Accidental Heiress (6 page)

So much wasted time.

Why had she waited so long to come home? If she'd known her father would've been so receptive she would've reached out long ago. But maybe she wasn't ready—maybe neither of
them would've been. Their brief time together felt unfinished.

She'd never lived up to his expectations—she'd been a disappointment to him. The stupid, wild child—the
fille sauvage
who was more of an embarrassment than he could handle.

Of all the regrets, she wished she would have had the opportunity to prove to him that she wasn't a brainless failure. In fact, she was smart enough to get by, to cover up her dyslexia—even though, at the time, she had no idea that's what plagued her—disguising it by pretending not to care about academics. By being footloose, wild and free.

Of course, as far as her father was concerned, the wild streak factored down to silliness, and silly girls were stupid girls, whose place it was to be quiet and not draw attention to themselves since they had nothing intelligent to offer.

Margeaux hated this label, hated being expected to be the pretty girl who was barely seen and never heard. So she'd made sure he not only saw her but heard the noise she created.

Her wild behavior had come from a basic desire to be loved, flaws and all.

Her father was gone and he would never
know this. They would never have the relationship she'd desperately wanted, even when she'd done everything in her power to anger him and ultimately send her away.

This above all else wracked her with grief.

Margeaux leaned into Henri, taking the hand that caressed her arm, clinging to him for dear life.

Somehow, she made it through the service. Colbert would be buried beside Bernadette. A plain slab of marble beside his wife's resting place in the cemetery had been engraved with his name. Another detail Henri had helped Margeaux arrange.

They emerged from the church into the bright, sunny afternoon. The air was crisp and cool; the sky was clear and bright blue, incongruent with the dark, burning hole yawning in Margeaux's heart.

As she and Henri began the walk from the grave to the waiting limo, Henri was talking to his brother Alex about plans for the post-funeral reception. That's when a thin, disheveled-looking man in a wrinkled suit with a necktie that was haphazardly hung about two
inches below his unbuttoned collar approached Margeaux.

“Pardon me, Ms. Broussard. May I have a word?”

Margeaux stopped and turned to him. There was something about the fellow's pock-marked, sunken cheeks and unpolished British accent that tweaked a memory. But she couldn't place him.

“Yes?” she responded, pushing back her hat's black lace veil to get a better look at him.

“Terribly sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Thank you.”
Who was he?

“You've been away from St. Michel for a long time. Are you back for good now?”

She didn't quite know how to answer the question. “I have some personal matters to take care of while I'm here, but— Excuse me, but do I know you?”

From his pocket, the man pulled a small camera and clicked photo after photo. “Rory Malone,
Daily Mail.
”

Oh, no!
She gasped.

Hearing the name was a kick in the gut. This was the reporter who had been responsible for the skinny-dipping photographs of Henri and
Margeaux, and the story about Colbert being such a bad father.

Even though he looked older and harder, she'd never forget that name. The jerk was up to his old tricks. Even on this day that should have been sacred.

“Would you care to elaborate on these personal matters?” he said, sliding the wristband of his camera over his hand and producing a small notebook and pen from his coat pocket.

“No, go away, please. The Crown Council public information officer can give you all the information you'll need for a story about my father's funeral.”

Henri stepped between Margeaux and Malone. “Please have some respect. Leave her alone.”

“Henri Lejardin,” said Malone. “Are you and Ms. Broussard involved again?”

Henri rounded on the creep. “If you have one shred of decency in your hollow soul, you'll go away and leave her alone.”

Henri put a protective arm around Margeaux and walked her to the waiting car. Undeterred, the jerk trailed along behind.

“Ms. Broussard, were you pregnant when you left St. Michel sixteen years ago?”

 

Margeaux heard the deafening silence in the surrounding crowd as she let Henri lead her away.

“Did you have a child with Margeaux?” Sydney feigned a scandalized surprise. She stood in the doorway of Henri's office holding a copy of the
Daily Mail
open to the page where the small article was buried, smirking at the obvious absurdity of the trash.

“Sydney, don't.”

It wasn't true, and Henri refused to even joke about it.

The impudent nature of the article—the fact that the weasel had disrespected not only Margeaux, but the entire principality of St. Michel after the funeral of one of its highest ranking dignitaries—left such a bad taste in his mouth, he hoped he never saw the little rat again. Because he couldn't guarantee the sewer dweller would survive with a full set of teeth.

“Come on, Henri, lighten up,” she teased. “I'm just treating it like the joke it is.”

Henri frowned at her.

“Well, that's almost as inappropriate as the story,” he said. “It's nothing to laugh about. But just for the record, Margeaux wasn't pregnant when she left and we don't have a child. Anything else you'd like to know?”

