Susan Stephens - Susan Stephens Selection

‘You’ve done all you can here,’ he pointed out.

Glancing towards the cottage, Kate saw a group of about a dozen people clustered around Megan, hanging on her every word. She needed time to think—to work out how to save the situation. ‘But there’s the clearing up to do,’ she argued.

‘Don’t you think Madame Duplessis can take care of that?’

Now she saw that a number of staff from the château had arrived and were setting everything straight again under the housekeeper’s direction.

‘Let’s go,’ Guy said, reaching for his jacket.

‘I’ll need some things—’

‘You’ve got a whole room full of clothes at the château,’ he said, drawing her arm through his. ‘Or had you forgotten?’

Guy drove his iron-grey Aston Martin straight round to the back of the château and took Kate down the same flight of steps she’d ventured down before. Pausing only to snap on the lights, he led the way across the concrete floor of the vast plant nursery. Opening the door through which he had disappeared on her first visit, he beckoned her in.

‘Welcome to Mother’s retreat,’ he said, bending to switch on a lamp that provided just a mellow glow in contrast to the stark working light they had just left. ‘You’re very honoured,’ he said, stepping deeper into the small room. ‘No one is allowed in here apart from me—and now you,’ he said, searching her face for a reaction.

Kate stood in silence, looking around, and then turned to shut the door behind her—shutting out the world, she realised, feeling the heavy pall of sadness close around her.

‘Perhaps now you can understand why I am so grateful to you,’ Guy said softly, leaning back against an old mahogany sideboard housing a collection of beautiful pot plants.

It had seen some wear, Kate thought, though the pictures in their silver frames vying for space amidst the plants had been dusted recently and their frames gleamed bright with attention. There was more furniture in the room—all of it old and shabby, almost as if it had been picked up in one of the characterful flea markets in Paris.

‘From their student days,’ Guy confirmed, reading her face. ‘They shared a small flat—’

‘Your mother and father?’

‘They were also young once,’ he said, his eyes reflecting the depth of his affection for them.

Moving closer, Kate could see the photographs. Some, old and grainy, showed the Countess as a beautiful young girl, her face glowing with vitality…and love. ‘Your father was so handsome,’ she remarked, seeing the resemblance at once between father and son. She stroked one finger down a lock of ebony hair tied with a white lace ribbon faded in part to yellow that hung over one corner of the frame.

‘My father’s,’ Guy confirmed. ‘Taken on honeymoon while he slept and tied with a ribbon Mother saved from her wedding bouquet.’

‘That’s the most romantic thing I ever heard,’ Kate said softly. ‘Your mother must have loved him very much.’

‘I loved him very much,’ Guy corrected gently, ‘but he was her life.’

‘We must help her,’ Kate said passionately as she stared into Guy’s eyes. She could see his loss written there as clearly as she had seen it in his mother’s eyes, and impulsively she reached out her hand to him. ‘I know you’re hurting too.’

‘We all are,’ he said, taking both her hands in his and bringing them to his lips.

‘You were right, you know,’ Kate admitted.

‘About?’

‘Me… Aunt Alice. I can see why you were so worried about the way I reacted when the cottage was on fire. This isn’t the way…’ She gazed about the tiny room filled with a lifetime of memories. ‘Thank you.’ She watched his eyes grow tender as he looked at her.

‘Thank you,’ he said softly, leaving go of her hands to take hold of her arms.

‘For what?’ Kate murmured as a frisson of awareness coursed through her.

‘For showing my mother that life can go on,’ he said. ‘I know it can never be the same again for her, but her recovery is the only memorial my father would ask for. There was a time when I thought this room would become the extent of her world without him—until you came back…’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ Kate protested softly. ‘Megan’s the one you should be thanking.’ Guy’s face told her she was wrong.

‘You have no idea how my mother missed you.’

‘I missed her too, Guy. And I missed Villeneuve—’

‘And me?’ he said softly. When she didn’t answer, he cupped her face in his hands, making her pulse race as the air between them filled with a heady energy. Dipping his head, Guy brushed his lips very gently against her mouth.

‘The plants—’ Kate murmured, making no effort to move away.

‘Will wait,’ Guy said. ‘I won’t.’

‘No, I promised.’ But as she went to move away desire curled around the hands she was putting up against his chest and transformed the intended push into a caress.

‘Check them, if it makes you feel better.’

He let her go, but Kate could still feel the imprint of his hands. With all the senses in her possession she ached for him. She had waited so long; they both had. She stood for a moment without moving, staring at the plants waiting for her attention and then back again to Guy. She was just as needy as they were, but for Guy’s attention—personal and prolonged.

‘Go,’ he said again softly, dipping his head to urge her across. Their eyes met and locked, like a beam that pulled her towards him rather than away. Seeing her hesitate, he ran one hand lightly down her arm and then up again, keeping hold of her. ‘Let’s check them together,’ he suggested.

Moving slowly down the line, they checked each pot in turn. ‘They don’t need watering, do they?’ Guy said, drawing her round in front of him.

‘I don’t understand—’

‘Like I said,’ he whispered against her mouth, ‘Mother was young once too.’

* * *

It must be a dream, Kate thought as she walked into Guy’s private suite of rooms through tall, arched doors. She had never visited this part of the château before, and in contrast to the more public areas it seemed almost Spartan by comparison—yet typically Guy, she thought, gazing around. She saw at once that he’d gone for clean lines, strong shapes and a high degree of comfort. But as he closed the double doors behind them she suddenly felt shy, like a young girl on a first date.

Seeing her face, Guy took her by the hand and brought her with him into the room, switching on some concealed lighting on the way. The floor was square block parquet, the huge windows dressed with sheer drapes. The subtle use of lighting together with a subdued colour palette in shades of white and fawn with touches of yellow ochre gave a sense of order and relaxation. Matching sofas covered in cappuccino suede sat either side of a soft gold wool rug and two large dogs with glossy cinnamon-coloured coats curled around each other in a wicker basket so that it was impossible to tell where one began and the other finished.

‘ Ric—rac? ’ Kate queried softly. For as long as she could remember, Guy had kept two dogs—company for each other, he used to say, she remembered with a smile. And as their actions always seemed to mirror each other’s, so the single name that split so beautifully into Ric and Rac suited them to perfection—especially as in French their name expressed the boisterous retrievers’ penchant for living life by the skin of their teeth.

‘Descendants,’ he said ruefully as he led her on. ‘Time passes.’

Four large wood-framed mirrors drew the eye to a formal group of monochrome shots of impressive office blocks. Seeing her staring at them, Guy stopped and stood behind her with his hands loosely linked around her waist.