Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (10 page)

‘That’s good news.’

‘Yes.’ But it meant she had no one to stay with, Abby thought despondently. It meant she had to depend on Luc.

‘You could always hire a professional,’ Luc said, and Abby stiffened.

‘You mean a nurse? I told you, I’m not an invalid.’

‘Indeed not.’

Abby pleated her cover restlessly between her fingers. ‘Why, Luc?’ she asked, her voice no more than a whisper. Luc didn’t answer, and she forced herself to elaborate. ‘Why are you doing this?’ She looked up and met his shuttered gaze. ‘Why do you care? You told me you didn’t have any more to give. So why does it matter to you where I am or what I do?’

Her voice rose in a cry of naked despair. ‘Or is it not about me at all, but the baby? Are you only doing this for the baby?’ She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to state it so plainly. She was virtually asking him to reject her, yet she needed to know. She needed to hear it from him.

Luc was silent for a long moment. He turned to stare out of the window, at the unending darkness of the night-shrouded sea. ‘I made some grave mistakes in my life,’ he finally said,
his voice low, his words chosen carefully. ‘I don’t want to make them again.’

‘Are you…Are you talking about your wife?’

‘Suzanne.’ The single word was spoken flatly, without emotion.

Suzanne; she had a name. She became more real to Abby then, a woman with a name and a story, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. ‘Suzanne?’ she repeated, and then waited.

Luc, however, wasn’t going to answer her question. ‘Why not come to France, Abby?’ he said, his voice gentle once more. ‘You can relax, rest. I will do everything to make you comfortable.’

Except care. Except love her. He would be considerate, solicitous, but Abby didn’t know if she could bear it. ‘And what will I do in France?’ she asked, sounding irritable, but unable to help it. ‘Besides sit around all day, that is?’

Luc’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. ‘You could do the second thing you wanted.’ Abby shook her head, not understanding. ‘You could learn to cook.’ She let out a little laugh of disbelief, and his smile widened. ‘I already told you that I don’t cook. It would be helpful, having someone to make the meals.’

‘You probably have a housekeeper.’

‘She does the laundry and cleaning only.’

Abby laughed again, suddenly glad that Luc wasn’t going to let her feel sorry for herself. ‘So, you want me to be your hired help?’

‘Actually, no,’ he told her, his face grave once more. ‘I wasn’t planning on paying you.’

Abby laughed for real this time, a delighted gurgle of sound. She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes, fighting a sudden helpless sorrow that followed on the heels of her happiness.
Don’t make me fall in love with you.

‘Say yes, Abby,’ Luc murmured. ‘I want you there. I want you to come with me.’

Abby opened her eyes. Luc was gazing at her, his face softened by a smile. She could see the glint of stubble on his jaw and remembered how it felt against her own skin. She should say no. She knew that. There were other options, and she was in dangerous territory. Heartbreaking territory.

She should absolutely, one-hundred percent, say no.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

T
HEY
left for France the next day. As soon as Abby had given that one word of acceptance Luc had set plans into motion. She’d barely had time to pack a bag, notify her landlords and tell Grace she was leaving. Luc had smoothed it all over, hiring someone to replace her, finding a new tenant. Being rich, Abby thought a bit sourly, was like waving a magic wand. She’d had long enough now to know what it felt like
not
to be rich.

‘Are you sure this is the right thing to do?’ Grace had asked when Abby had gone to say goodbye. Grace’s hands were covered in flour and her forehead was pleated in concern.

Abby shrugged. ‘I’m not sure I have that many options. And I know Luc will take good care of me.’

‘He’s the father, isn’t he?’ Grace had said quietly, her eyes on the mound of bread dough she was kneading. ‘He let Corner Cottage a few months ago—right around the time you fell pregnant, I suppose.’

‘You’re very good at putting two and two together,’ Abby had told her. ‘And getting four. Or, in this case,’ she added wryly, patting her bump, ‘three.’

‘Did you know him before?’

Abby hesitated. Grace knew little of her previous life;
she’d known Abby had been a pianist, of course, but since she wasn’t well acquainted with the music world it hadn’t made much impact. Abby didn’t feel like going into all the details now. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘A little.’

‘Enough to go with him? To trust him?’

‘I’d trust Luc with my life,’ Abby replied, surprising herself with her own sincerity. She did trust Luc, with a heartfelt certainty. He was honest, he was caring, he was steadfast.

He just didn’t love her. Couldn’t.

‘Then go with my good wishes,’ Grace said, smiling a bit sadly. ‘I’ll miss you, Abby.’