Sydney had been scarce for the better part of the week surrounding Colbert's funeral. In fact, he hadn't seen her since the dinner at Margeaux's house.

He thought she was giving them room so that they could make all the arrangements for Colbert and get past the burial, but come to think of it, he wasn't even sure if she'd been at the funeral. As an employee of the state, she would have been welcome at the service, of course. In fact, he was surprised she hadn't been right in the thick of things given that the Queen was there. Since they'd been dating, she'd been pushing for an introduction. Because of her over-eagerness and the fact that he wasn't certain how he felt about her, he'd held off.

Now he was glad he'd listened to his gut.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I certainly don't mean to be inappropriate. Do you have a moment?
There's something important we need to talk about.”

He nodded. He had a feeling they were about to have one of those where-do-we-stand talks. Sydney was a fine woman. She deserved someone who loved her with his entire heart. He'd never been able to make that jump from dating to exclusive commitment with Sydney. Though he didn't want to hurt her, he was still in love with Margeaux. It was time he told her.

She closed the door, took a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. She crossed her legs primly at the ankle, rather than going for the maneuver where she crossed one leg over the other for maximum skirt-hiking affect.

Good. This was going to be a serious conversation rather than a battle of flirtatious quips.

“Despite the recent chaos,” she said, “the museum staff and I managed to get the catalogue printed and the show open.”

“Yes, you and your staff did a great job. I apologize for not having commended you sooner.”

She waved away his apology.

Patrons, the Crown Council and the general public deemed the show a success. In fact, it
was a welcome bright spot to offset the loss of Colbert Broussard. Henri had considered delaying the opening, but the Council had unanimously agreed Colbert would want the show to go on.

So it did: a memoriam to him.

“Well, there is one way that you can make it up to me if you feel
that
badly.” She arched her left brow, and Henri opened his mouth to turn the conversation away from the road he was sure she was going to digress.

But Sydney held up her hand. “No, wait, please, Henri. This isn't easy for me to do. So, let me finish.”

She swallowed and he could see her throat work as she did.

“I've been offered another job—in Dallas, Texas, of all places—and I'd like to be released from my duties immediately.”

It was the last thing Henri expected her to say.

She must have seen it in his face because she said, “At this point the show can run itself. My assistant is well versed in the day-to-day operations. And you have Margeaux. Please, Henri, let me go.”

T
he downtown square was abuzz with people. Margeaux, Pepper, A.J and Caroline had to sidestep shoppers juggling multiple bags, merchants sweeping their entryways, and artists painting at easels set up in the middle of the walkway.

As Caroline snapped a photo of a cat perched on the bakery's windowsill, she nearly tripped over a dog trolling for attention in front of the butcher shop.

St. Michel used to be a winter retreat for Britain's elite and famous. Now, the big season
was summer. So, even though the square was well populated, at least they could enjoy it without the traffic jams and other hassles of summer tourism.

“Mmm…do you smell that?” A.J. said.

Margeaux drew in a deep breath and was treated to the tantalizing aroma of chocolate mixed with a hint of cinnamon, vanilla and…something magical. The scent was so tempting it made her mouth water.

If she remembered right, Maya's Chocolate was just around the corner. It was the shop where Sydney had purchased the delicious chocolate she'd brought to dinner that night she came over. Maya's was a legend and after sampling her wares, the girls couldn't wait to go and purchase some to take home.

Pepper inhaled greedily.

“I can almost taste that chocolate. It has to be close by.”

Her friends were leaving the next day, so Margeaux had decided they needed a day of shopping and sightseeing. Plus, she owed Pepper big. After her friend learned that Sydney was interested in moving to Dallas, Pepper saw an opportunity to
relocate
Margeaux's
competition and called her
daddy
and told him she had a friend who needed a job. He said any friend of Pepper's would be an asset to Texron, his billion-dollar corporation in Dallas, Texas, and hired her sight unseen. On one hand, it was good to know that Sydney was out of the picture—at least in St. Michel, and because Sydney had been so grateful for the job, she was sure to be Pepper's new best friend in Dallas.

On one hand, Margeaux was grateful, but on the other, she didn't want to have to remove women from Henri's life in order to be his number one. In fact, she didn't want to be his number one if there was a number two. But right now, Sydney was the least of her worries. She still had to tell Henri the truth—that she had been pregnant before her father sent her off to boarding school. Not even her father had known. So, she had no idea how that tabloid reporter, Rory Malone, had.

The thought of that vile man made her shudder. Henri hadn't said a word about Malone's story. He hadn't asked if it were true. Therefore, she had to believe he'd written it off as tabloid trash.

Now, she had to decide whether to tell him the truth or to leave it alone. Right now, she was leaning toward letting everything be. She'd always imagined that they would have had a son.

