Catherine Spencer - The French Count's Pregnant Bride

“I should serve it immediately, Anton?” Henri wanted to know, still flushed with pleasure.

“No,” he said, turning away. “I’ll signal when we’re ready.”

The square was deserted now. No faces for the stranger to scrutinize. Instead she stared at her hands where they rested on the table.

“A beautiful woman should not sit alone on such a night, with only an empty glass for company,” he said, approaching her. “May I join you?”

Startled, she looked up. Her face was a pale oval in the gloom, and he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes, only that they were large. He’d addressed her in English, and she replied in kind. “Oh, no…thank you, but no.”

It was his turn to be taken aback. Her slightly panicked rejection smacked more of propriety than guile. Hardly the response of a seasoned scandal-hunter, he thought. Or else, she was very good at hiding her true identity.

Covering his surprise with a smile, he said, “Because we haven’t been formally introduced?”

She spared him the barest smile in return. “Well, since you put it that way, yes.”

“Then allow me to rectify the matter. My name is Anton de Valois, and I am well-known in these parts. Ask anyone. They will vouch for me.”

He thought she blushed then—another surprise—though it was hard to be sure, with night closing in. “I didn’t mean to insult you,” she said. She had a low, musical voice, refined and quite charming.

“Nor did you. It pays to be cautious these days, especially for a woman traveling by herself.” Then, even though he already knew the answer, he paused just long enough to give his question the ring of authenticity before suggesting, “Or perhaps I’m mistaken and you’re not alone after all, but waiting for someone else. Your husband, perhaps?”

“No,” she replied, far too quickly, and lowered her eyes to stare at her left hand which was bare of rings. The lights in the square came on at that moment, glimmering through the branches of the plane tree to cast the shadow of her lashes in perfect dusky crescents across her cheeks. “No husband. Not anymore.”

Again, not quite the attitude or the response he expected. Rather, she seemed lost, and very unsure of herself. On the other hand, he knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving. That being so, he led into the subject she’d surely latch on to with a vengeance, if she was indeed, as he suspected, a brash journalist with a hidden agenda.

“Then we share something of significance in common,” he remarked, sliding into the chair across from hers without asking permission this time. “I also lost my spouse several years ago.”

“Oh, I’m not a widow!” she exclaimed, meeting his gaze again. “I’m…divorced.”

She uttered the word as if it were something of which she was deeply ashamed. A clever ploy, perhaps, designed to deflect attention from her true motives.

“What kind of man would be fool enough to let you go?” he inquired, sickened by the taste of false sympathy on his tongue. He was normally a straightforward man with little use for subterfuge.

“Actually…” She gave a tiny shrug and bit down briefly on her lower lip. She had a very lovely mouth, he noticed. Soft, sensitive, defenseless. “He’s the one who left me.”

Afraid that the longer he engaged in a game of cat and mouse with such a woman, the duller the sharp edge of his suspicions might grow, Anton observed her closely, willing himself to uncover artifice, but finding only sincerity. Was he overreacting? At the mercy of his own paranoia—and she its innocent victim?

Suddenly despising himself for toying with memories she clearly found painful, he murmured with honest compassion, “In that case, he is a double fool and a cad. I can see that he’s caused you much unhappiness.”

“At the time, yes, but I’m over it now.”

“And over him?”

She managed another smile, and if it was a trifle hesitant, it was also unmistakably genuine. “Oh, yes. Most definitely over him.”

Choosing not to examine the real cause of the relief flooding through him, he nodded to Henri, who scooped up a tray bearing the two glasses of wine and a lighted candle, and brought it to the table. “Then we shall celebrate your freedom with a toast.”

“No,” she began. “It’s very kind of you, but I meant what I said before. I really—”

Sweeping aside her objection, Anton said, “Henri, your lovely guest isn’t certain it’s safe to get to know me. Reassure her, will you, that I’m quite respectable?”

He’d switched to French, aware that Henri’s English was minimal, at best. Without waiting for Henri to reply, she spoke, also in French, and it was, as the man had said, flawless. “I’m sure you’re respectable enough. I’m just not accustomed to being approached by strange men.”

“Strange men?” Henri set down the tray with a distinct thump. “Madame, you speak of the Comte de Valois!”

“A real live Comte?” She tipped her head to one side and this time managed a slight laugh. “In this day and age?”

Henri drew himself up to his full one hundred and seventy-five centimeters—about five feet eight inches in her part of the world. “A gentleman remains a gentleman, regardless of the times, Madame, and you may rest assured Monsieur le Comte fits the description in every way.”

“Thanks, Henri,” Anton intervened, knowing he scarcely deserved the accolade in the present circumstances. “That’ll be all, for now.”

She watched the innkeeper march back to the bar, his spine stiff with outrage, then switched her gaze to Anton again. “He wasn’t joking, was he? You really are you a Count.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh, dear! Then I owe you an apology. You must think me incredibly rude, not to mention gauche.”

“I find you quite delightful,” he said, and with the sense of floundering ever deeper into dangerous waters, realized he spoke the truth.

She clasped both hands to her cheeks. “I don’t quite know how to behave or what to say. I’ve never had drinks with royalty before.”

“I don’t consider myself royalty. As for how you should behave, simply be yourself and speak your mind freely. Isn’t that always the best way?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It hasn’t done me a lot of good, in the past.”

He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Then let us drink to the future. À votre santé.”

“À votre santé aussi, Monsieur le Comte.”

Continuing in French, he said, “To my friends, I am Anton.”

“I hardly think I qualify as a friend on such short acquaintance.”

The candle flame illuminated the classic oval of her face, the dimples beside her cupid’s bow mouth and the delicate winged brows showcasing her eyes which, he saw now, were the same deep, intense blue as a Provencal sky in high summer. Her shoulder-length hair, worn simply, shone with the luster of a newly polished, old gold coin.

Was she beautiful?

Not in the conventional sense, no, he decided. Hers was a more subtle appeal, one he found quite irresistible. “Sometimes,” he said earnestly, “friendship, like love, can strike instantly, as I believe it has between you and me.”

“How can that be? You don’t even know my name.”

Returning her smile, he said, “You think I haven’t noticed? I’ve been trying to learn it from the moment I saw you, but you’ve evaded me at every turn.”

“It’s no secret. I’m Diana. Diana…Reeves.”

He noticed her slight hesitation, but decided not to push the point. She was skittish enough as it was. Instead, taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Diana Reeves. What did you have for dinner, last night?”