Darkest Longings (3 page)

her when he was ready.

Five minutes later they were lying naked on her bed. For a

long time he lay still as she kissed and caressed him, then

finally he pushed her onto her back and stood up. As she

watched him, every pulse in her body throbbing, he walked

to the foot of the bed, took her ankles in his hands and

dragged her to the edge. Then he hooked her feet around

the two posts, caught her hips between his hands and lifted

her to meet him. She could feel the tip of his penis brushing

against her, and almost choking on the intensity of her

longing, she looked down as slowly he eased himself into

her.

Within minutes she was writhing, gasping, sobbing as he

pounded his body against hers; his fingers dug into her

buttocks, then caught her breasts and pulled hard on her

nipples. He watched her face, waiting until she had lost all

sense of everything beyond what he was doing to her. Then,

knowing his own control was about to break, he quickly

pulled her up and pressed his lips brutally over hers.

Her legs gripped his waist, her nails clawed his shoulders,

then she was crying out his name, and he was shooting his

semen into her with rapid, excruciating strokes.

When it was over he lay down on the bed beside her, and

she snuggled against him, resting her head on his chest and

curling a, leg over his. He didn’t speak for a long time, and

she knew that his thoughts had long since moved from the

confines of that room. If she was lucky, though, they would

make love again before he left.

And probably they would have, had she not made the

grave mistake of telling him something she had overheard

when she had dropped in at the Hungarian Embassy ball in

the early hours of that morning.

An ominous silence followed her words. Then he asked

her to repeat them.

‘It would appear,’ she said, smiling to cover her unease,

‘that L’Anglaise has seen fit to reveal the secret of your

forthcoming nuptials. All of Paris is talking about it.’

Still he didn’t move, but as she reached up to pull his face

round to hers, he swung his legs to the floor. She started to

protest, to ask where he was going, but one glimpse of his

expression was enough to tell her that she would be wise to

keep silent.

Celine du Verdon stretched her long legs across the window

seat, allowing her pastel cotton dress to fall open almost to

mid-thigh. Her dark blonde hair was loose, falling in natural

waves around her shoulders, and her delicately lined face

was for once free of make-up. The tall windows beside her

were open, and she inhaled deeply the rich, earthy aroma that seeped up from the rain-spattered lawns. Now the sun was shining again, scorching the gardens with an intensity

unusual in early June. At the end of the wide, sloping lawns

the doves were poking their faces warily out of the dovecote,

and somewhere out of sight she could hear the gardeners

beginning work again.

She was sitting in the spacious airy drawing-room she

had favoured since her arrival at the Chateau de Montvisse. With its faded oriental rugs, matching pair of japanned sofas, three giltwood armchairs and secretaire-cabinet behind the door, it was a pleasant change from the over-furnished salons and parlours of Paris. Of course, she was a Parisienne

at heart, and nothing would ever change that, but though it

hurt her to admit it, the strain of being one of the city’s great

society hostesses was becoming a little too much - Celine du

Verdon was getting older. With the exception of her

brother-in-law, Beavis Rafferty, there wasn’t a soul in the

world who now knew her true age. Even she became

confused on the rare occasions when she put herself to the

task of remembering, something she did only when Beavis

was around, for he took much delight in reminding her that

she was exactly the same age as he was, to the day: fifty-one.

Younger sisters were such mischief-makers, Celine

thought. It really had been too tiresome of Antoinette to

inform her husband of this inconsequential fact. Dear

Antoinette, how she missed her - how they all missed her.

But there was always darling Claudine, who was so like her

mother that seeing her gave almost as much pain as it did

pleasure.

Glancing at the ormolu clock, the sole occupant of the

mantleshelf, Celine gave a gentle sigh, slipped off her shoes

and curled her feet under her like a schoolgirl. It was

approaching four in the afternoon. The humidity outside

was unendurable but, protected by the old stone walls of the

chateau, the rooms inside were wonderfully cool and still

… And then there was a curt knock on the door, before it

swung open.

‘Yes, Brigitte?’ Celine sighed, closing her eyes. She and her

maid had been together for so many years that she could sense

Brigitte’s presence as accurately as she could her moods.

‘Madame,’ Brigitte said stiffly, ‘your guests will arrive very

soon now.’

‘Yes?’ Celine answered, drawing out the word and

knowing full well what was on Brigitte’s mind.

‘I implore you, madame, to make yourself presentable.’

‘What do you mean, Brigitte?’

Brigitte’s small frame pumped up with outrage. ‘It is not

fitting for a lady such as yourself to be without stockings, madame. And that dress, pah! You look like a lady who sells pegs on the side of the streets.’

‘Brigitte, I adore you. And I adore you most of all when

you are angry with me.’

‘Madame, I am very angry. You are mocking me, and now

all the servants are laughing at me because I cannot dress

you correctly. Why do you have to hurt me like this?’

Celine felt a flutter of sympathy, and was just beginning to

resign herself to going upstairs to change into the smart

afternoon suit dear Coco had created for her when the

sound of a car on the gravel drive told her it was too late.

Beavis and Claudine had arrived. She had to struggle to

hold back the laughter as she saw the stricken expression on

Brigitte’s face.

‘Come here, Brigitte,’ she said, as she unwound her legs

and pulled herself gracefully to her feet.

Obediently Brigitte crossed the room, her rubber soles

squeaking, her starched uniform rustling, and allowed

Celine to fold her into an embrace. The overwhelming love

she felt for her mistress swamped her pride and brought

tears into her eyes.

‘Now,’ Celine said, releasing her, ‘come with me to greet

Claudine. You know how you have been longing to see her.

