Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (15 page)

The kiss ended all too soon, and Luc pulled away before leaning his forehead against hers. They remained that way for a moment, still, silent, waiting. Abby didn’t want to break the fragile moment by speaking, yet words were needed.

‘Luc, what’s wrong?’ she asked quietly. He closed his eyes, his face so close she could feel the whispery brush of his lashes against her skin.

‘I don’t want this to end,’ he whispered.

‘It doesn’t have to,’ Abby said simply. Her heart felt light, lighter than air, with relief. Was that all that was worrying Luc?

‘No,’ he said slowly, his hands coming up to cup her face as he absorbed this seemingly new revelation. ‘It doesn’t have to.’

Several hours later, after a nap, Abby stood in the dressing room of the royal suite, smoothing the silky, silver-grey material of her gown over her hips. She looked and felt beautiful, lush, sensuous. The gown fell from a halter top, the material draping over her bump and emphasizing its womanly curve. She left her hair loose, falling in soft waves over her
shoulders. Smiling a little, she reached for the matching filmy wrap and headed out to the living room.

Luc stood in the centre of the room, devastating in a finely cut suit of lightweight wool that emphasized his broad shoulders and trim hips, his eyes blazingly blue as he turned to smile at her, his gaze sweeping over her form.

‘You look amazing.’ The sentiment was so heartfelt and sincere that Abby could do nothing but respond in the same manner.

‘So do you.’

They gazed at each other for a moment, smiling, until with a little laugh Abby admitted, ‘And I’m starving.’ She patted her bump. ‘This little one needs food.’

‘And, what madam wants, madam shall have,’ Luc replied with a short bow, and he moved to put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close to the warm shelter of his body as he led her out of the suite and downstairs to the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant, Le Cinq.

It didn’t seem fair to be this happy, Abby thought as they entered the restaurant with its thick Turkish carpet and glinting chandeliers. A tuxedoed waiter bowed and showed them to a private table in the back.

Abby slid into the seat and took the menu from the waiter; its script was an elegant cursive. ‘Did you order already?’ she asked Luc, and he shook his head.

‘Not this time.’

Abby smiled, a new satisfaction blooming within her, for surely she was not the only one to have changed? It was a small thing, she acknowledged, yet still important. She glanced down at the menu, scanning the various decadent offerings.

In the end they feasted on salmon caviar and black truffles, a delicate saddle of lamb and fresh, tender asparagus. Yet Abby barely noticed the food she put in her mouth, hungry
as she was. She was too aware, totally aware, of Luc, of his eyes so very warm on hers, of his smile, no more than a brief curl of his wonderfully mobile mouth, still managing to light Abby’s insides with both joy and hope.

After dessert they rose as one from the table. The restaurant was now nearly empty, only a few couples lingering among the candlelit tables, as they had been. Abby could already feel a heavy, heady expectancy start to build within her as Luc laced her fingers with his own and led her to the elevator.

They didn’t speak, just as they hadn’t before that night over a year ago when Abby’s life had changed for the first time. Now she felt as if it might change again, and she welcomed it, wanted it, more than she’d wanted anything before.

They stepped into the suite. The lamps were turned down and a basket of fresh fruit and chocolates, provided by the maid service, awaited them in the lounge.

‘I should change,’ she said, and heard the wobble of nervousness in her voice. Luc turned to her and smiled.

‘But you look so beautiful. Is the dress comfortable?’

‘Yes,’ Abby admitted. ‘But my feet hurt.’

‘That’s easily remedied.’ Luc gestured for her to sit down, and when she did he ran his fingers along her calves, sending what felt like a shower of sparks racing through her body. Then he slipped off the high-heeled sandals she’d been wearing. His long, strong fingers massaged her feet, finding the sensitive and aching places without her even saying a word; Abby leaned her head back against the sofa, almost groaning with relaxed comfort.

‘That feels really good,’ she murmured, and let herself lie passive at Luc’s wonderful ministrations. Yet as relaxing as it was, she also felt the energy of awareness fire through her; when Luc’s hands slid from her feet up her legs, his palms gliding over the slippery material of her dress to rest
on her hips, it felt like the most natural and right thing in the world. He knelt in front of her, his cheek pressed against her bump.

