apologise to him if it makes you feel better—but you can tell him I am not driving anywhere with him today. Besides, I've changed my mind. I don't need to do any shopping.'

Madame, her feathers obviously ruffled by this sudden intractability on the part of her future mistress, picked up the tray and made for the door, her back speaking volumes of disapproval.

Andrea turned on to her stomach and punched moodily at her pillow. Blaise knew perfectly well why she had wanted to go into Clermont-Ferrand. The only reason he persisted in referring to the trip was in order to torment her with her own helplessness. Well, he would not have the pleasure of seeing her squirm!

She folded her arms and rested her cheek on them, staring unseeingly in front of her. She would have to write to Clare now, but could her volatile cousin be relied on to accept the situation and not make exactly the sort of trouble they were trying to avoid? She would have to make it more than dear in the letter that she had agreed to this incredible marriage only for Uncle Max's sake, and that she would be free again once a year had passed. And she would also have to write to her employers, telling them that she would not be returning after her holiday. They wouldn't be very pleased, she knew, and it was unlikely that they would want her back once this period of servitude was over. She sighed, conscious of a curious feeling of desolation. It was one thing to tell herself that she had got herself into this mess with her eyes open, and quite another to come to terms with the situation. And one increasingly disturbing aspect of this was her own attraction to Blaise Levallier. It was easy enough to tell herself that she hated him, and recount the more than adequate reasons for doing so, but far less simple to dismiss the trembling awareness he aroused in her. And the prospect of spending perhaps a year living in the comparative intimacy of the same house frankly terrified her.

She gave the ring she wore a brooding glance. Almost against her will, her fingers curled sensuously into the palm of her hand as she recalled how his mouth had lingered against her flesh. But that, she thought, was something she needed to forget and quickly too if she was to have any peace of mind at all.

There was a knock at the door, and she twisted on to her side, staring at it. Surely this wasn't Madame Bresson with yet another attempt at persuasion, she thought, her mouth pursing impatiently as she called '
Entrez
.'

But it was Blaise Levallier who strode in, his tall figure taut with anger as he halted a few feet from the bed and regarded her grimly.

'For how much longer do you intend to keep me waiting,
mademoiselle
?' His tone was icy.