Forbidden or For Bedding? (9 page)

Impatiently, Guy decided to cut through the flam. ‘Where is Louisa?'

His blunt question brought an instant prevaricatory response, which only irritated him further.

‘You must make allowances,' added Annelise in a saccharine voice. ‘Of course she is anxious to make the very highest impression on you, Guy, knowing how demanding your taste in the fairer sex is. She is bound to want to look her very best for you. Your reputation is quite formidable, as you must well know. Ah, look—' the relief was plain in her voice as her eyes went to the staircase, ‘—here she is now!'

Guy turned. Descending the staircase was Louisa.

His intended bride.

And anyone looking less like the prospective Madame Guy de Rochemont it would have been hard to find.

For a moment, as vivid as a splash of scarlet in a monochrome photo, another image imposed itself—elegant, soignée,
superbe
…

He thrust it away. He had done with it now.

At his side, he heard Louisa's mother give a click of exasperation and dismay. And he could see why. Her daughter had clearly made no effort whatsoever for the occasion. She was wearing jeans, a jumper and trainers, her hair was in a ponytail and her face was bereft of make-up.

‘Louisa, what are you
thinking
of?' demanded her mother.

Her father had gone red—a mix of chagrin and anger.

Wariness flared in the wide brown eyes as Louisa approached. ‘I didn't have time to change,' she answered. ‘And what's the point, anyway? I've known Guy for ever. He knows what he's getting.'

There was a flicker of defiance in her question, and Guy felt himself in sympathy. Louisa's preference for casual style might not fit with what he himself preferred, or what the world would expect of his wife—every eye would be pitilessly upon her—but that was not her fault any more than her father's ambitions for his daughter were—or the mess Heinrich had made of his bank.

Guy's frustration worsened. If there had been any way—any at all—of calling Heinrich's infernal bluff, he would have done so. But the damnable thing was that the man was right. Any visible sign of a bail-out—internal or otherwise—of Lorenz Investment would, at this delicate stage in consolidating Rochemont-Lorenz against the recession, send danger signals ricocheting around and beyond the confines of the dynasty. The potentially disastrous consequences could, at worst, have a domino effect, taking down a lot more than Heinrich's bank. With sufficient time Guy knew he could nail any potential danger, ring-fencing Lorenz Investment, but time was not what he or the bank had. Which was why Heinrich—damn him!—had
argued the case for this archaic and Machiavellian dynastic solution.

‘My dear boy…' It was a form of address that had set Guy's teeth on edge when Heinrich had disclosed his master plan for not just saving his bank and his own skin, but achieving personal advancement within the clan. ‘It is the perfect solution! A union between our two branches provides the perfect occasion for closer financial ties—what could be more reasonable? There will be no occasion for press speculation or undue attention from the financial analysts. Any financial…adjustment—' his choice of anodyne term for
bail-out
had further angered Guy, already feeling the edges of a man trap closing around him ‘—can be made entirely painlessly,' Heinrich had concluded breezily, blithely skipping over the punishing financial cost of what it would take to protect Lorenz Investment against its toxic debts, incurred solely because of Heinrich's rash and greedy strategy for over-expansion.

He had provided in an unwise coda. ‘Why, a hundred years ago such an…investment—' now he was presenting the bail-out as a commercial opportunity, Guy had thought viciously ‘—would have been regarded as a fitting bride-price! Cemented, of course—' he'd smiled with bland optimism at his prospective son-in-law ‘—with a position at your right hand on the senior global executive board.'

Guy's answer had been short and to the point.

‘This is a salvage operation, Heinrich. Nothing more. And be aware,
very
aware, that I undertake it solely for the good of us all. This debacle is of your making—survival is your only reward.'

Heinrich had bridled, then changed umbrage to bonhomie.

‘And yours, my boy, is my daughter. It's an ideal match!'

His words had rung hollow, and now, as Guy's gaze rested on Louisa, their echo rang even more hollow. Louisa was a pretty girl, and the casual outfit suited her brunette, gamine looks, but Guy knew with a sharpening of the knife that had been stuck between his ribs by Heinrich that they were not the looks
he
sought in a woman.

The image he had banned from his mind because it belonged to the past, not the future, tried to gain entry. Once more he thrust it aside. Alexa had been an affair, nothing more, he reminded himself brutally—that was all he must remember about her.

