Forbidden or For Bedding? (15 page)

‘Won't you sit down, Mademoiselle Harcourt?'

With a posture that was regally elegant, Madame de Rochemont indicated one of the pair of silk covered sofas. As Alexa lowered herself down, her head in a whirl, Guy's mother took her place opposite her. Her green eyes flicked briefly over Alexa's habitually groomed appearance, as if she were assessing her.

Alexa's thoughts were reeling. What on earth was going on? Why was she here? Why on earth had Guy's
mother
wanted to see her?

‘Thank you so much for coming, Mademoiselle Harcourt. I have wanted to meet you for some time.'

Alexa could only stare, nonplussed. All her expectations had been overset, and she could make no sense of what was happening. Then, a moment later, enlightenment dawned.

‘I wanted to thank you in person,' Madame de Rochemont said, ‘for the portrait you made of Guy. He presented it to me for my birthday last month. I am very pleased with it.'

‘I…I'm so glad,' Alexa managed to get out.

‘And I am also,' said Guy's mother, and now there was a different note in her voice which Alexa could not place, ‘very grateful for it.'

Alexa gazed at her. For a long moment, Madame de Rochement simply looked back at her. Alexa had the
strangest feeling she was being placed in a balance and weighed. Then, abruptly, the moment ended.

‘I understand you have been traveling?' said Madame de Rochemont. ‘The Middle East. An unusual choice for a young woman.'

‘I—I wanted somewhere different,' Alexa managed to say, wondering why Guy's mother should have gone to the trouble of finding out where she had been these last weeks.

‘Indeed. But it is not a part of the world where young women tend to go on their own,' observed Madame de Rochemont.

Still reeling, Alexa tried to gather enough composure to make an appropriate answer. ‘I was treated with great respect,
madame
—I did not court attention in any way, and my hosts were kindness itself.'

‘You were there some time?'

‘I worked,
madame
. Painted. The desert has a beauty of its own.'

‘Of course. Tell me, do you plan to exhibit your work?'

Alexa shook her head. ‘My talent, such as it is, is moderate only. Portraiture allowed me a comfortable standard of living, and I am grateful.' How she got the words out, made this simulacrum of normal conversation when her head was reeling, was quite beyond her, but she did it somehow.

‘You are very modest,
mademoiselle
.'

There was a tone in her voice that Alexa could not interpret. Her eyes went automatically to an exquisite seventeenth-century Claude beside the mantel, depicting a classical mythical episode in a vast landscape. ‘It takes only a single great work,
madame
, to make anything else impossible,' she replied candidly.

Guy's mother inclined her head slowly. ‘Yet modesty,'
she said, ‘may go hand in hand with not inconsiderable natural gifts. The portrait you made of Guy confirms that to me. You have captured him well.' She paused, her eyes never leaving Alexa's.

Alexa swallowed, fighting for composure, remembering all that had come about because of that portrait. Remembering, with burning pain, how she had finally come to complete it, her heart torn to shreds by the man she was depicting. Then… ‘Thank you,' she managed to get out, her eyes dropping to the floor. She could not look at Guy's mother. ‘I wonder,
mademoiselle
, if you would consider painting me, as well as my son?'

Alexa's eyes few upwards. She swallowed again. Madame de Rochemont was regarding her, her gaze slightly questioning.

‘I—I am sorry. No.' Alexa's reply seemed staccato, blunt, even to her own ears.

‘No?' The arched eyebrows rose delicately. The questioning look was still in the eyes. More than questioning. That sense of being evaluated came over Alexa again. She felt her cheeks colour slightly. More than ever she wanted to get to her feet and walk out—as fast and as far as she could.

‘I—I am sorry,' she said again.

There was a pause—the very slightest. ‘Perhaps you would tell me why,
mademoiselle
.' It was politely said, but there was a hauteur in it that Alexa could hear clearly. She knew why—a
grande dame
such as Madame de Rochemont would not be used to hearing blunt refusals, especially to a commission that was intensely flattering, not to say valuable and prestigious.

Alexa pressed her lips together, trying to find an answer. ‘I no longer practise portraiture,
madame.
I am so sorry.'

‘I see. Would I be correct in thinking, therefore, that my son's portrait is the last you have made?'

Into Alexa's mind came the vivid, violent portrait that was the demonic twin of the one that had been a birthday gift for Guy's mother.

‘My last professional portrait, yes,' she replied. ‘It was a commercial commission. Done only for money.' Her voice was flat.