The baby kicked, and they both laughed. ‘Ouch,’ Luc said ruefully, rubbing his cheek. ‘She’s strong, isn’t she?’

‘She knows her own mind,’ Abby agreed. She was so achingly conscious of Luc’s hands on her hips, his body so close to hers, and she couldn’t quite keep herself from reaching out and tangling her hands in the crisp softness of his hair, threading her fingers so she tilted his head up to face hers.

‘Abby…’ he breathed softly, her name both a question and a plea.

‘Yes?’ she replied, and it was all the answer he needed.

He leaned forward, his hands now sliding from her hips up to her shoulders, drawing her towards him so their lips met again and again; this time there was no hesitation, no question, no fear.

Luc pulled away after a long, wonderful moment. ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. Abby didn’t know whether he meant physically, because of the baby, or emotionally, because of their history. She gave the only answer she could.

‘You won’t.’

Then, with the moon slanting through the wide windows and washing the world in silver, he led her from the living room to the bedroom; the huge, king-sized bed-cover was already turned down by the maid, and the lamp spread a warm glow over the room.

He drew her to him again, kissing her with a soft passion that still told of his urgency, his need. Abby responded, shrugging out of her gown, which slithered to the floor in a whisper of silk. Luc unbuttoned his shirt, and when they were both naked he led her to the bed. Abby followed, unselfconscious, unafraid, finally believing in the truth, the reality, of this moment, and hoping it would last for ever.

Luc cradled Abby in his arms as her breathing slowed, and she drifted off to sleep. One hand rested possessively on her bump, and as the baby kicked under his hand he felt a thrill like a shiver race through him.

This won’t last. It can’t.

He wanted to banish that sly voice of his conscience, of memories, fears, sliding to the surface of his mind even as he tried to exorcise them. He’d never expected to experience this kind of love, deep, abiding, so much so that it was a part of him, all of him. He couldn’t imagine life without it. Without Abby.

Yet what if he had to? What if he let Abby down again, just as he’d failed Suzanne? What if this happiness, this love, was nothing more than a mirage, a magical night just as their other nights together had been, not actually real?

Not real enough to last.

His hold tightened instinctively on Abby and she stirred in her sleep. He made himself relax, forced his mind to blank. He couldn’t think about all the possibilities, the fear of things that could happen.

Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they could have this moment for ever, could wake up again and again, morning after morning, to share another day together.

Maybe, this time, it would last. Nothing would go wrong, nothing would shatter the pure perfection of their love.

Abby woke up to sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of a maid knocking on the door. She tensed, her gaze sliding to the clock by the bed. It was nearly noon.

She pulled the sheet up to her breasts as she glanced around the room, a plunging sensation deep in her middle as she took in the empty half of the bed, the clothes still scattered on the floor.

Where was Luc?

‘Bonjour?’
The maid called from the living room. Abby
closed her eyes. She felt as if she were reliving one of the worst moments of her life.

‘Bonjour,’
she heard a voice call back, and then a few seconds of conversation before the maid bid her farewell and the door of the suite clicked shut.

Luc came into the bedroom, his hair still damp from the shower, his shirt only halfway buttoned. He looked amazing, Abby thought. He stopped in the doorway, smiling, and as Abby’s own smile widened into a great, big, sloppy grin, she felt her heart turn over—and knew this was the beginning of for ever.

‘F
OR EVER
’ lasted two months. Two wonderful, sun-soaked months, when they rarely ventured from the farmhouse, spending their days reading, relaxing, cooking and making love. Abby’s skin took on a sun-kissed, peachy glow, and her bump grew hard and round.

Some evenings they lay in bed—having shared Luc’s since they’d returned from Paris—and felt the baby roll and kick. They talked about names—Charlotte or Emilie—and wondered whose eyes she’d have. That was as close as they came to talking about any future together, and Abby told herself not to mind. Not to feel afraid.

There was time; there was surely lots of time for Luc to trust in this, in them. Abby didn’t know exactly what was holding Luc back, but she felt it in the moment after they made love when he turned his body slightly away from her, even though his arm was still around her. She felt it in the sudden lapses into silence in a conversation when she’d see a shadow steal across Luc’s face and settle in his eyes, and she’d know he was thinking. Remembering.

