MARCEL, THE DE Lorvoire chauffeur, arrived at Montvisse a few minutes before eight o’clock the following morning. Claudine was ready and waiting in the small octagonal hall, wearing her blue velvet riding jacket, a high-necked ruffled blouse and a new pair of tailor-made fawn jodhpurs. Her hair had been coiled into a diamond-studded snood by Magaly, and in her gloved hands she carried her hat and crop.
After being endlessly quizzed by Tante Céline the previous evening about the time she had spent with Lucien, she had retired early to bed only to pass an almost sleepless night. She was still shaken, not only by her extraordinary and bewildering confession to Lucien that she was in love with François – which was absurd in the extreme – but by the way François himself had behaved after she lost her temper. Of course, she was under no illusion that his feelings towards her had changed, she knew perfectly well that he had merely been humouring her; but she couldn’t deny the pleasure it had given her to hear him admit to being jealous. She had no idea what it had cost him to say it, but she sincerely hoped it was a lot. Though that was unlikely, she realized despondently – as unlikely as that he would be losing any sleep over her. At that she had closed her eyes and drawn the sheets over her head, but pride made an uncomfortable pillow, and it wasn’t until the first light of dawn that she had finally fallen into an uneasy slumber.
Now, as she sat back in her seat behind Marcel on the way to Lorvoire, she was for once oblivious to the poppies springing up at the roadside, the wide open spaces around her filled with maize fields and vineyards, and the way the sunlight danced on the Vienne as they crossed the bridge at Chinon. She was too engrossed in what she was going to say to François that morning to think of anything else. Her decisions might have been more easily reached were François de Lorvoire not a man of such unpredictable and infuriating response. However, there was one thing she was resolved upon, even though her stomach reacted violently each time she thought of it, and she had as yet no clear idea of how she would approach it. But approach it she would. Why should she be subjected any longer to that abominable man’s game of procrastination? He was going to ask her to marry him – and he was going to ask her today.
When the chauffeur pulled up outside the château she remained in the car, waiting for him to open the door, flatly refusing to admit to herself that she was nervous. But there was no denying the sudden rise in her spirits when she saw that it was raining: perhaps there would be no rendezvous with François this morning after all! With a wry grin, she stepped out of the car. That man really does bring out the coward in me! she thought ruefully.
Jean-Paul, the butler, had his umbrella at the ready, and after greeting her with the respectful informality that was typical of the de Lorvoire household, he took her into the hall, then led her through the drawing-room to the library, where François was sitting in a leather armchair reading the newspaper.
The instant she saw him, Claudine felt as though a great cavern had opened up inside her, leaving her bereft of everything but her thudding heart. Quickly she averted her eyes, taking in the shelves of leather-bound books, the ornate writing desk, the grey marble fireplace … Behind her, Jean-Paul cleared his throat, and finally François looked up.
‘Ah, good morning,’ he said in English, and putting the paper to one side, he stood up. Then, sweeping an arm towards the window, he continued in French, ‘As you can see, it is not the weather for a ride. Perhaps later, if the rain subsides. In the meantime, may I offer you some breakfast?’
‘Just coffee, thank you,’ Claudine answered, pulling off her gloves and noting with relief that her hands were steady. François looked past her and nodded, then she heard the door close behind Jean-Paul.
The room was so quiet she could hear the clock ticking on the marble mantlepiece. François walked to the window, and lifting one shining black riding boot onto the window-seat, he folded his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. His hair was wet, and she wondered if it was from the rain or an early morning shower. Then, to her alarm, her skin started to burn at the thought of him taking a shower; it was extraordinary to think that one day they might share that kind of intimacy – that she would come to know the habits of this man. Looking at him now, she tried to imagine what it would be like to see him smile, to hear him laugh, to have him hold her in his arms and kiss her – make love to her.
‘You look rather pale this morning,’ he remarked. ‘Are you sickening for something?’
‘Er, no,’ she stumbled. ‘No, not at all. I didn’t sleep too well, I’m afraid.’
‘I trust there is nothing troubling you?’ His hooded eyes were regarding her intently, and the unmistakable challenge he had thrown her was enough to restore her equilibrium and bring the fire back to her veins.
‘As a matter of fact,’ she said, tossing her whip and hat onto a table, and sinking into a chair, ‘there is.’
