Dawn Song (21 page)

'I don't see anything wrong with that,' Meg said demurely.

'Oh,
la.'
His smile was warm and sensuous as he stroked a finger down the

curve of her cheek. 'I shall remind you of that tonight.'

'I hope so.' Her eyes met his with candour, nothing hidden, least of all her

sheer physical enrapturement with him.

'And this time I shall treat you with the gentleness you deserve,' he

promised. 'I should have known from the first you were not Margot.' He took

her hand, caressing her fingertips with his lips.

'Because I'm a lousy typist?' she teased.

He laughed. 'No—everything you said—everything you did. But I silenced

my doubts—saw only what I wanted to see.' His mouth twisted

remorsefully. 'Last night, I should have realised you were untouched. And

when I knew beyond question that you were a virgin, and could not be

Margot, I got angry—but angry with myself for being a blind, insensitive

fool. And,
helas,
the anger rubbed off on you.'

He groaned. 'At the moment when we should have been learning how to love

we were screaming at each other.' He looked at her gravely. 'Couldn'tyou

have trusted me with the truth before then, Marguerite?'

'I wanted to, so much.' She took a breath. 'But I wasn't the only person

involved. Margot had blackmailed me into coming. They were threatening

to sell my old nanny's cottage and force her into a home, unless I agreed.'

She frowned. 'In fact it could still happen. I don't trust Margot, or Iris for that

matter.'

'She is very old, this nurse, and infirm, perhaps?'

'Indeed, she isn't,' Meg said strongly. 'Otherwise she couldn't be looking

after your cousin Corinne's children at this minute.'

'Then it might please her to live in France and look after our babies, when

they come.'

Tears pricked at her eyelids. 'I think she'd love it. Oh,
Jerome.'

'Of course,' he said softly. 'It all depends on one small point—that you love

me as I love you. You haven't said so yet. And, maybe, for you it's too soon.'

'No,' she said. 'It's not too soon. And how strange that we can both be so

sure.'

'We're not the only ones,' he said drily. '
Madame
was sure from the first. I

must telephone her as soon as we get to the
mas
and let her know you are

safe with me, and not waiting for some plane to England.'

'I hope she'll be pleased.' Meg wrinkled her brow. 'She was very chilly when

I left.'

'She was anxious for you to leave. She could sense that Margot's arrival had

added to your tension and unhappiness.' He grimaced slightly. 'She was not

pleased with me this morning when I told her what a mess I had made of

everything.'

Meg worked this out. 'So, when I saw her later, she already knew I wasn't

Margot?'

He nodded. 'She said, like me, she had always known. That the spoiled

ill-tempered child could not have grown into a girl of such quiet grace.' He

glanced at his watch. 'By now I think Mademoiselle Trant will have left the

chateau, sadder perhaps and wiser, though I doubt it. And my guests will

also have left the
mas.
I hope they don't meet on the road.'

'Your guests?' Meg gasped. 'You mean Corinne? Then it was her that I

saw...'

'You have sharp eyes.' Jerome sounded amused. 'Her husband is with her

now. She telephoned the
mas
that first evening we were together to say she

was on her way. He joined her yesterday. That was the phone call I took at

dinner. They are now heading for Paris to continue their second honeymoon

in my apartment there.'

Meg digested this. 'But how in the world did he know where to find her?'

'He knew,' Jerome said simply. 'As I knew just now. Which gives me hope

for their future together. Although I am more interested in ours.' He kissed

her gently, but very completely. 'Will you be my wife, Marguerite, and share

the storms and the sunlight with me?'

'Yes,' she said, and her mouth trembled into a smile. '"
Ma doulce amour, ma

plaisance cherie."
And will you show me another dawn?'

'Every morning of our lives,' he said huskily. 'Now let's go home.'

As he started the car, she said, 'There's one problem, Jerome. What are we

going to do about Octavien? When do you think he'll stop calling me

Anglaise?'

He laughed. 'Probably,
mon amour,
at our son's christening.'

And he was right.