She wanted to ask him what he was afraid of, longed to press for answers, for declarations that she knew instinctively he wasn’t ready to give or make. Yet sometimes, as they sat in the drowsy sunshine of late afternoon, the remnants of a
delicious meal before them, she had to bite her lips to keep from crying out,
Why don’t you tell me you love me? Why don’t you talk about the future?

She didn’t, because she was afraid they might not have one. She argued silently with herself that after months with Luc she had no need to be afraid. Surely the days and nights they’d spent together, week after week, spoke of a deep and abiding love? Surely she should just gather her courage and confront him, ask him what he intended to do when the baby was born? What he wanted? Or perhaps she should simply tell him what she wanted. She wanted to stay in France, to live at the farmhouse, to have everything stay exactly as it was.

Yet even as this desire nestled in her soul Abby knew it wasn’t possible. Perhaps it wasn’t even right.

Nothing stayed the same. Things always changed.

‘I’m going to Paris,’ Luc told her one morning as she buttered her second croissant—her appetite had certainly increased—and she stilled, the knife in her hand. Did she imagine that slight sharpness to his tone?

‘Oh? Do you have business there?’ she asked eventually, for Luc had gone back to his newspaper as if the conversation was concluded, if there had ever really been one.

‘Yes.’ He looked up briefly, distracted, his smile no more than lip service. ‘I’ll only be gone the day. And you have my mobile number.’

‘Yes.’ Carefully Abby returned the knife to her plate. Her appetite had vanished. Luc wasn’t asking her to accompany him to Paris, and she couldn’t quite make herself ask to go. She didn’t want to beg, didn’t want to be rebuffed. Besides, she told herself, knowing it was at least partially a lie, she didn’t really want to go to Paris. She was nearly eight months’ pregnant, and she felt heavy, achy and tired. She would be fine here for the day; she’d nap, then cook something marvellous for dinner and not worry at all.

It didn’t quite happen that way, of course. Abby stood at the window and watched Luc drive down the gravel lane, felt the emptiness of the house echo around her, before she turned away and wandered restlessly through the sun-dappled rooms.

This was ridiculous. She had plenty to do; she could read, or cook, or tidy, if she really felt like it. She could write a letter to her mother, who wanted to visit when the baby was born, or read her father’s latest letter, which had come with a thick packet of positive reviews of his concert tour.

She decided instead to go for a walk. The sun was high above, shining brightly on the main road to Pont-Saint-Esprit, causing the pavement to glitter, and giving everything a hard, shiny edge. Abby might have deceived herself that she was simply going for a stroll, but she knew as soon as her pace began to slow she’d really only had one destination in mind.

Chateau Mirabeau.

She stopped in front of the gates; the padlock was made of bright, new steel. She touched it briefly; in the shadow of the rhododendrons flanking the gate it was cool to her touch. The gates were locked and the chateau was inaccessible once more. She knew that, had known it every time they’d driven past the chateau on a shopping trip to Pont-Saint-Esprit, when she’d glimpsed the locked gates from the car. Luc had never said a word about it, and neither had she.

Coward.

She shook her head slowly, ashamed and irritated with herself and her own fearful weakness. If she had any kind of relationship with Luc, any love or trust at all, surely she should be able to mention these things?

‘Just a few little facts, like whether you’re going to actually stick around,’ she said aloud, her voice sharp. She realized she hadn’t talked aloud to herself since Paris. She hadn’t needed to; she’d always had Luc.

Yet now, the sun beating on her head, her fingers still
touching the padlock, she felt like she didn’t have him. Maybe she’d never had him, not really. Not the way she wanted to, craved to—totally, unreservedly, without fear or worry.

No, she didn’t have that. The very fact that she was here, gazing into the closed-up grounds of the chateau like some pathetic orphan from a fairy tale—a sad one—showed just how much was actually lacking in her relationship with Luc. She should be with him in Paris, or, if not, she should be comfortable and secure in the fact that he was there and she was not.

