have been valuable covered the stone floor.
The huge umbrella was quickly shaken free of surplus water and deposited back in a stand beside the main door, holding in addition a number of walking sticks. Then the woman turned to Andrea with a beaming smile, introducing herself as Madame Bresson, the housekeeper. Having said it, she gazed round the hall and gave a deep sigh—as if aware that their surroundings were not a great advertisement for her capabilities, Andrea thought with faint amusement. She herself felt it would take an army of Madame Bressons to restore the chateau to anything approaching its former glory. As she crossed the hall in the housekeeper’s wake, she noticed, that the tapestry seat covers on several of the high-backed chairs standing against the walls were worn into holes.
One wave of the magic Weston money wand, and the whole chateau will turn back into a pumpkin, she thought angrily.
They stopped outside a heavy door, its timbers pitted with age and wear. Madame Bresson knocked briskly and pushed the door open almost in the same gesture, then motioned encouragingly for Andrea to precede her into the room.
Andrea swallowed, her hands clenching themselves in-voluntarily into fists at her side, then she stepped across the slightly raised threshold.
It was a much smaller room, the walls panelled from floor to ceiling, and while shabby it presented some appearance of comfort. The large table occupying its centre had been set with a white cloth and cutlery, and a fire had been kindled in the wide fireplace.
A man was standing at the fireplace, one arm resting on the ornate stone overmantel. He was tall, Andrea saw, and slim to the point of leanness with long legs thrust into well-polished riding boots. She assimilated thick black hair, unwaving and rather longer than was strictly fashionable, and a dark arrogant face, high-nosed and hard-mouthed. Whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been this, she found herself thinking confusedly. When she had tried to picture her unknown adversary, it had been a much older man who had dominated her mind’s eye—thick-bodied and debauched. This man was in his late thirties, if she was any judge, and undeniably attractive.
Then he swung round to face her fully, and Andrea could not control her gasp of dismay. The proud face was marred, perhaps irrevocably, by the long scar which twisted the corner of his left eye and distorted the clean line of the high cheekbone. And even as she thought savagely, Damn Clare for not telling me, the realisation dawned that Clare could not have known.
Was this why Blaise Levallier had felt bound to carry out his wooing, such as it was, by letter? she wondered dazedly, and crushed away the instinctive feeling of compassion that accompanied the thought. The last thing this man wanted would be pity, especially from her.
As if he could guess what she was thinking, he paused a few feet away from her, a faint derisive smile curling the firm lips. His eyes were as dark and hard as the volcanic rocks under his feet as he looked her over.
‘Mon amour!’ Could she detect a note of mockery in the timbre of that low-pitched, slightly husky voice? ‘So you’ve come to me at last.’
Too shocked to protest, she felt long arms drawing her inexorably towards him. She closed her eyes instinctively as the scarred face approached hers. She felt as if she was in a dream, and then dreams were dispelled for ever by the devastating reality of his mouth on hers.
FOR one suffocating moment Andrea felt the hard pressure of his muscular body against hers. The sound of the closing door behind her, signalling the departure of Madame Bresson, jerked her back to her senses, and she tore herself free of his arms, facing him with flaming cheeks.
‘That was not part of the agreement.’ She wanted to sound cool and in control of the situation, but to her annoyance her voice came out high and breathless like a little girl’s. Anyone would think she had never been kissed before in her life, she thought vexedly.
He shrugged, and again she was aware of that faint amusement.
‘Yet it was the reaction expected of us, and it is dangerous to ignore the conventions on these occasions. Our—arrangement is a private one. I imagine you do not wish it to become a matter for speculation in the village.’
She bit her lip. ‘No, of course not. I—I wasn’t thinking. You—you rather took me by surprise.’
‘Evidémment,’ he murmured. ‘I shall have to signal my intentions more clearly in future.’
Now how would Clare react to that? Andrea wondered confusedly. Coquettishly, probably, knowing her. But it was not a response she would dare to try with this man. His scarred face was unimportant. There was about him a kind of sensual magnetism which transcended ordinary physical appeal. Yet she should be able to handle him. She was used to working with men, treated as their equal. Any emotional involvements there had been, she had kept on the lightest possible level.
For one crazy moment she thought, ‘I’m frightened of him—frightened of what he could make me feel emotionally.’ And then a warning shutter came down in her mind, telling her that she was being nonsensical, and that her senses were playing tricks because she was overtired after the drive.
‘Did the journey cause you any problems?’ he asked, and it occurred to her that he spoke excellent English. She recalled that Clare had mentioned something about him having possibly spent some time abroad.
‘No. It’s not the first time I’ve driven on the Continent.’ She sounded impossibly stilted, she thought.
‘Perhaps not, but you did not give me the impression that you were totally confident in your driving ability.’
That was her first slip, Andrea told herself furiously. She might have known Clare would probably have poured out her numerous driving mishaps. She had a knack of making them sound feminine and absurd.
She shrugged slightly, making herself smile. ‘Well, I didn’t actually kill anyone on the way.’
‘God is merciful.’ The scarring gave him the look of a satyr, it occurred to her. ‘Permit me to take your coat.’
She tensed involuntarily as his hands came down on her shoulders, but this time his touch was as impersonal as she could have wished.
A heavy wooden settle stood on one side of the fireplace and he invited her to take a seat on it with a wave of his hand. He remained standing.
‘Dinner will not be long.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Would you care for an aperitif, or would you prefer to go to your room before the meal is served?’
‘I’m quite glad to be sitting still,’ she said frankly. ‘Besides, my cases are still in the car.’
‘Ah, yes. You will wish Gaston to fetch them.’ He tugged at a frayed tapestry bell pull hanging at the side of the fireplace and a bell jangled faintly in the distance. He walked over to the massive, heavily carved sideboard against one wall and picked up a bottle, turning to her with raised eyebrows. ‘Dubonnet? Or do you prefer sherry?’
‘Dubonnet will be fine,’ Andrea said rather helplessly. The situation was fast slipping out of her control. Here she was having a pre-dinner drink with this man as if he was merely her courteous host and nothing more. It was unthinkable that they were going to spend the evening mouthing a lot of polite nothings at each other. There was so much she needed to
