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

But, as she skimmed the packed shelves of classics, Natasha could still feel the touch of Raoul’s lips on hers, the tingling sensation that caused her breasts to peak even now, and a strange delicious throbbing travelling through her. It was ridiculous, she reasoned. Outrageous that a man she barely knew could cause such havoc. Why, she hadn’t had a boyfriend since Paul, and even then she’d been hesitant to sleep with him, as though something deep down inside had warned her of his future behaviour. But she had. And it hadn’t been a success. She’d been afraid, unexcited, but determined to do what she had to. Never in the two years they’d gone out together had she felt anything close to the extreme rush of pleasure she’d derived in those few minutes with Raoul in the car.

‘Absurd,’ she muttered, glancing at the rows of titles, determined to find something to distract her. All at once her eyes fell upon a large leatherbound volume. A Concise History of the Famille d’Argentan, she read. Extracting the large volume from its slot, where it had obviously remained for many years, she brushed off some dust. There was nothing concise about it, she reflected with a grimace, carrying the enormous book over to the sofa.

Wrapping herself in a rug, Natasha opened the stiff cover and began curiously to turn the pages. There was a long detailed family tree. Suddenly her eye fell upon Regis. His dates were interesting. 1768 to 1832. So he had been a young man during the French Revolution. Then, to her amazement, she read a name that was all too familiar: Natasha de Saugure.

The name was not printed, in the manner of a wife’s, but inscribed as a handwritten side-note. A shiver ran down her spine. So she had been named after an ancestor. Her father had never mentioned the fact. Avidly she glanced at Natasha’s dates. 1775 to 1860. The woman had lived to a ripe old age. But what had been her relationship to Regis? There were no details. Just the scribbled note. How strange, she thought, flicking through the pages, that her namesake should be inscribed next to the name of the man nobody seemed to want to talk about.

After a while perusing the book, she felt sleep begin to press upon her, and, laying the volume down on an ornate table, she rose and yawned. Time to go upstairs and rest. Tomorrow she would seek further information.

As she wandered up the grand stairway Natasha glanced up at the portraits on the wall. A lovely grey-eyed girl in a stiff brocade dress with a revealing décolleté—as had been the fashion in the late eighteenth century—stared down at her from one of them. Natasha held her breath as her eyes went to the tiny bronze plaque on the frame. As she’d supposed, it was Natasha de Saugure. Who had she married and had she been happy? she wondered suddenly. Her eyes in the portrait looked bright and filled with hope. But there was something else, a mysterious melancholic twist to the smile.

Natasha glanced at the painting a moment longer, then, letting out a sigh, she climbed the rest of the stairs and headed to her room.

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