Instead fear bit at her, gnawed at her hope, and the sense of complacency which had cocooned her in a smug bubble these last two months.

Now the bubble had burst, and over something so small! Yet sometimes, Abby acknowledged starkly, the small things revealed larger things, things she’d been closing her eyes to, because the last few months had been so happy, so perfect.

So shallow.

The thought hurt, yet Abby felt it must be true if she could torture herself with such doubt now. Slowly, disconsolately, she turned away from the locked gates and all they signified.

The sound of a car approaching and the sudden spurt of gravel as its driver braked made Abby stop and whirl around, a ridiculous hope blooming inside her that perhaps Luc had returned, that he hadn’t gone without her.

The hope soon died as an elegantly coiffed woman in her fifties exited the car and strode towards Abby with a look of almost desperate intent on her face. Abby froze, suddenly nervous. What if Luc had sold the chateau? Perhaps this woman owned it now and wanted Abby off her property. Her hands went instinctively, protectively, to her bump, cradling the life hidden inside.

‘Do you live here?’ the woman asked in French, her voice raw and harsh.

Abby shook her head, answering also in French. ‘No. I was just looking.’

The woman’s whole body seemed to sag for only a second, then she straightened and shook her head slowly. ‘I had hoped…’ she murmured, half to herself.

Abby’s curiosity was piqued enough to repeat, ‘Hoped?’

Her gaze snapped back to Abby, dropping to take in her obvious pregnancy. ‘Do you know Comte de Gévaudan?’ she asked, and Abby stiffened in surprise at Luc’s formal title. Her hands tightened around her bump as she nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘You have not married him,’ the woman concluded, still half-talking to herself, ‘or it would have been in the newspapers. I would have heard.’

There was something almost possessive about the way she spoke, with her eyes narrowing, her head tilted to one side, that made Abby prickle uneasily. The woman did not speak out of malice, but there had to be some history here. ‘You know him?’ she asked, and the woman gave a short, unhappy laugh.

‘Oh, yes. I know him.
Knew
him. Although we have not seen each other in nearly two years—since my daughter’s funeral.’ She spoke flatly, without emotion, and yet somehow it still conveyed an ocean of grief too wide and deep to cross with mere words. Abby knew who this woman must be.

‘You’re Suzanne’s mother,’ she said softly.

‘Mireille Roget,’ the woman confirmed. ‘He told you about Suzanne? He spoke of her?’

‘Yes, of course. He…’ Abby struggled to convey what Luc had said, what he felt, yet how could she? She didn’t even really know. ‘He regrets Suzanne’s death very much,’ she finally said.

‘I know he does,’ Mireille replied.
’Mon Dieu
, the whole country knows! He lashed himself over it times enough. Shutting
up the chateau, leaving the region…’ She pointed at the shiny new lock on the gates. ‘When I saw you there, I thought perhaps he’d opened it again, that he was living again.’

‘You did?’ Abby couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.

Mireille nodded. ‘Losing my daughter was bad enough,
mademoiselle.
But to see another life wasted so pointlessly only adds to my grief. I know Luc blamed himself for Suzanne’s unhappiness, and perhaps even for her death, but it was not his fault.’

‘He doesn’t see that,’ Abby confessed quietly. ‘He still feels guilty.’

‘I had hope…’ Mireille shook her head. ‘But he is with you, yes? He is moving on, perhaps?’

‘Perhaps,’ Abby allowed, and heard how shaky her voice sounded. She felt suddenly, tremulously, on the verge of tears, and Mireille saw.

‘This is no place for a conversation. Come, let me take you to Pont-Saint-Esprit. I was going there anyway, and we can have coffee. Talk. I think perhaps it will be good for both of us.’

Even though this woman was a stranger, Abby trusted her kindly, faded blue eyes, and let her lead her to the waiting car.

Once settled in a café with a large latte, Abby listened while Mireille spoke. Finally, she thought, she was hearing the other side of the story. She’d been afraid there hadn’t even been one, and it was good to hear what Mireille had to say.

‘Suzanne adored Luc—worshipped him, really—as the big brother she’d never had.’ Mireille sighed, her hands cradling her cup of coffee. ‘It was not, as I am sure you can imagine, the best basis for a marriage.’