Now, like it or not, he had to come to terms with what his future was going to be. A future with Louisa von Lorenz in it. She was standing there, her unvarnished appearance making her look more suited to being a chalet girl than chatelaine of a hundred-room
schloss
.

Louisa's father barrelled forward, seizing her arm. ‘Get back upstairs and get changed immediately!' he hissed at his wayward daughter.

Guy stepped forward.

‘Quite unnecessary,' he said. ‘Louisa—'

His eye contact with her was veiled, concealing his simmering frustration. He did not want to take it out on the hapless Louisa. Then he turned back to Annelise.

‘Shall we go in to dinner?' his hostess said brightly, clearly wanting to move the evening on.

Wordlessly, Guy slipped his hand beneath Louisa's woolen-clad elbow to lead her forward towards the vast panelled dining room beyond.

With iron self-control, he tamped down the dark, bitter emotions scything through him.

A
LEXA
was painting. Painting and painting and painting. She'd been painting all week. A new commission had arrived, and she had gone into overdrive. Imogen had lined up at least two more portraits, and Alexa was thankful, knowing that her friend had done it deliberately. So far she'd managed to hold herself together, though when Imogen had come round that first evening she'd come very close to cracking. Imogen had urged her on—but Alexa would not oblige her. Would not even let her call Guy a bastard. Let alone allow her to give all the details about his forthcoming marriage.

‘You should
know
!' Imogen had wailed.

But Alexa had only said, ‘What for?' and refused to let her friend say more.

Even so, it had been impossible to silence her completely.

‘According to the internet and the press, quoting the girl's mother, this Lorenz cousin has been groomed to marry Guy de Rochemont for
ever
! There was a really yukky bit about how the daughter had been brought up to take her place at the head of the whole damn dynasty. Like they were royalty or something!'

‘Well, there
are
some titles washing around,' Alexa had pointed out, keeping her answer reasonable—for being
reasonable was essential. So was being composed. And calm. Very calm. ‘And obviously there is the
“de”
and the
“von”
in the names. So they are clearly aristocracy in that sense.'

‘Inbred, too!' Imogen had muttered darkly.

Alexa had not responded. Her consciousness had been filled with a memory of Guy, walking out of the shower, his honed, water-beaded torso as perfectly planed as his face. ‘Inbred' was
not
a word to describe him…

Then, something Imogen had said snapped her mind back.

‘…their only daughter—just turned nineteen…'

‘What?' She stared at Imogen. ‘What did you just say?'

Imogen nodded, glad she had finally pricked Alexa's calmness. She thought Alexa should be spitting with rage against Guy for having so unceremoniously dumped her. ‘Yup, his precious family bride is only nineteen!'

Alexa had paled, shocked by the disclosure. ‘She can't be! Guy's in his thirties. She'd be almost fourteen years younger than him. Nearly a whole generation!'

Imogen smiled nastily. ‘So, cradle-snatcher as well, then—plus complete bastard!'

Alexa flinched. ‘Immie, don't. Please.' Then she plunged on, ‘But I can't,
can't
believe he'd marry someone that young.'

‘He'll probably enjoy a young wife. Someone naive and easy to manipulate. Someone he can impress. Make a fool of.' She cast a dark look at Alexa. ‘Though you don't have to be nineteen to be taken for a ride by Guy de Rochemont!'

But Alexa was still too shocked to react to the jibe. ‘She can't be only nineteen,' she echoed.

‘Well, she is. And don't tell me he won't find it conve
nient. He'll be able to pocket her dowry—Daddy's bank!—to add to his collection, and then after a night deflowering her he can set up a sophisticated, grown-up mistress—like you were, Alexa, whether or not you like that word—and sow his oats with
her
, not some inexperienced little teenage virgin!'

Alexa's lips pressed together. ‘Immie, don't. That's a completely unwarranted accusation! Guy would never do that! Be unfaithful to his wife.'

Imogen laughed harshly. ‘Oh yeah? Wanna bet? Honestly, Alexa, you're as naive about him as if it was
you
who was nineteen!' She glared at her friend. ‘You just don't get it, do you? Face the truth, Alexa—Guy de Rochemont
used
you! He treated you appallingly. It's unbelievable. He turned up whenever he wanted and there you were, waiting and willing. Or if he decided he could fit you into his oh-so-busy schedule, he had you flown out to him—like some whore!' Her voice sharpened, her expression fierce. ‘He used you for on-demand sex, Alexa!'