So let’s forget my appearance, because it really isn’t

important.’

‘Oh, madame, how can you say such a thing?’ Brigitte

gasped, but Celine was already sweeping out of the room.

Outside, in the small octagonal entrance hall, Pierre, who

had been waiting all afternoon for the arrival of Monsieur

and Mademoiselle Rafferty, leapt up from the conversation

seat where he had been dozing and threw the front doors

wide.

‘Tante Celine!’ Claudine cried, stepping from the car as

her aunt’s tall figure emerged from the darkness of the

doorway.

‘Ma cherie,’ Celine laughed, as her niece embraced her.

‘How are you? Let me look at you. Oh, but you’re so

beautiful you are dazzling my eyes. And that hat. Where did

you get it cherie, it is simply divine. And your hair, so much

hair, so wild and such a colour. How can I have forgotten

such a colour?’ She sighed wistfully as she tousled the

coppery black curls. ‘Oh Claudine, it has been too long

since I have seen you. But you are here now.’ And she

hugged her again.

‘Do I get one of those?’ Beavis’ deep voice demanded.

Celine looked up, and as her eyes softened into a smile

meant only for him, she passed her niece into Brigitte’s

more formal embrace and turned to her brother-in-law.

‘What a pleasure,’ she purred. ‘How happy I am to see

you both.’ Her body trembled with the memory of the last

time Beavis had held her in his arms. Sensing that he too

was remembering, she allowed her hips to brush gently

against his before slipping out of his arms. It was a pity that

there would be no lovemaking on this visit, but they had

discussed it during his most recent trip to Paris and had

come to the conclusion that neither of them wanted to run

the risk of Claudine finding out. She might not understand,

might even think they had been conducting a liaison while

her mother was still alive - though Beavis had loved

Antoinette far too much ever to be unfaithful, and Celine,

while not quite so circumspect where other lovers were

concerned, would never have done anything to hurt her

sister.

‘You are breathtaking, Celine,’ Beavis told her, his grey

eyes twinkling mischievously as he held her at arms’ length

and looked at her. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen you quite so

… quite so … No, I am lost for words, but the countryside

evidently agrees with you. You look like a teenager when you

must be …”

‘I’ll have Jean bring us some champagne,’ Celine cut in

quickly. ‘I do so love champagne at this time of day, don’t

you, cherie?’ she said, slipping an arm around Claudine’s

shoulders.

‘I love champagne at any time of the day, Tante Celine,’

Claudine informed her, ‘and so do you. Oh Papa!’ she cried,

suddenly, ‘we’ve left Tante Celine’s gifts in the car,’ and she

tripped lightly back down the steps to where Pierre was

trying to balance the brightly-coloured packages one on top

of the other.

‘Gifts? For me?’ Celine sighed, wondering how her niece

managed to look so cool in such heat. ‘Ah, how like her

mother she is. Everyone must have a gift for every occasion.

Beavis, you must be impoverished by now with such

extravagance in your family.’

But for once Beavis’ attention was not on his daughter. ‘If

you insist on looking so desirable, Celine,’ he said, ‘this pact

of ours is not going to be easy to keep.’ He spoke in English,

so that Brigitte and the other servants who had collected in

the hall to welcome them wouldn’t understand.

‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea anyway,’ Celine

murmured, aware of the warmth that was spreading through

her body. ‘But for now we shall content ourselves with a

glass of champagne, before I show you around this funny

little chateau I’ve taken for the summer. I have put you in the

west tower, mon cher, where I thought you might be less

tempted to bumble about in the night trying to find me.’

‘How very thoughtful of you. But the kind of temptation

you exercise, Celine, makes light work of the darkest

corridors and stairways. And by the way, I resent the

suggestion that I might bumble.’

They passed an extremely pleasant hour sipping

Roederer and extolling the virtues of Chinon, the medieval

town which lay along the banks of the River Vienne, five

kilometers from Montvisse. Their chauffeur, Claudine told

Celine, had given her and Beavis a guided tour along the

quai and through the narrow cobbled streets, where the

houses built for the servants of Charles VII at the beginning

of the fifteenth century were not only still standing, but still

lived in.

‘And the chateau!’ Claudine cried. ‘How can the French

have allowed such a tragedy? It sits there at the top of the

hill, right above the town - a ruin! Even so, it’s enchanting,

Tante Celine - we must visit it before you return to Paris.

Do you think we’ll be allowed inside? They say Joan of Arc

was there once …’

Celine watched her niece move round the room and

listened to her rich, honeyed voice. She had been to London

only twice since Claudine’s return from New York, but on

both occasions had found herself marvelling at the way her

niece had changed. It wasn’t only that the child had become

a woman; the woman had, over and above her extraordinary

beauty, something so compelling about her that it almost

took your breath away. She had a confidence, a sophistication

Celine had believed it impossible to attain in a city like

New York - and yet at the same time there was an impish

naivete about her, a freshness to her sophistication, that

made Celine feel both old and young at the same time. And

the happiness, together with the self-mocking humour that

shone from those extraordinary wide and slanting eyes, was

so infectious that it wasn’t any wonder Claudine drew a

crowd around her wherever she went.

But the thing about Claudine that had most disturbed

and delighted Celine when she was last in London was her

incredible body. If ever there was a body made for love, it

was Claudine’s. Those magnificent full breasts, the curvaceous

hips, the endlessly long legs, were almost a miracle.

And her skin, so soft, so honey-pale, and so inviting …

Plenty of men Celine knew, had been crazy for Claudine.

And on the occasions when she had seen her niece naked,