lavender rather than the more popular lavandin.
“The lavandin actually produces more oil per flower,” the guide told them. “The family has a separate property a few kilometers away, which provides the bulk of their harvest. Here at Château d’Usay, however, they continue to grow lavande fine as they always have.”
The family certainly liked to maintain its tradition, didn’t it? Jenna crouched to take a picture of the spiny purple flower up close. The deep purple blossoms reminded her of Philippe’s eyes.
After a visit to the fields, where they were given a lesson on Provençal climate and agriculture, as well as ample photo opportunities, their group made their way across a limestone pavilion to the château itself, the final stop before they visited the lavender store. It was in the fields that the knot had morphed into a full-blown headache. Making matters worse, today’s tour guide had a high-pitched voice that turned into a high pitched squeak whenever she feigned enthusiasm. She must have chirped the phrase, “In the world!” at least a dozen times, her voice piping upward each time.
The group made their way up the front steps, where they found themselves in a large marble entranceway dominated by a large staircase. Several audible sighs could be heard as the temperature dropped several degrees.
Their guide pointed to a portrait guarding the entrance. Simon and Antoinette d’Usay, captured many years after the painting in the castle. Although both had gray hair and were noticeably heavier, their eyes were still sharp and intimidating. “This is Simon and Antoinette d’Usay, who built the château after the First World War. It’s considered one of the finest examples of French Renaissance Revival architecture in the world. I’m sorry, sir, the staircase is off-limits.”
She was talking to one of the older tourists, who had moved too close to the velvet rope blocking the stairs. “Those lead to the family’s private rooms.”
“Does the Comte d’Usay still live here?” someone asked.
“We do not use titles in France. They were eliminated with the revolution. To answer your question, however, Monsieur d’Usay lives most of the year in Arles. Although he does visit from time to time. Now, follow me through these doors. The next room we’ll see is the main salon, or as the family called it, le Salon des Fleurs.”
Jenna hung in the back of the line as the guide led the group through the double doors. No way she was going to handle that voice for the entire tour without taking an aspirin. There had to be something for sale at the store. Surely, she wasn’t the only person to take the tour and suffer from lavender overload.
Her sandals made a tiny squeaking noise on the tile as she turned around.
“Running away, Mademoiselle Brown?” a familiar voice asked.
Philippe? Her ears had to be playing tricks on her. Why would he be touring the mansion? When she looked to her left, however, there he was. Walking down the stairs in a pair of faded jeans and a white linen shirt that gaped ever so nicely. As opposed to her mouth, which simply gaped. What on earth?
He grinned, the dimple in full bloom. “Didn’t I tell you our paths would cross again?”
“Yes, but how did...?” Wait a second. Jenna rewound her thoughts. He was coming down the stairs. Where the family stayed.
“No way,” she said. “You can’t be...”
“Can’t be what?” Stepping off the bottom step, he sidestepped the velvet barrier to join her at the room’s center. “You aren’t wearing your little whales today,” he said.
Took her a moment to realize he was referring to her shorts. After noting yesterday that none of the other women at the resort wore shorts, she’d ditched them in favor of a Lilly Pulitzer shift and platform sandals. The pink tropical print still marked her as an American tourist, but at least she was slightly more stylish.
“No,” she replied.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you. What were you doing upstairs?”
“What do you think?”
“You work here?” But even as she asked, she knew the answer. He was dressed too casually, and his eyes sparkled too brightly for an employee.
“How could I possible work here and at the hotel?” he asked before leaning in and adding, “That is what you thought yesterday, is it not?”
“You were wearing a hotel uniform.”
“Was I?”
Yes. The same dark suit as the concierge and desk manager. Granted, his was more finely tailored, and he hadn’t been wearing a name tag, but...
She looked over her shoulder at the portrait on the wall, before looking back to Philippe. He bore the same regal carriage as Simon and Antoinette.
“Philippe d’Usay, at your service.” He swept his arm wide and bowed. “Welcome to Château d’Usay.”
Shoot. Her. Now. “Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d known, I would never have...”
“Been such relaxed and enjoyable company?” he supplied. “Precisely why I didn’t correct your mistake. You have to understand, everyone in Avignon knows who I am. I found it refreshing to meet someone who did not.”
How nice for him that she could be a novelty. She wasn’t sure what was worse—her mistaking him for an employee or his deception. “Must have been very entertaining, having to give me that tour.”
“It was.”
And what if she’d said yes to his dinner invitation? How long would he have carried on the masquerade? Through the meal? Later? “Well, bully for you.”
“Jenna, wait. I’m not explaining myself well. You think I was playing a game.”
“Weren’t you?” Her eyes traveled to where he’d caught her hand as she tried to turn away. The gold signet ring on his little finger gleamed against his tanned skin. Ten to one that was a d’Usay family crest engraved on it. She felt like such an idiot.
“Not the way you think. I did not intentionally mean to mislead you.”
Jenna raised a brow.
“All right, it was intentional, but it wasn’t malicious. I told you, everyone in the valley knows who I am. When I realized you didn’t recognize me, it was a chance for me to be simply Philippe, without all the baggage that comes with being a d’Usay.”
Sure, and Jenna had a Roman bridge she wanted to sell him. The man wasn’t even trying to look apologetic. His eyes twinkled with amusement.
“You don’t really expect me to believe that line, do you?” she asked.
The dimples appeared. “It was worth a shot.”
Of all the... She should be annoyed by the deception. She should be insulted. In fact, she should be a lot of things. Smiling was not one of them. But darn if she couldn’t help catching his good humor.
“Didn’t