‘I have a feeling,’ he said, turning and sitting on the window-seat to face her, ‘that you’re going to tell me what it is.’
‘And I have a feeling that you already know.’
His smile was odious in its arrogance, but he said nothing.
‘Lucien told me yesterday,’ she went on, ‘that if you have something unpleasant to do, then it is your custom to dispense with it as quickly as possible.’
‘My brother knows me well.’
‘Then I should appreciate it if you were to ask me to marry you now, and have it done with.’
If he was surprised at her bluntness, he didn’t show it. ‘But surely, asking you to marry me can hardly be described as dispensing with something disagreeable,’ he said.
The ambiguity of this remark did not escape her. ‘You are suggesting that instead of dispensing with me, you will be tying yourself to me?’
He inclined his head and sat back, blocking the window with his huge shoulders. ‘If that is the way you wish to interpret it …’
Fortunately, since she was at a loss for what to say next, the door opened then, and Fabienne brought in the coffee which she set out on the table beside Claudine. As she started to pour François rose to his feet and waved her away.
‘So,’ he said, as he poured the coffee himself, ‘the lady is eager for my proposal?’
She almost snatched the cup from him then set it back on the table and sat forward in her chair. ‘Why do you have to be so damned difficult about this? We both know why I am here, you have spoken to my father already, so why don’t you put us both out of our misery?’
‘Misery? You really are eager, Claudine.’ His picked up his cup and perched on the edge of the table. After a while he lifted his head to stare out of the window, giving her the distinct impression that his mind was elsewhere.
Her jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth in an effort to hold back her anger. ‘Aren’t you in the least bit intrigued as to what my answer will be?’ she said stiffly.
‘I already know what your answer will be,’ he answered. ‘If you were going to refuse me, you would have left Touraine by now.’
‘Perhaps I wanted to give myself the satisfaction of seeing your face when I turned you down,’ she said in an icy voice.
‘Perhaps,’ he admitted. ‘But I doubt it.’
Her outrage was swallowing her words at such a rate that her mouth was opening and closing in the most mortifying silent fury, and for one horrible moment, just for the need to make a noise, she came very close to thumping her hand on the table.
Her temper seemed to amuse him, and wandering over to the chair facing hers, he settled into it, resting one foot on the other knee and leaning back with a critical air, as if he were assessing a theatrical performance.
‘I have never,’ she declared, ‘in all my life, met anyone as utterly detestable as you. You make me say and do things I never dreamed of doing before this. I had no idea, until now, that I was even capable of feeling such dislike as I feel for you.’
‘It cheers me to hear it. At twenty-two it’s about time you grew up.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that you have all the hallmarks of an over-indulged child. It’s high time your eyes were opened to the reality of the world and the people in it. You will find, I’m afraid, that not everyone is as nice, or as obedient to your whims, as you would like them to be.’
‘How dare you say that! How dare you even suggest …’
‘I dare,’ he interrupted. ‘Also, I will not be dictated to. If you want a proposal of marriage from me, you will get it when I am ready and not before.’
She leapt to her feet, and gathering up her crop and hat, she stalked out of the library, through the drawing-room and into the hall.
‘Claudine,’ he said, strolling out behind her, ‘it is raining outside and you don’t have your car.’
‘I don’t care,’ she snapped. ‘I’d rather walk home than stay another moment in this house with you.’ And flinging the door wide, she ran out into the rain.
Any thought she might have had that he would follow her was firmly dispelled when the door closed behind her. For the moment she was too angry to care, and with her head held high she marched off down the drive, furious with herself for having been so spineless as to run away, but too proud to turn back. But by the time she approached the gates she was regretting her hastiness even more; apart from anything else, it was a very long walk back to Montvisse.
Then she heard the gratifying sound of a car crunching along the gravel behind her, and with the smug feeling of having scored a victory, she stuck her nose in the air and quickened her pace, determined that he should beg before she deigned to get in. But as the car pulled alongside, she saw that it wasn’t François who was following her, but Marcel.
Without a word, she climbed into the back of the Bentley. However, instead of turning out of the drive onto the forest road, Marcel put the car into reverse and took her back to the château, where François was waiting at the bottom of the steps.
He opened the car door and waited for her to get out, but she stubbornly refused to move. In the end he reached in, took her by the wrist and hauled her out.
