since he was a child. If anyone had done the terrifying it could have been her. Still, he felt wary of Natasha. As he would be of any Saugure. Which was obviously why he’d felt the need to ask her to dine: to delve deeper into her motives for coming here in the first place. The more he could glean about her, the better; for the past had taught every member of his family to be wary of Saugure women.
And he was no exception.
CHAPTER THREE
NATASHA tilted her head and took another satisfied look at herself in the gilded three-way mirror. It was a long time since she’d bothered about clothes and looking nice. The last few years, tucked away in the African bush with two pairs of jeans and a few faded T-shirts, had not helped her improve her fashion skills. Still, she’d spent time in Deauville that afternoon and taken the advice of a charming shop assistant who, seeing her in doubt, had helped her select a number of items, discarding others with a disparaging wave of her well-manicured hands, saying that beige did not favour mademoiselle.
Now, as she looked at her reflection, Natasha had to admit that the woman had been right. Everything she’d chosen—from the pretty pink tweed Chanel suit to the sleek trousers and the attractive cream dress she now wore—spelled chic, smart, and made her look very different from the girl who’d stepped off the plane a few days before. Suddenly she’d been transformed from average to head-turning, thanks to the make-over that Martine, the shop assistant, had insisted on. Upon her excellent advice, Natasha had gone to the top hairdresser in town and had her long hair shaped, washed and blow-dried. The effect, combined with the new outrageously expensive outfit, was staring her right in the face, and she was finding it hard to reconcile the woman in the mirror with who she was inside.
Oh, well, she conceded with a shrug, surely she could get used to improvement? Plus, she was damned if she was going to dine at Raoul d’Argentan’s castle looking like something the cat had brought in on a bad day. Which made her wonder uncomfortably, as she turned away from the mirror and stepped into the bathroom to put on some makeup, why he’d asked her over in the first place. Perhaps it was curiosity. After all, everyone must be wondering who she was and why she was here. Although no doubt Monsieur Dubois, the notary, had dropped hints in his various clients’ ears. She could imagine just how intriguing it must be for a small community such as this to have her as the new châtelaine.
Which in turn brought her back to the problem of what she was going to do. Was she really prepared to turn her life around one hundred and eighty degrees and come and live in Normandy, away from the world she knew, to pick up a legacy left to her by a woman who’d denied her that same legacy all her life?
Glancing at the ormolu clock on the pink marble mantelpiece, Natasha realized it was getting late and wasn’t the moment for soul-searching. She’d think about her life later. Right now she needed to get downstairs, where Henri would be waiting to drive her over to the Baron’s.
After a last peek in the mirror, she picked up a smart evening purse and stepped into her new, amazingly comfortable high heels. She took a few tentative steps. Not bad, considering she’d only worn sandals and sneakers for the past three years.
Hoping she wouldn’t totter too badly, Natasha made her way to the grand stairway and accomplished her descent without mishap, glad to see Henri waiting for her in the hall.
As the car drew up at the floodlit drawbridge Natasha caught her breath. The Baron’s château was amazing. Her grandmother’s Manoir was beautiful, but it was also stiff and formal. This place, in contrast, was a maze of twelfth-century turrets, built of heavy stone and obviously impregnable. The men who’d built it were not to be tampered with, was the message it conveyed. All at once she shuddered and wondered about its present owner.
‘It is very impressionnant, is it not?’ Henri said, seeing her gaze up at the ramparts.
‘It certainly is. It must be very old.’
‘The Argentan family has lived here since before William departed to conquer England,’ he relayed proudly. ‘The Baron is a descendant of a long line of warriors. They fought many battles and have made many friends and not a few enemies. The first Baron was also named Raoul.’
He drove the car slowly across the drawbridge, which creaked ominously.
‘Enemies?’ Natasha asked, her brows knitting.
‘Yes. There are many tales in the region of the Baron’s ancestors, in particular one Regis d’Argentan.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. But I must not go on. All that is in the past and better left buried there. Here we are, mademoiselle.’ He drew up in the courtyard and quickly stepped out of the car to help her alight before she could ask any further questions.
Minutes later Natasha was being conducted by a wizened butler up an ancient stone stairway illuminated by torches. Had he put on the full show for her, she wondered, or was there no electricity? The place felt strangely eerie, and an odd sense of déjà vu assailed her. But she shrugged it off and, holding her head high as she passed ancient tapestries, braced herself for the evening ahead.
Just as she was wondering where he’d got to, Raoul stepped out of the shadows.
‘Good evening,’ he said, once more raising her hand to his lips. A curious gleam lit his eyes and he took a step back. ‘Excuse me if I seem rude, but I barely recognize you.’
‘Is that a compliment?’ she asked suspiciously, a laugh hovering.
‘I would like to think of it as one,’ he confirmed, gallantly steering her into a huge hall with an imposing stone hearth, around which several high-backed velvet chairs were arranged. The fire was burning. Here the lighting seemed at least to be improved. In fact, she realized, it was terribly subtle, with ultra-modern halogens slipped behind the heavy oak beams, pinpointing tapestries and coats of arms which adorned the stone walls.
‘Your home is quite amazing,’ she said sincerely, aware of his hand at her elbow.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle—it is mademoiselle and not madame, I take it?’ he enquired smoothly.
‘Yes. Of course. I’m not married,’ she returned, surprised.
‘You object to marriage?’
‘It’s not something I think about.’
‘Really? Well, that is surprising. I thought most women did. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Well, that is not a very great age, I admit, but I know a number of girls your age who have several children already.’
‘Really?’ Natasha tossed her head defiantly. ‘I thought women were marrying much later nowadays, and having children in their mid-thirties.’
‘Is that what you plan to do?’ he asked, that same quizzical brow shooting up, this time with an air of disapproval.
‘I have no idea,’ she responded tartly. This was not a subject she wished to enlarge upon.
‘Ah, so no fiancé dying to drag you to the altar?’ he quizzed, motioning to one of the chairs.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she replied with an embarrassed laugh. Thank God he couldn’t possibly know about Paul, and all
