Fiona Hood-Stewart - At The French Baron's Bidding

Which in turn brought her back to the problem of what she was going to do. Was she really prepared to turn her life around one hundred and eighty degrees and come and live in Normandy, away from the world she knew, to pick up a legacy left to her by a woman who’d denied her that same legacy all her life?

Glancing at the ormolu clock on the pink marble mantelpiece, Natasha realized it was getting late and wasn’t the moment for soul-searching. She’d think about her life later. Right now she needed to get downstairs, where Henri would be waiting to drive her over to the Baron’s.

After a last peek in the mirror, she picked up a smart evening purse and stepped into her new, amazingly comfortable high heels. She took a few tentative steps. Not bad, considering she’d only worn sandals and sneakers for the past three years.

Hoping she wouldn’t totter too badly, Natasha made her way to the grand stairway and accomplished her descent without mishap, glad to see Henri waiting for her in the hall.

As the car drew up at the floodlit drawbridge Natasha caught her breath. The Baron’s château was amazing. Her grandmother’s Manoir was beautiful, but it was also stiff and formal. This place, in contrast, was a maze of twelfth-century turrets, built of heavy stone and obviously impregnable. The men who’d built it were not to be tampered with, was the message it conveyed. All at once she shuddered and wondered about its present owner.

‘It is very impressionnant, is it not?’ Henri said, seeing her gaze up at the ramparts.

‘It certainly is. It must be very old.’

‘The Argentan family has lived here since before William departed to conquer England,’ he relayed proudly. ‘The Baron is a descendant of a long line of warriors. They fought many battles and have made many friends and not a few enemies. The first Baron was also named Raoul.’

He drove the car slowly across the drawbridge, which creaked ominously.

‘Enemies?’ Natasha asked, her brows knitting.

‘Yes. There are many tales in the region of the Baron’s ancestors, in particular one Regis d’Argentan.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. But I must not go on. All that is in the past and better left buried there. Here we are, mademoiselle.’ He drew up in the courtyard and quickly stepped out of the car to help her alight before she could ask any further questions.

Minutes later Natasha was being conducted by a wizened butler up an ancient stone stairway illuminated by torches. Had he put on the full show for her, she wondered, or was there no electricity? The place felt strangely eerie, and an odd sense of déjà vu assailed her. But she shrugged it off and, holding her head high as she passed ancient tapestries, braced herself for the evening ahead.

Just as she was wondering where he’d got to, Raoul stepped out of the shadows.

‘Good evening,’ he said, once more raising her hand to his lips. A curious gleam lit his eyes and he took a step back. ‘Excuse me if I seem rude, but I barely recognize you.’

‘Is that a compliment?’ she asked suspiciously, a laugh hovering.

‘I would like to think of it as one,’ he confirmed, gallantly steering her into a huge hall with an imposing stone hearth, around which several high-backed velvet chairs were arranged. The fire was burning. Here the lighting seemed at least to be improved. In fact, she realized, it was terribly subtle, with ultra-modern halogens slipped behind the heavy oak beams, pinpointing tapestries and coats of arms which adorned the stone walls.

‘Your home is quite amazing,’ she said sincerely, aware of his hand at her elbow.

‘Thank you, mademoiselle—it is mademoiselle and not madame, I take it?’ he enquired smoothly.

‘Yes. Of course. I’m not married,’ she returned, surprised.

‘You object to marriage?’

‘It’s not something I think about.’

‘Really? Well, that is surprising. I thought most women did. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Well, that is not a very great age, I admit, but I know a number of girls your age who have several children already.’

‘Really?’ Natasha tossed her head defiantly. ‘I thought women were marrying much later nowadays, and having children in their mid-thirties.’

‘Is that what you plan to do?’ he asked, that same quizzical brow shooting up, this time with an air of disapproval.

‘I have no idea,’ she responded tartly. This was not a subject she wished to enlarge upon.

‘Ah, so no fiancé dying to drag you to the altar?’ he quizzed, motioning to one of the chairs.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied with an embarrassed laugh. Thank God he couldn’t possibly know about Paul, and all the shame and embarrassment she’d been through at the age of barely nineteen, when he’d dumped her a week before their wedding.

‘Very well. Enough about marriage. How about champagne instead?’

‘Please.’ She sat demurely in the high-backed chair and crossed her legs elegantly. It felt strange to feel so beautifully dressed and feminine, to feel Raoul’s eyes devouring her not with the mere curiosity of a neighbour but with patent admiration. And all at once Natasha realized that for the past few years, since her disastrous engagement, she’d been afraid of looking attractive, of facing another relationship, in case she was faced with another misadventure. Well, she was older now, and more mature, she reflected, taking the champagne flute with a smile. She could deal with a little attraction without getting burned or involved.

Raoul settled in the chair opposite. He looked devastatingly handsome tonight, in black pants and a burgundy jacket, his raven hair swept back, his profile caught in the firelight. For an instant Natasha thought he looked just as she would have imagined a Norman Baron must look in his lair.

‘So, you are Mademoiselle de Saugure,’ he murmured thoughtfully. ‘At the risk of sounding nosy, were you expecting to become Marie Louise’s heir?’

‘Actually, I had no idea. It never occurred to me. I hadn’t seen my grandmother in ages. She—she and my father had a falling-out a few years ago,’ she finished, not prepared to get into intimate details regarding her family.

‘I remember. The Comtesse didn’t accept his marriage to your mother. Very foolish, since it made her into a lonely old lady. But understandable.’

‘You think so?’ Natasha’s hackles rose immediately. Her mother’s background was something she defended tooth and nail.

‘Yes. Your father would have had problems whoever he married. Unless, of course, it had been someone of the Comtesse’s own choosing. She was nothing if not authoritative. Liked getting her own way. We had a few tussles ourselves.’ He smiled wryly and their eyes met, locking in the candlelight for a few interminable seconds.

‘You and my grandmother?’

‘Yes. Ever since my parents’ demise several years ago I have been Lord of the Manor, so to speak. The Comtesse deemed it her duty to tell me how to run my estate. When I didn’t follow her advice to the letter we had a few tiffs. But we got over them and remained fast friends. Strange that you should have arrived so suddenly and that her death should have ensued in such a precipitate manner.’

‘If you think it was my fault I can assure you it wasn’t,’ Natasha replied coolly, hating herself for justifying something she’d had nothing to do with.

‘Of course it wasn’t. Perhaps she was waiting for you to come before she let go. She’s been fairly ill for a while. Did she tell you about the will?’

‘No. I only found out when the notary—look, I really don’t see what business it is of yours,’ she said, suddenly clamming up.

‘Pardon,’ he said, with a smile that was anything but apologetic. ‘You must excuse my curiosity. But you must admit that the circumstances are somewhat unexpected.’