‘No!' Alexa's denial was automatic, instant.

‘Yes,'
insisted Imogen.

Alexa shut her eyes, twisting her head away. Imogen's ugly words seared into her brain.
No!
she wanted to cry out again.
It wasn't like that! It wasn't!

Denial fought with doubt.

Imogen hammered home her condemnation.

‘Guy treated you like dirt—why shouldn't he treat his wife like dirt too?'

‘Stop it—I won't let you say such things about him!' protested Alexa, clinging to denial. ‘You don't know him, Immie. I do.'

Imogen looked at her. ‘
Do
you?' she said.

Alexa closed her eyes. Inside her lids, a thousand images and memories replayed themselves.

Then, ‘Yes, I do,' she said, as she opened them again and let her gaze rest unflinchingly on her condemning friend. ‘Guy is not like that. I know. I know you didn't like the way he came and went, but I'll tell you, and I'll tell you again and go on telling you, I was OK with it. It suited us both.'

Imogen just nodded. ‘Right. So will it suit you when he swans back into your life and suggests picking up again where you left off, because his honeymoon's over?'

For a moment as brief as the stab of a knife emotion leapt in Alexa's throat. Then, very carefully, she answered.

‘That isn't Guy. Whatever the reasons he's marrying—and for all I know he's loved her for years and has been waiting for her to grow up—' She ignored the derisive snort from Imogen at this fairy-tale explanation. ‘He'll treat her honourably. Why shouldn't he?'

Imogen just looked at her. ‘Because,' she spelt out, ‘he didn't treat
you
“honourably”, that's why. And, Alexa, you're no Carla Crespi—she's as hard as nails and must have
ambition
written all the way through her like a stick of rock. So what excuse was there for the way he treated you? Apart from the excuse
you
keep coming up with? Saying you
liked
being treated like that! OK, OK, I won't go on about it any more—I'll just leave you to find out the truth for yourself. Because I'll bet you, hand on heart, that that painted little doll he's marrying won't keep him between her sheets. I will bet you the sum of one hundred pounds—cash down, Alexa—that he'll be running to another woman, wedding ring on his finger or not!'

‘You're wrong,' said Alexa. Her teeth were gritted, her throat tight.

But Imogen had only levelled her remorseless gaze on her. ‘One hundred pounds. On the table. And I,' she said, ‘am going to win it.'

 

Hairpin bends snaked along the mountain side, heading towards the pass into Switzerland, away from the ducal
schloss
and his future bride. Guy drove fast and furiously, the powerful engine of his low, lean car eating up the curves along with the miles. The concentration it required to negotiate the precipitous Alpine road was a welcome—necessary!—diversion for his mind.

How the hell had he ended up in such a damnable situation?

But the question was pointless. Rhetorical. He knew very well how—had played it out a thousand times in his head. It didn't matter how he cut it, marrying Heinrich's daughter was the safest way to protect Rochemont-Lorenz. And protecting Rochemont-Lorenz was his job. His purpose. Just as it had been
his
father's and his father's before him, for over two hundred years. The weight of dynasty, destiny, pressed down upon him.

As he climbed the pass his eyes were bleak. It was nothing new, carrying such a weight. And for some it had been far worse than his burden. Only two generations ago his great-great-uncle Lorenz had liquidated his assets a week before the Anschluss of Germany with Austria, banking the remainder in a Swiss vault rather than let the Nazis sequester it. The gesture hadn't gone unpunished, and his great-great-aunt had become a widow, her husband ‘disappeared' into Nazi prison camps.

Her sister-in-law had divorced the husband she'd loved to marry one of Hitler's top cronies, who'd fancied such a prestigious wife, in order to halt any further ‘disappearances' in her branch of the family—and to preserve what she could of the Polish branch of the bank, first from Nazi and then Communist despoilation.

After the war another cousin had courted Stalin, funding Russian industry despite his father-in-law being despatched
to the gulags for being a ‘dissident intellectual' with his academic work suppressed. Even in less drastic times personal fulfilment had always been put aside for the sake of what was best for Rochemont-Lorenz.

His own father had wanted to be a professional sportsman—but what use would an Olympic rower have been to the family? So he'd become a banker instead—steering the family fortunes through the EC corridors of Brussels and Strasbourg and the opening up of the former Eastern bloc, and marrying a woman he did not love because it was a match that profited the family, whose perpetual requirements outweighed the petty emotions of individual members. Petty, transient emotions, that would not last if they were starved sufficiently, denied sufficiently.

