A Place of Storms (8 page)

'Perhaps we could eat out together one evening,' he suggested eagerly. 'I know I look as if I'm living on the breadline, but I do have some money. There's quite a good place at Craudon. Transport's a bit of a problem though. Could we use your car, d'you suppose?'

She looked at him in dismay. 'I—I don't have it any more.'

'Oh.' He digested this for a moment. 'What happened to it?

'It was a hired car. I think it had to go back to Clermont-Ferrand.'

'Oh, that's a pity,' he said cheerfully. 'But I'm sure we'll get round it somehow. Jean-Luc Gabrier has a motor-bike. He might lend it to us for the evening.'

'Wonderful!' she agreed, wondering faintly how Blaise Levallier would react to the news that his future wife was careering round the countryside on the pillion seat of a borrowed motor-cycle. One thing was certain, it wouldn't be any more uncomfortable than Delphine.

She glanced at her watch and gave a start of dismay.

'Heavens, it's late! I must go.'

'I'll be in touch,' Alan promised. He got up and accompanied her down the stairs to the door. She had started away across the courtyard when she heard him call cheerfully, 'Goodbye, Andrea!'

Oh God, she thought frantically, her stomach churning suddenly. I told him my real name. She swung round and almost flew back to the gatehouse before he could shut the door.

'Hello.' Alan looked at her in surprise. 'Forget something?'

'Yes.' She moistened her lips. 'I—I'd completely forgotten. Do you think you could call me Clare instead?'

He was looking at her as if she was mad, and little wonder, she thought miserably. She went on, improvising desperately, 'I—I don't use my own name—for professional purposes. Monsieur Levallier knows me as Clare. It would only cause confusion if you started calling me something different, and the language problems are bad enough without that.

The puzzled look vanished, to her relief. Language problems were something Alan could associate with.

'I'll remember.' He looked her over and gave a regretful shake of his head. 'But I don't approve of the change. You're no Clare.'

He could say that again, Andrea thought, as she hurried back across the courtyard. If their roles had been reversed, Clare would have revelled in a situation like this, enjoying the play-acting and the sense of conspiracy.

Madame Bresson was hovering, her face agitated, as Andrea entered the chateau.

'Mademoiselle.' Her voice was reproachful. 'Monseigneur has been asking for you.'

'Oh dear,' Andrea said lightly, taking off her coat. 'Am I going to be shot?'

She walked into the dining room with a jauntiness she was far from feeling. Blaise Levallier was standing by the window smoking a cigarette. He swung round as she entered and his face wore a thunderous frown.

'Where have you been?' he demanded harshly.

'Looking round.' She dropped the bunch of keys Madame had given her on to the table and faced him defiantly.

'It takes so long?' He expelled a cloud of smoke impatiently.

'Why?' she asked with deliberate innocence. 'Have you missed me?'

There was a long silence. Then, 'Have a care,
ma mie
,' he said softly. 'It may seem very entertaining to provoke me, but the consequences might be less—amusing.'

His dark face looked satanic, and it took all the courage she possessed to stand her ground.

'Your threats don't worry me,
monsieur
,' she said untruthfully. 'I have been forced to accept the prospect of our marriage, and nothing could be worse than that.'

'You think not?' His laugh was soft and jeering, but there was a note in it which chilled her. 'Then you still have a lot to learn,
ma chère
Clare, in spite of your much-vaunted sophistication.'

Just what had dare told him in those letters of hers? she wondered frantically, her hands clenching at her sides in a swift nervous gesture she was sure would not have escaped his gaze.

'And was your exploration of my house as—rewarding as you hoped?' His changes of mood were as unpredictable as the Auvergne weather, she thought exasperatedly. And yet at the same time she had the uneasy feeling that tone of courteous interest concealed something very different. Almost as if he knew exactly what she had been up to and was silently mocking her.

'It was most interesting,' she replied expressionlessly.

'And your visit to the gatehouse? No doubt that was more interesting still.'

So that was what this cat-and-mouse game was all about.

'Quite fascinating, thank you,' she said clearly. 'I'm surprised, however, that you didn't think it was worth telling me that you had a lodger.'

