A Place of Storms (12 page)

For a shattering moment, her too-vivid imagination made her feel what it would be like to be in Blaise's arms, with only that fragile white cloud as the sole tantalising barrier between them… She shook her head violently, pressing her hands against her eyes to dispel the image, digging her nails into her flesh so that pain would replace the other, pleasurable sensations she had to ignore.

And ignore them she must, if she was to emerge from this affair with her self-respect. He must be made to see that his usage of her was to be restricted to the cold legalities of their original arrangement. She would not be seduced by his gifts or forced into submission by the brutality of his kisses.

She swung herself off the bed and walked to the door, carrying the parcel containing the nightgown. She was counting on the fact that he would be downstairs and that his room would be deserted, and her instinct was right. She shook the nightdress free of its wrappings, and not without a pang of regret for the lovely thing it was, tore it from neckline to hem until it was in rags. Then she threw the remnants across his bed and ran back to her own room as if she was being hunted by the devil.

Andrea put down her untouched glass of champagne and wandered over to the window. The sky had been overcast and threatening all day, and now that threat was being fulfilled in long silver spears of rain, dashing themselves against the ancient panes. She leaned her forehead thankfully against the cool glass. The pins which Madame Bresson had lent her to secure her coiffure seemed individually and collectively intent on impaling her scalp, and the weight of the veil was dragging at her neck.

She was alone, for the first time that day it seemed. Blaise had gone out into the hall to bid goodbye to Monsieur le Cure, and the local doctor who had lingered behind after the other guests who had come back to drink their health at the chateau had departed.

Andrea had smiled and murmured thanks for their rather boisterous congratulations until she thought her face would break in half with the effort of it all.

She heard the heavy outer door close, and swung round waiting for Blaise to reappear. In the formality of a dark suit and white shirt he seemed even taller and infinitely less approachable than he had ever been. A silence seemed to hang between them, heavy and brooding.

Andrea cleared her throat. 'Have—have they gone?'

'Yes.' He raised his brows interrogatively. 'Why do you ask? Are you so anxious to be alone with me?'

She felt the colour creeping into her cheeks, and sought to mask her embarrassment. 'That's hardly likely, is it?' she said, her tone deliberately insolent.

His eyes narrowed slightly. 'Have a care,' he warned her, and she felt her stomach muscles contract nervously.

There had been no opportunity for private conversation between them up to now, so she had no idea what his reaction had been to her destruction of his gift the previous night. But at the same time as she had stood at his side at the Mairie and later in the small parish church of St Jean des Roches, she had been nervously aware of—something —some kind of strong emotion only barely held in check. Outwardly there was no glimpse of it. His eyes when they met hers were veiled, and when he had bent to claim the traditional bridal kiss after the Cure had pronounced them man and wife, his lips had barely grazed her cheek.

These signs of indifference should have been reassuring, but she did not feel consoled in the slightest. She now regretted her hasty action from the bottom of her heart. It would have been far better to have put the nightdress away in a drawer and pretend it did not exist. She realised that now—now that it was too late. And she could not even apologise about it, without revealing the importance the incident had assumed in her mind. All she could do was ignore the whole thing, and hope that he would do the same.

Her head was really aching now, and in an effort to relieve her tension she unfastened her coronet and veil and took them off, pulling the remaining pins from her hair and letting it tumble round her face.

She thought she heard a muffled sound from Blaise, and her eyes flew, startled, to his face. But she must have been mistaken, for he was quite impassive, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette and lighting it. She moistened her lips.

'Is it all right if I change now? We—we shan't have any more visitors today, shall we?'

His mouth twisted derisively. 'I imagine not. Our— privacy will be respected, for what it is worth.' He looked her over. 'Why are you in such a hurry to change? You look very beautiful as you are.'

She swallowed. 'I'd be more—comfortable in something else,' she said awkwardly. 'There's no reason for me to go on wearing this dress. I've done as you asked—played the part to the best of my ability. Now I'd like to be myself again, that's all.'

'And what is this self you are so anxious to recapture?' He blew a reflective smoke ring. 'You are now Madame Blaise Levallier,
ma mie
. Perhaps you should remember that.'

'I'm not likely to forget it,' she muttered, her eyes drawn unwillingly to the wide gold wedding ring he had placed on her finger only a few hours before. She lifted her hand. 'I have a constant reminder.'

'But hardly a permanent one.' He took off his jacket and draped it carelessly over the back of one of the dining chairs. 'Perhaps I shall think of a way to make your new identity more real to you,
madame
.'

She was instantly wary, but she forced her voice to normality, disguising her nervousness. 'I've thought of one already.'

'Indeed?' His smile mocked her. 'You fascinate me,
ma ch
è
re
.'