‘No,’ Abby agreed, thinking that once she had felt the same way about Luc. Had idolised him, made him the shining knight in her fairy tale. But life wasn’t a fairy tale, and Luc wasn’t a knight. He was simply the man she loved.

‘He was fond of her,’ Mireille continued. ‘And attentive, but it was never enough for Suzanne.’ She sighed. ‘Nothing would ever be enough.’

Abby swallowed, thinking of Luc’s own similar words.
I could never love her as she’d needed to be loved.
And it was true, he hadn’t been able to. Yet surely that was not his fault?

‘She was always a melancholy child, and I suppose it worsened after her marriage.’ Mireille pressed her lips together. ‘I loved her so very much, and it still tears at me to know how unhappy she was. At least at the end…’ She stopped, shaking her head, and took a sip of coffee to compose herself.

‘At the end?’ Abby prompted softly, and Mireille looked up, her eyes bright.

‘She’d decided to divorce Luc. I never told him, because I knew he would blame himself for the failure of the marriage, but in reality it was a marriage that never should have happened. Suzanne was finally starting to realize that.’ Mireille’s hands tightened around her cup.

‘The day she died, she was coming to visit me. She’d rung me, telling me she’d decided to finally move on with her life. She’d booked a course in Paris—teacher training. It was what she’d always wanted to do, but as chatelaine of Chateau Mirabeau she never felt she could.’ Mireille shrugged. ‘Who knows if that is the truth? Suzanne was afraid to tell Luc anything. She even hid from him the fact that she’d been so depressed and unhappy. The poor man only knew after her death.’

‘She was coming to visit you?’ Abby repeated, needing the clarification. Craving it. ‘She was happy?’

‘Yes. For the first time in years, perhaps. It comforts me, to know that.’

Abby swallowed, her heart starting to pound, her mouth dry. ‘Luc wondered if—if Suzanne actually meant…’

It took Mireille a moment to understand what Abby couldn’t quite bring herself to say. ‘You mean to take her own life on the road? No, no. She would not—’ She stopped, swallowed, and shook her head vigorously. ‘She would not. She’d finally got her life on the right track. She was not about to go off it on purpose.’

‘I’m glad,’ Abby said, her voice heartfelt. ‘For her sake…as well as for Luc’s.’

‘No wonder he tortures himself so.’ Mireille shook her head. ‘The accident report suggested that perhaps something had darted across the road and Suzanne had swerved to avoid it.’ She smiled in bittersweet memory. ‘She was always ridiculously fond of little animals. Me, I say put them in the cooking pot!’

‘Mireille, thank you for speaking with me.’ Abby covered the older woman’s hand with her own. ‘I hope—I pray—it will make some difference.’

‘With Luc?’ She gestured to Abby’s bump. ‘His?’

Abby blushed. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, although there was no need to confirm it. The answer was obvious.

‘You love him?’ Mireille asked after a moment.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Then I will pray for you. He needs to move on. To love someone properly, and let himself be loved. What he had with Suzanne…’ Mireille shook her head. ‘It was not right. But perhaps with you…’ She squeezed Abby’s hand. ‘I will pray.’

Abby nodded, her heart too full to speak. The hope Mireille had offered, in both revealing Luc’s past and addressing his future, made her feel weak and dizzy with relief.

The feeling continued as they left the café and Mireille drove her back to the farmhouse. Abby was tired enough to lie her head back against the seat and close her eyes, and she wondered if she’d actually dozed off when Mireille gently touched her shoulder.

‘Abigail…we are here.’

‘What?’ Abby blinked, disoriented, the dizzy feeling still present and growing stronger. She struggled to sit up and open the door of the car, but it felt as if there were a veil across her eyes, muting Mireille’s voice and dimming the world.

‘Abigail,
ça va?
’ Real concern sharpened Mireille’s voice.

‘I’m fine…’ Then Abby looked down and registered the dark blood staining her jeans, the seat of the car. It seemed to be everywhere; how could there be so
much?
Then the veil drew even more firmly closed, and she slumped forward, unconscious.