He smiled sardonically. 'Perhaps,
mademoiselle
, I was aware that you were perfectly capable of ferreting out such information for yourself.'

She flushed at the implication in his words, and was glad when the door opened to admit Madame Bresson with a tureen of soup. Madame fortunately seemed totally unaware of the tense atmosphere in the room, and bustled about putting the finishing touches to the dinner table, and uttering motherly adjurations to eat her good soup while it was still hot.

Andrea picked up her spoon. 'I still don't see why you didn't tell me,' she protested. 'You must have known I would be interested in the fact that one of my own countrymen was living on the, doorstep.'

He shrugged. 'All the more reason to keep the matter quiet, maybe.'

She slammed the spoon back on to the table. 'Of all the damned nerve…' she began heatedly. 'Just what are you implying?'

'That whatever your past indiscretions may have been,
ma belle
, I would prefer the behaviour of the future Madame Levallier to remain—impeccable.'

There was a brief silence. 'You're very insulting,' she said unevenly.

'Why? Because I refer openly to things you have yourself made no secret of?' He glanced at her, brows slightly raised. 'Now calm yourself and eat your soup. You are already too thin.'

'Oh, am I?' She found fresh fuel for her indignation. 'I'm so sorry that I don't find favour with you, Monseigneur. No doubt you're a connoisseur in such matters.'

'Don't allow it to distress you,
ma mie
,' he said almost kindly. 'I am sure, without your clothes, you would have a certain appeal.'

'But not to you, of course,' she said, her voice shaking with rage.

'I wasn't aware you wished to appeal to me in that way,
mademoiselle.
' He reached out and poured some wine into her glass. 'However, if you wish to judge my reactions, you could always take your clothes off.'

'And you could go to hell!' She pushed the soup plate away from her, spilling some of its contents on to the white cloth.

'I think I have been there already.' His voice was suddenly so harsh that she was startled out of her anger. There was a long pause, and then he said almost conversationally, as if the last few minutes had never existed, 'And what was your impression of our young historian?'

'He seems to know a fair bit about his subject.' She forced herself to answer in the same vein. 'He soon left me behind—I'm afraid the Gallic Wars weren't a particular strong point of mine at school,' she added hurriedly,
a, la mode de
Clare.

'No?' He looked at her sardonically. 'Well, perhaps Roman military tactics have only a limited appeal. But Caesar might have taught you one thing,
ma mie
. We Auvergnats make bad enemies. Maybe you should remember that.'

Andrea did not enjoy her dinner, although the escalopes of veal Madame Bresson served, accompanied by courgettes and potatoes fried with onions, were quite delicious. By the time the housekeeper came to clear the table, her one thought was of escape.

'Where are you going?' Blaise's voice halted her as she made for the door.

'To my room.' There was an unconscious appeal in her hazel eyes as she turned to face him. 'I—I'm rather tired.'

'Sit down, please.' He indicated the settle. 'I want to talk to you.'

What she wanted didn't matter, of course, she thought stormily, but she was too weary to face another battle, so she walked over obediently and seated herself, gazing down into the leaping flames in the hearth.

'What did you want to say to me?' she asked eventually, when he showed no sign of breaking the silence.

'First, I want to give you this.'

She looked up and saw that he was holding out a small velvet-covered box towards her. She took it mechanically and opened it. The ring reposing on the satin bed inside it almost took her breath away. It was obviously very old, and the magnificent ruby which formed its centrepiece was surrounded by diamonds, like glittering petals clinging to some exotic crimson flower.

'What is it?' she gasped.

'It's the betrothal ring of the Levallier family,' he said with a certain impatience. 'Put it on.'

'No.' She closed the lid of the box with fingers that shook.

His eyes narrowed dangerously. 'Have the goodness to obey me.'

'I—I can't wear it.' Her throat tightened convulsively. 'You have no right to ask such a thing.'

'We will discuss the exact scope of my rights where you are concerned at a more convenient time,' he said icily. 'You are my future wife, and you will wear my ring.'

'But it's sheer hypocrisy,' she protested miserably. 'We don't have that kind of relationship. This ring's a—a love token.'