She stood facing him, her limpid blue eyes flashing with rage. Neither of them spoke, but the air between them was charged with antagonism. In the end he raised an eyebrow, as if suddenly bored with the whole charade – and before she could stop herself, she had lifted her crop to strike him. In one swift movement he snatched it from her and passed it to Marcel.
‘Go inside,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ she seethed.
He took a step towards her, and grabbing her hand, he twisted it between them. ‘Either you walk back into that house of your own volition, or I drag you. The choice is yours.’
‘Why?’ she cried, willing herself not to struggle no matter how painful his grip. ‘Give me one good reason why I should!’
‘Because there is something I wish to say to you that I think you would prefer I didn’t say here, in front of Marcel and all the other servants who are no doubt watching from the windows.’
Once they were back in the library and he had closed the door behind them, he waited for her to turn and face him.
‘Well?’ she said, trying not to be thrown by the appalling contempt in his eyes.
He regarded her for some time, then in a chillingly matter-of-fact tone he said, ‘I don’t want to marry you, Claudine. I don’t want you as my wife.’
‘Then what the hell am I doing here?’ she spat. ‘You’re the one who made the agreement with my father.’
He walked past her to stand in front of the empty hearth. ‘Do you think I imagined for one minute that you would seriously entertain the idea of an arranged marriage?’ he said, turning to face her.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she shot back. ‘It’s not so unusual. Hundreds of people marry by arrangement.’
‘But you have no need to. Your father was quite adamant about that, even to me. So why don’t you go back to England and marry someone there? From what I hear, there are plenty of suitable men who would be only too happy to oblige.’
That brought a smile to her lips and she sauntered towards him, stopping at the table where the coffee was laid out. ‘And from what I hear,’ she drawled, as she started to pour, ‘there are plenty of women in Paris simply longing to hook you. So why me? Why enter into an arrangement with my father?’
‘You already know the answer to that.’
‘Meaning that I was your father’s choice, not yours?’
‘Isn’t that what arranged marriages are all about?’
She nodded slowly. ‘But now you are faced with it, you haven’t got the guts to go through with it. Is that right?’
‘It’s not a question of guts.’
‘Then what is it a question of?’
When he didn’t answer, she took a sip of the lukewarm coffee. Her eyes, over the rim of the cup, were holding his. ‘What’s the matter, François?’ she said, replacing the cup on the table. ‘Isn’t she suitable?’
‘Isn’t who suitable?’ he said, with a sigh of exasperation.
‘The woman who is my rival for your affections, of course.’
He closed his eyes, and turning to lean against the mantleshelf, he rested his head on the heel of his hand. The last thing he wanted now was an argument about Élise Pascale. ‘Who are you talking about, Claudine?’ he said.
‘I believe her name is Hortense,’ she answered.
Not a muscle of his body moved, but she was acutely aware that the air in the room had suddenly changed. Then, before she knew what was happening, his hand shot out and he jerked her towards him. The expression on his face was horrifying. His pupils were boring into hers with blinding hatred, the gruesome scar was pulsating with life, and the fire of his breath scalded her face. ‘Who told you about Hortense?’ he snarled.
‘No one,’ she answered, doing nothing to break free.
‘Then how do you know her name?’
‘I heard it at a dinner party.’
‘What do you know?’ he growled, pulling her even closer. ‘What did they tell you?’
‘Nothing!’ she cried. ‘Nothing at all!’
‘Then why call her a rival?’
‘Well, isn’t she?’
His lips curled with loathing and he pushed her away. She fell across the chair behind her, hitting her head on the winged back. ‘You disgust me,’ he spat.
‘Isn’t she?’ she repeated, in a virulent whisper.
He didn’t answer, but she could see that his control was still very close to breaking.
‘Why don’t you marry her, François?’ she goaded. ‘Or won’t she have you?’
‘Leave it, Claudine,’ he warned, ‘just leave it.’
‘Not until you tell me …’
‘I said leave it!’ he roared.
But she couldn’t. Something inside her was making her push him, and she could not stop it. ‘Who is she, François? Tell me. You loved her, didn’t you? You loved her, but she didn’t love you.’
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back.
‘But there’s more to it than that,’ she went on. ‘There has to be, or …’ The old duchess’s words swept into her mind then. ‘Poor Hortense, how we all still miss her.’ ‘Where is she, François? Where is your beloved Hortense? Did she run away with someone else? Did she …?’