Emotions as petty as desire. And more than desire…

That waterfall of pale hair, the slender, graceful body, the porcelain skin, and those grey, luminous eyes widening in wonder as the moment came upon her…

Guy's hand gripped the gear lever, shifting up to match the engine speed. What use to think of such things? To remember a time when he'd been free—free to have Alexa in his life? That was in the past. In the future was following in his parents' footsteps. Doing as they had done. He took another hairpin, faster than he should, as though by driving fast he could escape the inescapable, and thought about his parents' marriage. Neither had loved the other, but they had married all the same, and made a pretty good job of it along the way. Respect and consideration went a long way in a marriage.

Would it do the same for his?

The question hung in the high mountain air.

And found no answer.

Only as he glanced upwards, seeing an eagle soaring on
thermals, came the sure and certain knowledge that such freedom as the eagle had would never be his again.

Ahead of him, the dark mouth of the road tunnel started to open, swallowing all that entered. He depressed the accelerator and let himself be swallowed up.

 

‘It's good that she is so young.' The voice speaking was beautifully modulated, and it was impossible to tell from it what its owner thought—other than the words expressed.

‘Too young.' Guy's answer showed all too clearly his disquiet.

His mother paused momentarily in her needlework. Outside on the parterre an autumn leaf eddied intermittently. The sky was grey above the Loire château, but there was still light in the air, and the ornamental trees marching along the boundary of this section of the gardens still held their leaves, despite the season. Along the gravel, a peacock strolled disconsolately, his tail furled.

‘It's an advantage,' Claudine de Rochemont said. ‘It will make her impressionable to your charms. It would be good for her, Guy, if she fell in love with you. It would not be hard for you to make that happen, you know.' Green eyes, so similar to her son's, rested on him.

Her son frowned. ‘God, no!' he exclaimed feelingly. ‘How could you hope for such a thing? Unrequited love is the very last thing I would want for her! None of this mess is of her making, and I certainly acquit her of any ambition to marry me.' He gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Her appearance at dinner was enough to convince me of that. She had no design to attract me. She had neglected to change out of her jeans—Heinrich and Annelise were not pleased.'

‘No, I imagine they would not be,' observed his mother. ‘But Louisa is very pretty, Guy—Annelise took pains to
send me the studio shots she had done in the summer. Too overdone, but that's just Annelise's taste. Underneath the bones are good.'

‘Pretty?' echoed Guy condemningly, and said no more.

He did not want ‘pretty'. His eyes veiled, masking memories.

His mother glanced at him assessingly. ‘Not all women can aspire to the allure of Signorina Crespi,' she remarked dryly.

Guy gave a slight shrug but said nothing, aware that his mother was still looking at him. He glanced at his watch. He wanted out of this conversation, but knew he owed his mother the courtesy of letting her raise the subject. He could hardly exclude her.

‘So, what are the plans in respect of the wedding?'

He glanced back up at her. ‘I have no idea. It is not imminent.' His lips pressed tightly. ‘Despite Heinrich's eagerness!'

His mother nodded. ‘That is sensible. Such affairs should not be rushed. I must get in touch with Annelise. And of course Louisa must visit here too.'

‘I suppose so,' said Guy heavily. He glanced at his watch again. ‘Maman, you must excuse me. I have a dinner engagement in Paris. The helicopter is on standby.'

Again that speculative look was in his mother's eyes. ‘A personal engagement?' she ventured.

Guy's expression closed. ‘No. Business.' He paused, then said deliberately, ‘I know enough, Maman, to follow the conventions! The only press coverage about me outside the financial press will be in respect of Louisa. And now, forgive me, I must go.'

He took his leave, dutifully kissing his mother on her scented cheek, and strode off. From her place on the Louis
Quinze sofa his mother watched him go. Her expression was troubled. A long engagement for a man like her son, fêted by women and used to their enjoyment, was not a good idea. Louisa von Lorenz
was
young—but a pretty, adoring young bride, swept off her feet by a handsome, sophisticated and experienced husband, could make a workable marriage. And who knew? A softening look in her eyes. Perhaps an adoring young bride would finally inspire her son to do what would be best for him—fall in love.