Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (17 page)
Three months later
T
HE
air was warm, yet with a hint of crispness, and the late September leaves were tinged with yellow as Luc drove the car up the drive. Chateau Mirabeau lay mellow and golden under the September sun, its window-panes gleaming and twinkling with sunlight, the last blooms of summer still filling the gardens, their scent heavy on the air.
Luc parked the car and reached for the car-seat in the back, where Emilie slept, one little fist lying curled next to her soft, round cheek. Abby climbed out of the passenger seat.
‘Close your eyes,’ Luc told her.
‘For how long?’
‘Till I say.’ He reached out and took her by the hand, leading her across the gravel drive and up the front steps of the chateau. The door was open, and the air was fresh with the scent of polish and roses. Abby longed to open her eyes, to see all the changes Luc had wrought, but obediently she kept them closed.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘You’ll see.’
A little disoriented, Abby let him lead her through a maze of rooms, until finally he stopped. She could feel sunlight on her face, and somehow she just
knew.
‘Open them.’
She opened them slowly, blinking a little as she took in the refurbished music-salon. The magnificent Erard piano had been completely restored, and stood gold and gleaming. A few sofas and chairs were strategically placed around the room, perfect for an informal gathering or small concert. Abby stepped towards the piano. She hesitated, not having played properly in nearly eighteen months. Her fingers ached with the need to create music, to feel the smooth, ivory keys under their tips.
Luc waited, silently encouraging her, their daughter in his arms. And then Abby played. The music flowed like silk through the room, winding around them with its seductive melody. The
Apassionata.
But it no longer sounded sad to Abby.
It sounded passionate, even urgent, a joyful plea to live life. To enjoy it while you could. To be thankful. She closed her eyes, breathing the notes, living the music as if it were air, water, sustenance.
Luc didn’t speak until the last note died away, and when Abby turned to him she felt tears on her cheeks. Happy tears. She wiped them away unashamedly, smiling at Luc.
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank
you,
’ he replied, his voice low and heartfelt. Still smiling, Abby took him by the hand and led him out to the terrace, where they watched the sun send out its golden rays over the grassy meadows and the tangled vines of the Toussaint vineyard—the land that would one day belong to Emilie—all the way to the sleepy Rhône in the distance.
A bird cooed softly. Her heart full—wonderfully full—Abby knew all was right with the world.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
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First published in Great Britain 2009
Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited,
Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR
© Kate Hewitt 2009
ISBN: 978-1-4089-1853-1