Yes, a boy, because she was living proof that daughters were too much trouble. Or at least she'd been. The boy would be about fifteen now. Every once in a while, she'd spy a tall teenage boy with dark curly hair and imagine for a fleeting moment that he was their son.

Of course, the fantasy ended as soon as the boy walked by. It was the most bittersweet way to torture herself, because she hadn't known if the baby was a boy or a girl.

She never would know.

She picked up the pace and led her friends around a tight corner that led them to a street that was more of an ancient alleyway than a road built for anything other than pedestrian traffic.

“Here it is,” Pepper said, pointing upward toward a sign.

They gathered around a window that was adorned with white lace curtains and was brimming with tins and boxes tied with colorful
ribbon. Pyramids of chocolate were arranged on several glass-dome-covered stands. Chocolate-dipped fruit, bonbons, truffles and petit fours were set out in bountiful array on doily-covered trays.

It was a feast for the eyes that tempted Margeaux to press her nose against the glass. It was just like she remembered.

Maybe it was the allure of decadence, or perhaps just the promise of what they'd tasted the other night, but they were drawn to the shop like starving men were pulled to a buffet.

As Caroline held open the glass shop door and they filed in, a wind chime sounded. The sumptuous scent of chocolate tantalized their senses.

“Bonjour!” a lilting voice rang out.

“Bonjour,” they answered in unison.

“You'll have to be our interpreter,” A.J. whispered. “Can you handle it?”

“No problem.” Margeaux had been amazed by how many people in St. Michel spoke English now. It was a good thing because her French was rusty from not enough practice. In fact, even Henri had commented on how little of her accent remained after sixteen years.

During the time she thought she'd never return to her home, Margeaux had purposely tried to lose all traces of her accent. Even during the time she spent in Europe, she'd tried to make herself as American as possible.

The four women glanced around the shop, taking in the molds decorating the walls, the gift baskets artfully arranged on glass shelving, the confectionary displayed in the old fashioned cases and on the marble wrap stand. Then a woman with a blaze of curly, fire-red hair and a demeanor that was nearly as vibrant stepped out from a back room.

“Hello,” she said, again, this time in heavily accented English. “Good morning to you.”

That was Maya. Margeaux would know her anywhere—even from the days when Maya's mother had run the shop and she'd simply been her apprentice.

Maya's broad smile was nearly as warm as the color of her hair. “Someone's in love. I can smell it as strong as a Don Juan rose in full bloom.”

In the span of a heartbeat, Margeaux felt all eyes on her and a blush capable of melting all the chocolate in the shop crept up her throat.

Maya tilted her head to the side and furrowed her brow scanning the four women. Her gaze flickered past Margeaux, then snapped back.

“Congratulations, it's you,” she said. “It's been a long time coming, hasn't it? But no fear, this time you will get it right. But you need to be truthful with him.”

Margeaux froze, but Maya had already moved on. She was smiling apologetically at the others. “No worries, your turns will come in due time. Don't worry, everything will work out fine for everyone. Isn't love a wonderful thing?”

With all eyes on her, Margeaux felt the blush spread to her cheeks. Her thoughts drifted to Henri, who was working today. Even the mental picture of him made her heart beat faster.

You have to be truthful with him.

That could mean many things, she justified. It could mean she should be truthful about her feelings for him. It didn't mean she should tell him about the baby.

“Shame on me. I have not even introduced myself. I'm Maya.” She took Margeaux's hand. “You are Margeaux Broussard, are you not?”

Margeaux nodded.
Oh, boy, had Maya seen Malone's
Daily Mail
piece?

“I am terribly sorry for your loss. The entire world grieves with you. I am honored that you have come to my shop in your time of need. I will do everything in my power to help you feel better.”

Oh. How nice.

If Maya had read his article, that certainly wasn't the reaction Margeaux would have expected.

The others introduced themselves to Maya almost reverently. Rumor had it that Maya's mother had fancied herself a matchmaker. Maybe Maya had that gift, too—as well as psychic ability.

“What may I get for you?”

Warmth seemed to radiate out of Maya's every pore. Margeaux felt every bit as drawn to her as she did the chocolate Maya made.

“We'd like some chocolate,” Caroline said.

“Well, you've come to the right place.” Maya gestured grandly to everything and nothing in general. “Did you have something in mind, or would you like for me to make some suggestions?”

The women murmured, each of them gazing around.

“Perhaps some samples,
oui?
” Maya offered.

The women flocked around the wrap stand, and Maya looked at each of them. “All right, let's see…one at a time.” First, she looked at Margeaux. “You're the easy one since you're already in love and he loves you, too. So, let's start with you.”

The girls squealed.

“I knew it from watching you,” said Pepper.