‘Of course,' said Guy's mother. ‘Why else would you wish to paint my son's likeness,
mademoiselle
?'

Alexa looked away. Back to the Claude beside the fireplace. She studied the figures, tiny against the broad pastoral expanse. One of the figures, at least, was blending into the landscape. It was Daphne, at the moment of her transforming into a laurel bush to escape the attentions of Apollo.

I escaped as well—becoming a recluse, hiding from life. Hiding from Guy. From what he wanted of me.

She looked away again, her gaze colliding with that of Guy's mother. The air froze in her lungs and dismay drowned her. Realisation dawned.

She knows. She knows what I was to her son…

Her face paled. Panic rose. Without conscious volition she got to her feet. She had to go now. Right now.

‘I am sorry, Madame de Rochemont, but I must go.'

Guy's mother did not stand up. ‘Before you do, I have a favour to ask of you.'

There was something different in her voice. Alexa didn't know what it was. Didn't know anything except that she had to go. Escape.

‘I'm so sorry, but I really can't undertake the commission you mentioned—' she began, her voice hurried.

Madame de Rochemont held up a hand. A graceful, imperious gesture, cutting her off. ‘That is not the favour,' she
said. Her voice was dry. Her expression was as unreadable as ever, but there was a tension in it suddenly. She paused a moment, then spoke. ‘I would like you to go to France. To talk to Guy.'

Alexa froze, disbelief in her eyes. Had she really heard what she had? Had Guy's mother really said that? Why? Why on earth…?

Words formed in her throat. Words that were impossible to say—impossible to get out—certainly not in front of this formidable
grande dame
who was Guy's mother, and who
knew
about Alexa and Guy. But she must say something…

‘That isn't possible.' Alexa's voice was flat. As flat as a butterfly crushed by a rock.

‘Why?'

Alexa's face closed. ‘I think you will agree,
madame
,' she said, with stony formality, ‘that it would not be
comme il faut
.'

The green eyes, so like the eyes she had once drowned in, widened slightly.

‘I do not understand you,' said Guy's mother.

Alexa pressed her lips, clenching her hands in her lap. She looked directly at Madame de Rochemont. ‘But your daughter-in-law would,
madame
,' she said.

The older woman's face stilled.

‘Ah,' she breathed slowly. Her eyes were fixed on Alexa. She got to her feet. ‘You must forgive me for insisting,' she said, ‘but it is imperative that you talk to Guy.'

‘I have already said everything necessary.' Alexa's voice was clipped. This was unreal—surreal. Standing here in front of Guy's mother, who was telling her to talk to her son.

About what, precisely? About how his marriage is
going? Is that it? What on earth is going on here? It doesn't make sense—any of it.

‘But my son has not,' said Madame de Rochemont. ‘And that is why you must go to France, to talk to him.'

Alexa stared, giving in. ‘Look, what
is
going on?' she demanded, the edgy formality gone completely. ‘I'm sorry if I sound impolite, but nothing here makes sense. Why am I here? What do you want of me, and why? I will be open with you—as I take it that you know that, much to my regret, my relationship with your son progressed beyond the professional one of client and artist. I had a brief affair with Guy last year—that's all. It meant…' She swallowed, but ploughed on. ‘It meant as little to him as you might imagine. He informed me of his engagement, and terminated the relationship the same day. And,
madame
,' she emphasised, restraining herself from saying anything about Guy's subsequent attempt to restart it, ‘the relationship remains terminated. If that is your concern, then you have my assurance that—'

Again, an imperious gesture with the hand silenced her. ‘The only assurance I ask for is that you accede to my request to talk to my son.'

Alexa's chin went up. ‘To what purpose?' she said bluntly. Her eyes met those of his mother—defiance in hers, his mother's unreadable.

‘For the future happiness of my son,' said Madame de Rochemont.

Alexa's eyes closed. ‘He may be as happy as he wishes,
madame
—it is nothing to do with me. I hope…' She took a breath, opening her eyes again to look straight at the woman who was asking something of her that was inexplicable and impossible to agree to. ‘I hope he has a long and happy marriage.'

Something moved in the emerald eyes.

‘So do I, Mademoiselle Harcourt. Any mother must wish that for their child. Which is why it is essential for you to talk to Guy.' She started to walk towards the door, and Alexa followed. ‘It will take very little of your time,' said Guy's mother, talking over her shoulder. ‘A car will take you to the airport, and you will be at the château in under two hours.'

‘
Madame
, I cannot—'

Guy's mother stopped. Turned. ‘Please,' she said.