He stifled a curse. 'Is this what you want?' he demanded violently. Before she could move or say anything, he had gone on one knee at her side. She shrank back on the settle, a sudden wave of heat sweeping over her body at his sudden proximity. Before she could guess what he intended to do, he took her hand. For a moment, he stared down at the slenderness of the fingers in his own, and then he turned it over and carried it to his lips. His mouth moved warm and sensuous across her palm, and a long, sweet shiver ran through her body. His lips moved lazily to her upturned wrist and she tensed, miserably sure he would sense the utter tumult in her pulses. She closed her eyes, desperately seeking to hide the revelations she feared they might contain, and felt the smooth chill of the great ring as it slid on to her finger.

She sensed that he had moved from her side, and clasped her hands tightly together in her lap, concealing the ring.

When she did venture to look up, he was standing, one arm resting on the mantelpiece as he had been when she had first seen him. The bitter brooding look was back in his face.

'I hope that fulfilled your obvious expectations,' he shot at her.

'I expected nothing.' She bent her head. 'But I suppose you can count it as another victory,
monsieur
. Now may I go?'

'
Un moment
.' He paused, then said without a trace of emotion, 'Our marriage will take place the day after tomorrow.'

Andrea felt physically sick. Nothing—not even the gift of the ring—had prepared her for this. She felt trapped.

'Does it have to be so soon?' Her voice sounded totally unreal in her own ears.

'Yes.' He pushed at the burning logs with the toe of his boot. 'My lawyers tell me that Simone is planning to start proceedings to contest Jean-Paul's will almost at once. I wish to forestall her, naturally, so there can be no further delay.'

'But there are legal formalities, surely,' she said faintly.

'All dealt with weeks ago. You have a short memory,
mademoiselle
.'

Andrea stifled a groan. Clare had kept from her the full extent of her involvement—she realised that now. But she had no time to waste in useless recriminations. The only thing she could do now was get away from this place as quickly as possible. The need to recover Clare's letter could not weigh with her now, she thought desperately.

She forced herself to think calmly. She had to make him think she was resigned to her fate.

'I wish you'd warned me earlier.' She even managed to sound a little sulky. 'I do have some shopping still to do.'

He raised his eyebrows. 'I see no problem. Gaston may drive you to Clermont-Ferrand tomorrow.'

She lowered her lashes to hide the gleam of triumph in her eyes. 'Thank you,' she acquiesced meekly.

It would mean, of course, she would have to leave behind most of the luggage she had brought with her, and take only what she could carry, but it would be worth it. Once in Clermont-Ferrand, it would surely be easy to give Gaston the slip, and find some means of returning to Paris.

She bade him a subdued goodnight and went upstairs. As she reached the first floor she hesitated, looking speculatively along the corridor to the big closed double doors. His room—which just might possibly contain Clare's letter. Common sense told her that she owed Clare nothing, but the same did not apply to her uncle and aunt. It was their heartbreak she had to consider in all this. She had to face the fact that by coming here in this deliberate deception and then running away, she might well have made things worse for Clare. Blaise Levallier would be angry when he learned the truth, and the retribution he might seek could well be swift and unpleasant for all concerned.

But if she was able to retrieve Clare's letter, then his major weapon would be lost to him.

She looked half-fearfully over her shoulder, as if expecting to see him following her up the stairs. But he had given no indication that he intended to have an early night himself. In fact, just as she had left the room, he had gone to the sideboard and taken out a bottle of whisky and a glass, as if he intended to make a night of it, she thought, her lips curling slightly. Now, if ever, was her chance.

Feeling rather ridiculous, she slipped off her shoes and trod cautiously along the passage in her stockinged feet. She twisted the handle gently, praying that the door would not be locked, and knew a swift flood of relief as it yielded under her pressure. She squeezed through the narrow opening and looked around her.

It was not the large room she had envisaged, or perhaps it just seemed smaller because the bed which dominated it was so vast. It was an immense four-poster with a canopy and dark red and gold curtains neatly looped back. She looked at it uneasily, wondering how many past generations had been born or had died in that bed. The single pillow it carried seemed forlorn somehow, but she crushed the thought down hastily.