“I called it the first day when I saw his picture in the magazine,” said Caroline.

“He was in a magazine?” asked Maya. “Is that true? Is he famous?”

“Does it matter?” asked Margeaux, a little uncomfortable by all the attention. Henri had kissed her, he'd been her rock during the funeral, but nothing had been mentioned about the future beyond his comment about them having left a lot undone when they parted. She refused to read too much into that.

Maya smiled. “You've been through a lot, haven't you?”

It didn't take a genius to figure out that. Her
father had been a well-known public figure and a reporter from the past had reared his ugly head asking about issues that hit too close to home.

But there was no way he could know the truth, despite what he chose to print. She had to stand strong.

And there was no way she was going to jump to romantic conclusions about Henri and have her heart broken again.

“My chocolates have medicinal properties,” Maya offered. “The right piece of chocolate can help a person solve their problems and fall in love. This is the one that's right for you.”

She held out a piece of heart-shaped dark chocolate. Margeaux accepted it graciously. Even if it didn't have the medicinal properties Maya claimed, it was still darn good chocolate. Good for the soul.

“This one can help the heart find its way. It's especially helpful when you know what you want, but are afraid to go after it. Go ahead, take a bite.”

With all the others looking on, Margeaux bit into the candy. It was the same chocolate with
cinnamon, spices and rose petals that she'd eaten right before Henri had kissed her.

 

It was challenging for Henri to take time off. Even during the slowest of times he found it hard to get away. He'd been called a workaholic more than a few times in his life with just cause.

This may have been the first time he'd actually made it work so he could leave. But then again, it was the first time he'd had a good reason: Margeaux.

During the time they'd been apart, he'd thrown his heart into his work, keeping an array of women, each more beautiful than the next, lined up for his pleasure. No one had the potential to become serious. Happily single, Henri had kept his little black book in constant rotation. He'd become a master at juggling and somehow managed to keep each and every woman in his life content and coming back for more, yet safely at arm's length.

Sydney had been the closest he'd come to settling, and he hadn't even been able to go through with it with her. She was gone now, headed for Dallas. And though he wished her
well, he'd never been more certain that they'd been all wrong for each other. He'd said it more than once but still maintained that she was a fabulous woman and deserved someone who would love her the way she deserved to be loved.

It also struck him funny that Margeaux had showed up at exactly the right moment—of course, it had been for her father and not for him. But for a moment he wondered if his hesitancy with Sydney had been because he'd somehow sensed Margeaux's return, because deep down he'd always known Margeaux had always been the one for him. He'd never loved anyone else.

Never had and never would.

Now, as he slammed the trunk on his loaded car, he got behind the wheel and drove away from his own home and toward Colbert's to pick up Margeaux to make the trek to Avignon that Colbert had mandated.

As he turned up the long, winding drive, he wanted nothing more than to go away with her, to get away from the hustle and demands of work. It had been wonderful meeting Margeaux's friends. It was wonderful the way
they'd stood by her, coming over here and staying longer than they'd planned after her father had passed.

But he was equally glad that they'd said their goodbyes yesterday, that they'd gone back to Texas so that he and Margeaux could have the time they needed to reconcile the past with who they were now.

He had a feeling that even though they'd grown, they were one and the same as they'd always been.

 

The girls were gone.

They'd left early that morning. After Margeaux had driven them to the airport, she'd come home to an empty house and that's when the magnitude of exactly how alone in the world she was set in.

She'd wasted a good hour wandering from room to room. Though she'd thought she'd reacquainted herself with the house when the girls were there, she hadn't realized just how much of a stranger her childhood home was. It had seemed full of life when her friends' laughter had colored the silence, but without them, the place seemed cold and unfamiliar.
Like a person she used to know, but couldn't remember why she'd once been so comfortable around her.

Adjusting to being alone would simply take time. She knew that, though it didn't make it any easier. So, after she'd packed, she'd gone into the garden to take pictures.

No matter where she was, she felt the most at home behind the lens of her camera. When she'd discovered photography, she'd found a new window to the world. It was always the best approach to getting comfortable with new situations, and rediscovering old ones for that matter.

Even so, she was glad when she heard Henri's car tires crunch the gravel in the driveway outside.

Margeaux left the garden, stashing her camera away as she walked back into the house. Her bags were packed and waiting by the front doors. Before he even had a chance to knock, she was wheeling her suitcase out onto the porch.

“Ready to go?” Henri kissed her on both cheeks. Somehow she found the more formal greeting disappointing compared to the way
he'd kissed her senseless the other night. It was the first time they'd been alone since then, and Henri had been warm toward her, but not with the same passion he'd shown that night. Had it simply been the wine talking? Two old friends seeking comfort in the familiarity of the way things used to be?