What was it in her face, her eyes, that made Alexa stop as well? She bit her lip a moment, then simply nodded and said, ‘All right. If you insist.' She gave a bewildered sigh, half throwing up her hand in concession. ‘I don't understand why you are set on it—I cannot begin to imagine what you think it will achieve.'

‘I think that Guy's wife,' said his mother, and her eyes met Alexa's full on, ‘will find it the making of her marriage.'

So that was it. Now Alexa understood. She might have assumed the wrong Madame de Rochemont earlier, but it was indeed Madame Guy de Rochemont who needed assuring that Alexa did not pose a threat to her marriage. So, in order to allay her fears, the woman her husband had set up to provide an adulterous liaison had to be flown in, so that Guy could tell her to tell his wife—who had somehow found out about Alexa—that she was not, in fact, her husband's mistress.

She took a breath. ‘I will do this,
madame
, but only on the condition that I will be free of further contact with any of your family. I want nothing more to do with any of you. I'm sorry if that sounds rude, but my life has moved on and that is that.'

The unreadable look was back in Madame de Rochemont's
eyes. ‘As you wish,
mademoiselle
,' was all she said. ‘Come—'

She led the way out of the room. Outside, one of her members of staff was waiting, and Guy's mother spoke to him in rapid French. Then she held out her hand to Alexa.

‘Thank you.'

Reluctantly, Alexa shook the outstretched hand. ‘
Madame
,' she said formally. Then, clutching her bag more tightly than was necessary, she followed the member of staff back down the curving marble staircase. Her mind felt quite, quite numb.

A
LEXA
was still feeling numb as she took her seat on the private de Rochemont jet. It was familiar to her. She must have travelled on it half a dozen times, perhaps, during the months with Guy. The extravagance of it had shocked her, but he had been blunt about it.

‘It saves time,' he had said to her.

And time was what he'd had least of. At any rate for her. So she had gone along with it, this outrageous extravagance, burning who knew how many carbon units, paying half a dozen salaries for the personnel required for a flight, simply to get herself, the woman Guy de Rochemont currently wanted to have sex with, to him at the time he wanted her.

I put up with it. I went along with it. I colluded with it.

Condemnation of her own behaviour bit at her.

I was as complicit as he was. Because I wanted to be. I wanted him on the terms he offered—because they were the only terms on offer. I told myself it was all right. It worked for both of us. That that justified it.

But it didn't.

I should have had the strength, then, to say no to those terms. To say no to him.

But she hadn't. She had gone along with it, made no demur, no question. Accepted it all.

Well, she had paid for it in the end, though. Paid for it even sooner than the end. Paid for it the moment she'd realised, with dawning dismay, that she had started to fall in love with Guy de Rochemont. And from that moment onwards he had held her to ransom. Held her heart to ransom. And her self-respect.

Well, she had her self-respect back again now. She had said no to being the mistress of an adulterous bridegroom, and she would make that clear to Guy's bride—as it seemed he now wanted her to do. Alexa should be glad that he cared, glad that he was finally showing consideration to the poor girl he'd married. Perhaps their marriage stood a chance now.

She must be glad of that.

What else could she be?

As the plane winged its brief way across the Channel, she made herself say that over and over. Ignoring the fingernails that were trying to scratch at her heart.

Let me get through this. Let me get through this and come away again. Back to the life I am going to lead now. The only life left to me.

A voice spoke at her side, making her turn her head.

‘Miss Harcourt? The captain's compliments. We are starting our descent, and should be landing on schedule.'

The stewardess smiled politely at Alexa, and Alexa murmured something appropriate. Inside, her stomach started to knot. She took a breath, and then another. She could get through this. She
would
get through this. She must.

It was a mantra she repeated as the plane landed at a small private airfield west of Paris, and repeated again as she was escorted to a waiting limousine. It whisked her quickly and efficiently away, down a brief stretch of
major roadway, to turn off after some miles onto a smaller country road. The weather was glorious, a perfect late afternoon in early summer, with the sun dipping low, turning the world to ripeness all around her. As the car slowed and turned down another narrow road, then drew up briefly to pass through ornate iron gates set in a two-metre high perimeter wall, she felt the knot tighten. She looked about her as the car moved along the smooth, long drive, curving through ornamental woodlands until it was clear of them to make visible a sight that made Alexa's breath catch.

Château Rochemont, a Loire château, was like something out of a fairy tale—palest grey stone and pointed towers, surrounded by vast, ornate parkland. As the car drew up at the front entrance and Alexa was ushered out, she glanced around as if she must surely see sauntering lords and ladies of the court, dressed for the very
fête
she had seen in the painting in Madame de Rochemont's London drawing room a bare two hours ago.

