Naughty In Nice (21 page)

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Authors: Rhys Bowen

BOOK: Naughty In Nice
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I could hear the deep throb of the engine and the boat started to rise and fall as it cut through waves. Champagne was opened and a glass handed to me.
“Drink up,” Sir Toby said, draining his own glass. “Plenty more bottles where that came from.”
“It’s rather early yet,” I said cautiously.
“Nonsense. I know you bright young things—knocking back the booze at nightclubs, and a spot of snorting as well, what?”
“Not me,” I said. “I rarely drink or go to nightclubs. Too expensive and money’s tight these days.”
“Ah, so that’s the attraction, is it?” Sir Toby laughed. “I thought it had to be. I didn’t think you fancied me for my looks.”
Fancied him? Perhaps I had gushed a little too much the night before. “I really just admired your swimming pool and your yacht.”
He patted my knee. “That’s all right. I understand. It’s not easy trying to survive in the big world these days. You young models need what the Yanks call a sugar daddy. Well, I’m as sugary as they come.”
I stood up. “Oh, no, I really didn’t mean . . .”
“What’s the matter? Getting cold feet now we’re alone?” He laughed. “Too late for that, my dear. We’re out at sea and the only people within shouting distance are crew members trained by me to look the other way, no matter what.” And he grabbed my arm, pulling me down onto him. Then he tried to kiss me with big wet lips. I squirmed and wriggled. “Let go of me. You’ve got the wrong idea.” (Yes, I know a lady never says “got” but this was a stressful moment.)
“But I have a very good idea,” Sir Toby said. “I like ’em young and virginal and believe me, my dear, you’ll like what I can offer.” And his large, meaty hands were fumbling to remove my fisherman’s shirt.
“Stop it, please,” I said, grabbing one of his hands.
“A touch of modesty. I can understand that,” he said. “Well, we’ve a good selection of bedrooms. Young ladies often like the pink one. Lovely bouncy bed in there. Come on.” He grabbed my wrist and started to drag me across the saloon, then down a long wood-paneled corridor. My heart was beating so loudly that I was sure it must have echoed back from those walls.
“Let go of me,” I shouted, as anger overtook fear. “I am not going to bed with you and that is that.”
“Frankly, you don’t have much choice, my dear.” He continued to propel me forward.
“When we get back I’ll go to the police and report you for rape.”
He gave a great guffaw of laughter at this. “To the police? For rape? A young girl who begs Sir Toby to take her out on his lovely yacht? Flutters her eyes at him? The police would understand that you got what you were asking for. They are men of the world. Now, shut up and be a good girl.”
“I want to be a good girl,” I said, “and that doesn’t include making love to a complete stranger.”
“Oh, come on. You bright young things . . .”
“And another thing—I’m not a bright young thing. I’m a”—I was about to say “member of the royal family”; I only swallowed it down at the last second—“respectable girl from a good family,” I finished lamely. It only made him laugh all the more as he tried to shove me down a steep staircase ahead of him. I turned and kicked him hard on the shin, then pushed past him back onto the deck. Then I ran. I don’t know where I thought I was running to. It was a big yacht, but I couldn’t play catch-me-if-you-can forever, could I?
The breeze had turned into a strong wind and met me full in the face as I came out onto the deck. Also there was now a big swell. I thought about diving off and swimming but the land looked awfully far away. Good swimmer that I was, I didn’t think I could make it. Besides, great storm clouds were now moving in closer. I wondered hopefully if this would make us return to port.
“You can’t escape, you know, you silly girl,” came Sir Toby’s voice after me.
I ran to the other end of the deck and ducked behind a life raft. Then, over the throb of our engine I heard the higher whine of a speedboat. I stepped out and waved desperately as the boat came racing toward us, sending up a sheet of spray. The speedboat driver waved back and approached the yacht. When he was close enough I saw that it was Jean-Paul de Ronchard.
“Jean-Paul!” I shouted.
He slowed the speedboat to a crawl.
“Help me. I want to get off!” I shouted.
“Come on then. Jump!” he shouted back.
It was a long way down to the water and the boat was rising and falling with the swell of the waves. I hesitated.
“You do know how to swim, don’t you?” Jean-Paul shouted.
“Of course, but . . .”
“Then jump. I won’t let you drown.” He had cut the motor and bobbed alongside.
“Ah, there you are, you minx,” Sir Toby boomed, coming around the corner toward me.
I took a deep breath, climbed over the railing and jumped. I hit cold water, went under, then came up to see the speedboat a few yards away.
“Here.” Jean-Paul threw me a life belt. I grabbed it. He reeled me in and hoisted me on board.
“Thank you. You don’t know how glad I am to see you,” I gasped as he revved up the motor and we sped away. “How lucky that you happened to come this way.”
“Nothing to do with luck,
ma chérie
,” Jean-Paul said, reaching for a large fluffy towel and handing it to me. “I was sitting on my own terrace, just across the cove, reading the morning newspapers—where you and I both feature nicely, I might add—when I heard a boat’s motor start up. I looked up and saw you going out to Sir Toby’s yacht. Knowing his less-than-honorable reputation with young women, I decided to give chase. I jumped into my speedboat and came to the rescue.”
“I’m so glad you did. He was trying to—you know.”
“Get you into his bed. Naturally. He has that reputation.” He slipped an arm around my shoulder. “But you are safe now. I will take you home and dry you off and all will be well.”
His arm was warm and comforting around my shoulder as we made for the shore.
It did cross my mind that I might have leaped from the proverbial frying pan into the fire. Jean-Paul also had a reputation, didn’t he? But I didn’t exactly find him repugnant. Besides, he was a true gentleman—a marquis, not a trumpedup arms dealer from the lower classes. Somehow I felt safe with him. He confirmed this by saying, “The English—I will never understand. They think it is manly and bold to force a woman into bed. The Frenchman, he would never do that. If a woman says no to him, he sees this as a challenge. He tries to seduce her little by little, with charming gestures, presents, flowers, plenty of attention, until one day, she comes to his bed willingly and with anticipation. And if she still says no, then there are plenty more fish in the sea, as you say.”
And he laughed.
 