His fist crashed against the mantlepiece as he yelled, ‘She’s dead!’
Claudine sat motionless, her eyes wide with shock as she stared up at him. The word was still there, hanging in the air between them as if it had cast a paralysing spell.
Finally he pushed the hair back from his face and looked up. Then, as he stared at her, his mouth started to twist in a sadistic smile. ‘Would you like to know how she died?’ he sneered. ‘Would you like to know how Hortense de Bourchain lost her life?’ Claudine started to shake her head, but he went on. ‘I killed her, that’s how. I killed her. It’s how I received the scar on my face – you wanted to know that too, didn’t you? Well, Hortense did it! She scarred my face and I killed her for it. I murdered her. So, do you want to marry me now? Do you want to marry a killer?’
Claudine flinched as if he had hit her, then closed her eyes as his face started to swim before her. She was too agitated to speak, too horrified to look at him again, and yet at the same time something deep within her was forcing her to look beneath the terrible words, compelling her to understand why he was doing this. Then, almost without knowing what she was doing, her head snapped up, and looking at him through a blaze of anger she hissed, ‘Yes, I’ll many you!’
It was a long time before he tore his eyes from hers. At last he did and walked across the room to his father’s desk, where he stood with his back to her. She watched him, waiting for him to speak. In the end he turned to face her, and leaning against the edge of the desk, he said, ‘So you’re prepared to marry a killer?’
She pulled herself up from the chair and went to stand in front of him. Then raising her chin so that she was looking clear into his eyes, she said, ‘No, I’m going to marry a liar.’
His laugh was harsh. ‘A liar, she says. And what makes you so sure I’m lying?’
‘Because you are,’ she said. ‘You’re doing it to stop me wanting to marry you.’
He lowered his head, then looking up again, he sneered, ‘Go home, Claudine. Go back to England.’ When she merely continued to stare at him with those unnervingly beautiful eyes, he laughed. ‘You’re nothing but a child! A child in a woman’s body.’
Still she didn’t answer, but watched as his expression changed to one of savage amusement.
‘You would like me to make you a woman?’ he said nastily.
She looked down as he lifted a hand and laid it over her breast. Then she looked back to his face.
‘Why do you want to marry me, Claudine?’ he said.
‘Does there have to be a reason?’
His eyes narrowed, then it was suddenly as if the fight had gone out of him, and shaking his head slowly, he said, ‘No,’ and put his hand back on the table beside him.
It was odd, she thought, that the only sensation she could feel was his hand on her breast, even though he had taken it away. She knew that at any moment the life would return to her body, that she would be able to move again, but as long as his eyes held hers it was as though she was imprisoned by his scrutiny.
As if he knew the effect he was having on her, his mouth curled in disdain. ‘You’ll live to regret this day, Claudine. You think yourself clever now for the way you wrenched a proposal from me, but in a year from now, ten years from now, you’ll look back on this day …’ He stopped, and as his eyes swept across her lips she felt her breath start to quicken. ‘What does it matter?’ he said. ‘It’s your life, not mine. If you want to throw it away … Shall we set the date?’
Before she could answer, the door burst open and Solange came bounding across the room in a hair-net and dressing-gown. ‘Oh là là, I knew it was going to happen today!’ she cried, gathering Claudine into her arms. ‘I had the feeling, in the middle of the night. I woke Louis to tell him. Oh, François, mon cheri, she is going to make you such a wonderful wife. I am so happy. We must tell Jean-Paul to bring the champagne. Monique! Where is Monique! She must call Céline and tell her to come right away. Ah, Claudine, you are going to make my Louis such a happy man today.’
As Claudine returned the embrace, her eyes found François’, and with the briefest flicker of his brows he acknowledged his defeat.
‘I don’t suppose,’ she said, as Solange went rushing off to find Jean-Paul, ‘that I stand any chance of a more romantic proposal?’
‘You suppose correctly.’
She leaned her head to one side and studied him for a while. ‘Do you really despise me?’
‘It is difficult to despise someone for whom one has no feelings at all.’
A smile spread across her lips, then she began to laugh as she retrieved her hat and crop and walked to the door. When she reached it, she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘As I said before, I am going to marry a liar,’ she declared, and with a triumphant grin she turned to follow Solange from the room.