It's a different world—unutterably, incomparably different!

And it was the world Guy lived in. The one he'd visited her from, dipping into her modest bourgeois life to collect what he wanted from her, then leaving again to come back here. His home. Where he lived.

With his bride. His wife.

Her face closed. That was all she must remember—all that she must hold in her head. Nothing more than that.

She was ushered indoors—expected, that much was obvious. The huge entrance hall, with mirrors and gilt and chandeliers and a vast double staircase, took her breath away, but she showed no visible reaction. Her expression stayed closed. Composed.

Sang-froid
—that was what she needed now. What she called upon.

Outwardly calm, she followed a member of staff along a wide
enfilade
stretching along to the right-hand side of the hall, then through into what seemed to be a separate wing. Her low heels tapped the parquet flooring and seemed to echo in the panelled corridor. Deliberately she did not look along the walls, though she was aware there were paintings everywhere, and niches holding statuary, which instinctively wanted to draw her eyes to them. But she steeled herself not to, steeled herself only to keep walking, ignoring the knotting in her stomach, until at length a pair of double doors was reached at the end of the corridor and the servant knocked discreetly at them.

A muffled, terse,
‘Entrez—'
and the doors were opened for her. She walked in.

The room was double aspect, at the far end of the wing, and at first she saw only the huge sash windows in front of her and to her left-hand side. Then she saw a desk—huge, ornate.

Behind it sat Guy.

For a moment, just a moment, she saw his expression as it had been before her entry. Something like a blow struck her. There was such a bleakness in his face, such wintriness in his eyes! It was sudden pain, hurting her. Then, as he took in her presence in the doorway, his expression changed.

His face was transfixed. Completely immobile. As if a mask had dropped down over his features, shielding them from her. Then slowly, very slowly, he got to his feet. Distantly, Alexa heard the double doors behind her click shut.

‘Alexa.'

Her name, nothing more. She had heard him say it in that bare, stark way before. But that time, at the cottage in Devon, it had been said differently. Emotion, dark and
turbid, had been heavy in it. Now it was blank—completely blank.

She turned to face him fully. Face him, but not see him. She refused to see him. Refused to see his tall, lean figure, sheathed in a hand-made suit that fitted him as if it were moulded to his broad shoulders, his svelte hips. Refused to see the perfect planes of his face, the fall of his sable hair, the shape of his mouth, his jaw. The emerald, long-lashed eyes…

She refused to drown in them.

Her face was stony, as blank as his. Beneath the surface she could feel her stomach knot itself again, her lungs tighten. But she ignored it. It was imperative to ignore it.

‘I was told you wanted to talk to me.'

Her voice was brusque.

His eyebrows drew across sharply. ‘By whom?' he demanded. His voice seemed rough. She didn't care. Didn't care about its roughness. Didn't care about him. He was lost to her. For ever. And she did not care about that either. Must not care…

‘By your mother,' she answered.

The mask vanished. Astonishment whipped across his face. ‘My
mother
?'

‘Yes, this afternoon. She invited me to visit her and told me you wanted to talk to me. She said it was important.' A heavy breath escaped her. ‘So I have come.'

He seemed to be gathering his control.

‘I find it…hard…to believe that,' he said slowly. His voice was harsh, grating at her. His eyes bored into hers, and she felt their force making her stance unsteady. ‘When last I saw you, you made it very…clear…that you wanted nothing more to do with me.' He stood looking at her, his gaze like a knife to her flesh. ‘I know what you think of me, Alexa. You made that unmistakable. Convincing.' His
face tightened. ‘Every line in that portrait on your easel told me that. Told me of your hatred for me.' His eyes darkened like a sunless forest. ‘I should have told my mother about it. Then she would not have wasted her efforts getting you here.'

Alexa took a breath. Hard and heavy. Ignoring what she saw in him. Ignoring what it did to her.

‘She said—' she took another breath ‘—it was important to your marriage. That's why I came—only for that reason.'

Guy stilled. ‘My marriage…' He echoed the words. His brows snapped together disbelievingly. ‘My mother talked to you about my marriage?'