Chapter 19
 
January 26, 1933
At the villa of Jean-Paul de Ronchard—imagine! If only
Belinda could see me now—oh, and Darcy.
 
The coastline neared with its fabulous villas dotting the rugged shoreline. Jean-Paul slowed the motor as he steered his boat into a little cove. I could see the gleaming white of Sir Toby’s villa just across the cove. Ahead of us was a jetty, to one side of it a small crescent of beach and, above it, a lovely Tuscan-style villa with red-tiled roof and green-painted shutters.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Jean-Paul said. Before we reached the dock, a manservant in a white jacket appeared and made fast our boat. Jean-Paul jumped out and helped me ashore.
“A slight calamity, Pierre,” he said. “Run and fetch a towel and one of my dressing gowns for milady. The light blue to go with her eyes, I think.” He took my hand and led me toward the house. “Go to the bathroom. Take off your things and Pierre will make them as good as new in an instant,” he said.
“Oh, no, really, that’s not necessary,” I protested. “I’ll drip all over your lovely floor. I’m really not far to the villa where I’m staying. I could just walk home.”
“Absolutely not,” Jean-Paul said firmly. “You cannot return home in that state. If you do, there will be questions asked. You will tell them the truth and instantly there will be three tigresses trying to get at Sir Toby’s throat. This is not wise. Sir Toby is not a nice person. You do not wish to make an enemy of him. My advice is to let Pierre repair your clothing and pretend that nothing has happened. And as for my floor—marble can withstand any number of drips. So this way to the nearest bathroom.”
He led me across the floor of a large sunroom with a bright tiled floor, wicker chairs and striped cushions. Beyond I could see more ornate rooms with paintings and objets d’art to rival Sir Toby’s. A door was opened for me to a bathroom large enough to hold an orchestra. Pierre reappeared with the dressing gown and a huge fluffy towel with a crest embroidered on it. Jean-Paul closed the door for me. “Take your time,” he said. “Put your wet clothes outside the door, then enjoy a bath or a shower.”
I did as he suggested, pouring a bath almost large enough to swim in and indulging in some heavenly scented bath salts. As I lay there I considered the fact that Jean-Paul might settle down one day and what it would be like to be the Marquise de Ronchard. The thought didn’t entirely displease me. Then I dried with the fluffy towel and put on the blue silk dressing gown. He was right. It did match my eyes. Cautiously I opened the bathroom door and ventured out. Jean-Paul had been sitting waiting for me and sprang up.
“
Voilà.
You look
magnifique
. Come—Pierre has been working a miracle as usual. I have told him to prepare lunch. You must be starving after such drama and your courageous dive to safety.”
He led me out of the house and down the steps to the small crescent of beach. There a table had been set up at the water’s edge with a white starched tablecloth, gleaming silverware and two wicker chairs. A bottle of champagne sat in a silver bucket with two glasses beside it.
“I always eat in the open air when I can. Besides, you should return to the sea so that it no longer represents a negative experience to you. It’s like falling off a horse. You must get straight back on.” And he laughed. He had a truly wonderful laugh. His eyes absolutely sparkled.
“You have sand on your beach,” I exclaimed, feeling the softness under my feet.
“Of course. I had it brought in. One does not like to walk on stones. Most disagreeable for bare feet. And even worse to lie on.” And he looked at me in that special way again, as if lying on the beach was something that might happen later.
Pierre pulled out a chair for me and put a white linen napkin in my lap. As if in a dream I sat. Champagne was poured. Jean-Paul held up his glass to me. “To an interesting woman, whom I look forward to getting to know better,” he said, clinking glasses with me. His eyes held mine for a long time and I felt a shiver of excitement. Had anyone ever looked at me like that before? Maybe Darcy, but I was trying hard to put him from my mind.
Plates of hors d’oeuvres appeared: caviar, smoked salmon, oysters, stuffed mussels, pâté de foie gras, olives, tomatoes, an impressive cheese board and crusty bread to go with them. I looked at them with anticipation, waiting to take my cue from him.
“Well, eat up,” he said. “I prefer little dainties like this to a heavy meal during the day, don’t you? Here, try the oysters. I have them flown in from Brittany.” He stabbed one with his fork then leaned forward and fed it to me. It was an incredibly intimate gesture and I shivered as the cold fork touched my lip.
“You do not like oysters?” he asked.
“I adore them.”
“And caviar? You like caviar?” He spread a generous dollop onto melba toast and popped that into my mouth.
“One moment,” he said. He picked up his napkin and touched my bottom lip, ever so gently. “One morsel of caviar was left behind,” he said.
We continued to eat, with Jean-Paul feeding me every time I stopped and Pierre refilling that champagne glass.
“Something is missing,” Jean-Paul said suddenly. He tapped his head as if an idea had just come to him. “Music. Pierre, where is the music?”
A gramophone was produced and soon French café songs, sung in a throaty female voice, were echoing back from the cliffs.

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