Christina Hollis - The French Aristocrat's Baby

A tingle of excitement ran along every nerve in her body.

Nice girls like her weren’t supposed to have irresistible physical yearnings like this. Nice girls stayed at home, minding the village shop. They didn’t dress in midnight-blue velvet and gallivant about in front of foreign aristocracy. Gwen knew her family would be speechless at the mere thought of it. They had made enough fuss when her eldest brother Glyn married a girl from Bristol and moved across the river.

Mrs Williams’ sisters had always warned her that Gwen had a wayward streak, and with an unusual surge of devilment Gwen wondered if they might be right…

Christina Holliswas born in Somerset, and now lives in the idyllic Wye valley. She was born reading, and her childhood dream was to become a writer. This was realised when she became a successful journalist and lecturer in organic horticulture. Then she gave it all up to become a full-time mother of two and run half an acre of productive country garden.

Writing Mills & Boon® romances is another ambition realised. It fills most of her time, in between complicated rural school runs. The rest of her life is divided among garden and kitchen, either growing fruit and vegetables or cooking with them. Her daughter’s cat always closely supervises everything she does around the home, from typing to picking strawberries!

You can learn more about Christina and her writing at www.christinahollis.com

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By

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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AN awful racket bounced Gwen out of bed before she was fully awake. Stumbling around her bedroom in the afternoon heat, she tried to find her clock. When she did, it was silent. The ringing was coming from somewhere else. It must be her mobile. In horror, Gwen realised she had fallen onto the bed too exhausted to switch on her alarm. She had overslept, and was already at least an hour behind schedule. Now it sounded as if one of her few remaining members of staff was phoning about the evening shift. With growing dread, she searched frantically for her phone. Finally she tracked it down. It was in the pocket of her apron, at the bottom of her washing basket.

‘Gwenno! What took you so long to answer the phone, love?’

For once, Gwen was glad her mother rang every day.

‘Mam! It’s great to hear from you, but this time I really can’t stop—I’ve got my hands full, getting ready for this big flash party tonight. I was terrified you were one of the kitchen staff, calling in sick!’ She gasped, and then made a face. Blurting out the truth to her mother like that was a big mistake. Everyone back at home had to go on thinking she was making a success of her new life. They had to…‘That is—I mean…I’ve got more than enough people working for me, but each of them has their own speciality. I can’t afford to lose a single person!’ She finished in a rush, her fingers crossed. In reality, Gwen was desperate to cut costs. Rather than employ enough staff, she was currently doing the work of at least three people. Trying to save money was costing her a lot. She was so exhausted, there had been a real danger she might have dozed off during the party preparations. That was why she had dashed home to snatch a twenty-minute nap in the middle of the day. She checked her watch, and discovered with horror she had been asleep for nearly an hour and a half.

‘My God, I should be at the restaurant! We’ll never open in time! I’ve got so much to do!’

Dashing around the room, she tried to gather together her clothes for the evening with one hand, while the other clamped the mobile to her ear.

Gwen’s mother had an answer for everything. This disaster was no exception.

‘You’ve told us all about your dozens of staff, Gwenno. Let them start earning all that money you pay them!’

‘Dozens of staff? Er…yes, yes, of course I have…it’s just that I like to do as much as I can myself. It’s my own fault for loving the job so much. I’m still not used to being sole owner of the restaurant, and sometimes it gets a bit much,’ Gwen said quickly, the reply sounding horribly false to her own ears. Was that a tinge of suspicion she heard in her mother’s voice?

‘We didn’t lend you all that money to run yourself into the ground, Gwenno. It was supposed to help you become Le Rossignol’s chef-patron.’ Mrs Williams said each foreign word carefully. ‘See? We’re all practising for when we come over to visit you!’

Gwen’s heart hit the floor, but she managed to manufacture a careless laugh.

‘Great! I can’t wait to see you all again. It’s been months!’

‘It’s been four months, three weeks and five days since you finally managed to buy the restaurant,’ Mrs Williams said. She sounded almost as proud as Gwen felt, when she had the energy. ‘And there was me and your dad worried to death you’d given up a good steady future with us in the shop to chase some silly dream!’

Gwen wanted to cry, but didn’t dare. The thought of her family discovering the truth behind her supposedly successful new life in Malotte was more than her pride could stand. She was adamant she could make a success of the business, but times were hard. Every booking had to be treated with great care. Much to Gwen’s disgust, that included tonight’s reception for a hideous countess. The horrible woman only wanted to make a good impression on her rich stepson. She wasn’t interested in Gwen’s skill or the restaurant, merely in her own reputation.

Gwen could only hope the man in question would be more appreciative.

Etienne Moreau’s day was equally busy, but his timetable ran according to his own schedule. That was exactly as he liked it. Even his social life now ran like clockwork, but he was increasingly finding socialising to be a sick joke these days. People considered his name a big attraction on a charity invitation list, so he sometimes felt obliged to give them what they wanted. If only I weren’t always surrounded by apple-polishers , he thought, scrubbing long, strong fingers irritably through his thatch of dark hair. A proper conversation wasn’t so much to ask, was it? He disliked having to be constantly on the lookout for lame-duck projects, or women on the make.

The country’s grandest money men had invited Etienne onto their board of directors. Their idea had been to simply use his title to impress their shareholders, nothing more. Within days they had discovered their mistake. Etienne had been born into privilege, but that had never been enough for him. His late father had considered work undignified, but Etienne had never been satisfied to be simply a name on some headed notepaper.

He sighed. In exactly ninety minutes’ time, a servant would be ready to step forward as Etienne descended the main staircase of his chateau. The man would insert a freshly picked carnation into his master’s buttonhole before opening the front door. It had been the same in his late father’s time, and for as far back as anyone could remember, so Etienne, albeit reluctantly, humoured his faithful staff. In one brief, heart-stopping moment a couple of years ago, he had imagined his own son and heir taking over, in his turn.