She gave a rasp in her throat. ‘It wasn't my idea—don't worry,' she said scathingly. ‘She raised the subject. She said it was important I come here. Talk to you.' A heavy breath escaped her. ‘So I have. I can only assume—' Her lips pressed tightly as she made herself say what she had to say. ‘I can only assume that she means it's essential that your bride—' she said the word without the slightest trace of emotion, despite the knot in her stomach tightening like a ligature around a bleeding vein, oozing her lifeblood out of her body ‘—hears from me that I am no threat to her—that I never succumbed to your adulterous offer.'

‘My bride.' His voice was flat. Stark. His eyes were veiled again, all emotion gone.

‘Yes.' Alexa took another effortful breath. ‘I don't know what chance of happiness she has, but what little I can give her I do. I wish her happiness—all that she can find.'

His eyes were on her. She could not read them. They were masked, opaque.

‘That is…generous…of you,' he said slowly.

There was something different about him, but she could not tell what. She dared not look at him, dared not meet
his gaze. But there was something different in his stance somehow, though he had not moved. He was immobile behind his desk, one manicured hand resting on its mahoghany surface. He was speaking again, and she made herself listen. Made her eyes meet his.

‘Well, I can tell you,' he was saying, his eyes on hers, unreadable and veiled, but seeming all the same to be boring deep, deep into her, ‘what I hope will reassure you, Alexa.' He paused, his eyes resting on hers like lead. ‘Louisa is very happy in her marriage. Blissfully happy.'

Alexa swayed. Pain bit like a wolf, tearing at her throat. She made her mouth work. Forced it to work.

‘I'm…glad. I'm very glad for her.'

‘So am I,' said Guy. His eyes were still holding hers. ‘She is deeply in love with her new husband.'

The wolf was tearing now, biting out her throat. ‘I'm…I'm very glad for her,' she said again.

I must be glad. I must! She deserves that—every bride deserves that!

And every bride deserved a husband who loved her. Her expression changed, emotion rising in her throat, making her take a half-step towards him.

‘Guy—' she spoke impulsively ‘—be…be kind to her! Don't do to her what you were planning on doing. Not with anyone. Please don't. If she's in love with you, don't hurt her—don't hurt her the way you hurt—'

She broke off. He was looking at her strangely, through that veiled mask.

‘Did I, Alexa?' His words were slowly spoken. ‘Did I hurt you?' There was something strained in his words. Did he feel bad that he had hurt her? she wondered.

She pressed her lips. Tried to look away, but could not. Yet she could not meet his eyes either. Then she spoke—admitting all, her voice drear, her words heavy.

‘You didn't mean to, Guy. I know that. I know that the affair we had was…what it was. You were not responsible for my reaction to it. I chose to go along with it, with the affair, and the responsibility for my reaction is mine and mine alone. I should never, that night after the charity gala, have let you…let you…'

She swallowed, unable to finish. Then, with a shuddering breath, forced herself onwards. ‘You have never been responsible for my feelings. And even if I deplored what you proposed—some adulterous, clandestine liaison—then that still does not make you responsible for what it did to me.' Her hands clenched at her sides. ‘When you hunted me down, turned up at the cottage assuming I would come back to you simply because you wanted me to, I was glad you saw that second portrait. It spoke for me. Said everything!'

His eyes were pressing in on her, but they had changed. She could not tell how, or why, but they had all the same. She shut her eyes to shield herself from what was in his that she could not bear to see, then opened them again.

‘What you wanted of me I no longer wished to give,' she said. Her words fell like stones. ‘Even without the adulterous offer I would not have wanted it.' Her face worked. ‘Flying here in your private jet reminded me all over again. How I'd been flown to you when you wanted me, and then flown home again. How you'd arrive when it suited you, and then leave again. I didn't want that.'

His expression tightened. ‘You knew the limitations I was under from the start,' he said.

‘I knew what they meant about what I'd thought I'd had with you.' She lifted her chin. ‘It took me a long time, Guy, to face up to that. It wasn't until you made your…proposition…to me that I made myself see it. It showed me what I'd been to you all along—'

‘What I'd been to you?' he echoed, cutting across her like a blade falling. He moved suddenly, abruptly, coming around the corner of the desk to face her.

He was too close, much too close, but she was too frozen to move.

‘Do you know what you were to me, Alexa? Do you?' His voice was animated, urgent suddenly. ‘You don't seem to know at all! I thought you did—but then—' his face twisted again ‘—I thought a lot I no longer think…' He spoke again, his eyes flashing now, green fire burning in his face. ‘Look about you,' he ordered. His hand gestured, encompassing the high-tech equipment along one side of the room, the wide mahogany desk behind him, the lavish decor of the room, the vast domain of the château beyond the sweeping windows. ‘What do you see?'