'I know our marriage is only a nominal one,' she went on steadily, 'But does this also apply to my position in the household?'

'What are you talking about?'

'Madame Bresson told me that she hoped to have some time to devote to—other things, once we were married,' she said. 'Is this your intention? Am I going to have any real authority here?'

His face was enigmatic. 'What authority do you wish?' he drawled.

'There are a lot of changes that could be made to the benefit of the chateau,' she said. 'I'd like to try and make our living quarters a little less stark, for one thing. I have some money of my own,' she added defensively. 'Can I have a free hand or do I have to refer everything to you first?'

'I should have to sanction any major items of expenditure,' he said. 'I prefer that you do not use your money for this purpose. I am not yet totally poverty-stricken, you know.'

'I didn't imagine you were.' She bit her lip. 'I—I'd like to help, though.'

'I am not rejecting your assistance—just requesting that you confine it to practical matters.' He walked over to her and put a hand under her chin, smiling faintly at the rebellion in her face. 'If you wish, you could begin by preparing a room for Philippe. Now that we are married, my lawyer will be communicating with Simone, informing her that his custody should be transferred to me. He may be joining us very soon.'

'I see. How old is Philippe?'

'He will soon be five.' He was silent for a moment. 'It does not disturb you—having to assume responsibility for a child you have never met?'

'I like children,' she replied unthinkingly, and coloured furiously at the amusement in his eyes.

'I shall have to bear that in mind,' he told her smoothly, and she glared at him impotently, jerking her chin free of his hand.

'Now may I go and change?'

'If you must.' He shrugged rather wryly. 'I warn you, Clothilde will be scandalised. She already disapproves because I would not allow her to put your clothes in my room while we were at church. I mention it merely because she comes from a robust generation and may decide to give you a motherly lecture on your duties as a wife.'

'Oh.' She looked away, embarrassed. 'What did you tell her?'

'Are you sure you want to hear? You might not be very pleased.'

'Indeed!' She guessed indignantly that he had insinuated she was frigid, or something equally unflattering. She heard him laugh softly as she swept past him to the door.

Safe in her room, she discarded her wedding dress with a feeling of relief. It was too delicate and fragile, and made her feel utterly vulnerable. Jeans and a sweater were an altogether safer proposition, she thought optimistically, but once she had changed she was not so sure. She studied her reflection with a frown, noticing how well the denim pants fitted her, outlining her hips and thighs. She had never in her life felt as self-conscious about her body as she did now, she thought rebelliously, crossing her arms across her breasts. It was ridiculous to start gauging the possible effect of every garment she put on like this. Nor had it ever been necessary—until now.

She picked up her hairbrush, dragging it ruthlessly through the remaining tangles. With her hair curving softly on to her shoulders, and a trace of blusher to disguise the unnatural pallor of her cheeks, she looked almost herself again.

Blaise was nowhere to be seen when she went downstairs. Doubtless he too had gone to change, and catch up on his day's work. Apart from the litter of plates and glasses in the dining room, there was nothing to suggest that this was different from any other day. Her wedding day, such as it was, was over, she thought, and crushed down the inevitable realisation that her wedding night was still to come…

She began to tidy the dining room, looking round her speculatively as she did so. It was the room they used the most, so it seemed sensible to make a start there, she thought, viewing the faded folds of the heavy brocade curtains at the windows with a disparaging eye. They had been a rich gold colour once. She knew that because she had unpicked part of the hem to check on the original colour, and she felt they must have looked most attractive against the dark panelling. The cost of similar brocade today would probably be prohibitive, but she thought she might be able to obtain the colour in a different material, using any that remained to cover some cushions for the settle. The furniture must obviously stay as it was. She was no expert, but she was sure most of the items were antiques. The carpet too had once been a glorious affair, but it was now worn to a neutral brown colour. Andrea thought it might be better to discard the carpet altogether, and dress up the flagged floor with rugs.

She carried some of the used glasses through to the kitchen, where Madame Bresson was washing up between intervals of preparing the evening meal.

Her eyes went over Andrea rather reproachfully, but she said nothing, only agreeing with enthusiasm when Andrea announced that she was about to organise the sleeping quarters for Philippe. Hastily drying her hands, she offered to accompany Andrea upstairs to look over the available bedrooms.

Before they had seen half of what was there, Andrea had realised resignedly she had taken on quite a task. Most of the rooms were large, and filled with massive, old-fashioned furniture. Not at all the environment she would have chosen for a five-year-old, she thought worriedly.

She voiced her anxieties to Madame Bresson, who clearly did not comprehend what she was getting at. In Madame's eyes, any of the chateau's rooms were more than worthy to accommodate M'sieur Philippe. She could not see that the gloomy hangings and dark forbidding furniture were any drawback at all.