‘I’ll miss you, too.’ Abby hugged her friend, conscious of Grace’s thin shoulder blades and fragile figure. ‘I’m glad Luc found someone else to help you out.’

‘I’d rather have you.’

‘I’d rather be here, too,’ Abby admitted. ‘But I’ll be back soon enough.’

Grace’s smile was almost arch. ‘Will you really?’

‘Of course I will!’ Abby returned. Yet even as she said the words she wondered to herself,
would she?
Luc had made it plain he saw no reason for her to stay in Cornwall. She’d said as much herself; this had been a respite, not a life.

So where was her new life—her baby’s life—to be? Would Luc want her to stay in France, so he could be near? Just what was he expecting? What did he want?

What did
she
want?

‘Anyway,’ she told Grace firmly, ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

That afternoon Luc drove them out to a private airstrip near Exeter. Clouds scudded across an unfriendly grey sky as he parked the hired car and helped Abby board his private jet.

She gazed at the plane’s sleek interior, the plush leather chairs, the mahogany coffee-table, the fresh flowers and stocked bar and slowly shook her head. ‘Just how rich are you?’

‘Rich enough.’ Luc shrugged off his jacket and sat down,
beckoning Abby to join him. She sank into a seat across from him.

‘What do you do for a living?’ she asked, realizing she’d never bothered to ask such a mundane question before.

‘I manage assets,’ Luc replied.

‘Whose?’

‘Mine.’

One of the jet’s staff came forward.
‘Vous êtes prêt, Monsieur le Comte?’

‘Oui. Merci, Jacques.’

Abby bolted upright in her seat. ‘“Monsieur le Comte”?’ she repeated incredulously. ‘Are you a
count?
’

Luc shrugged. ‘It means very little.’

‘You’re nobility?’ Abby clarified, still disbelieving, and Luc gave a terse little nod. ‘I thought all the noble titles went out with the French Revolution.’

‘They did, but over the centuries several hundred have been reinstated. Obviously we have no real power, just the title.’

And the money
, Abby filled in silently. And probably the land as well. ‘So what is your full name, then?’

Luc paused. ‘Jean-Luc Toussaint, Comte de Gévaudan,’ he finally said, the words, the title, almost sounding distasteful.

The Count of Gévaudan; it sounded like something out of a story. A fairy tale. Abby shook her head slowly, lapsing into silence. It was just a little detail to Luc, but it made her realize how little she knew him, even if at times she felt like she knew him more than anyone else she’d ever known. She still didn’t know the facts, the details. She also realized she had no idea where or what she was going to. She remembered back in Paris that Luc had told her he lived in the Languedoc. She knew no more.

‘A count,’ she finally said, turning back to look at him. ‘Does that mean if our baby was a boy, he could have inherited?’

‘Only if we were married,’ Luc responded flatly, and Abby flushed.

Married. That, obviously, was never going to happen. Not that she even wanted it to. The last thing she’d agree to was some ghastly marriage of convenience simply for their child’s sake, a loveless union…

Surely Luc didn’t have such a thing in mind? No, of course not. She had a feeling
he
didn’t want to be married, either.

She turned to stare out of the window as the plane began to taxi down the runway. Within minutes they were soaring through the sky, the dank clouds left far below them, so that bright azure stretched in every direction.

Jacques returned to serve them drinks, and Abby accepted an orange juice. She sipped it moodily while Luc spread some papers across his lap-tray, a cup of coffee growing cold by his elbow. She didn’t know why it bothered her that he was clearly so immersed in work. He obviously had things to do, a life to live, and the last thing she wanted was to keep him from it.

She just wished she had something of her own. For a moment she longed to play piano, to feel the smooth, ivory keys under her fingers producing sound, making magic. She forced the feeling away. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes again, longing for the oblivion of sleep. Despite her physical fatigue, her nerves were too jumpy for her to doze or even to settle, and the minutes stretched into an hour without Luc even looking up once.

She should just get used to it, Abby supposed. Luc might want her to come to France, might want to take care of her, but apparently that didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to talk to her.

Luc couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t focus enough to even read the print on the papers spread before him, but he
remained staring down at them with a deliberate intentness in an effort to give Abby some space.

She hadn’t wanted to come to France; that had been plain enough last night.
He
shouldn’t want her to come to France, and especially not to the Languedoc, where his memories were, where his heart was. He hadn’t intended to bring her to the farmhouse; he kept it shut these days, along with the chateau. He avoided the entire region as much as he could. Yet some latent instinct had insisted that he bring Abby here. Home.

Yet what good could come of their continued relationship? What hope? The answer was obvious: a child. Only the child, innocent, untouched. Now that a child—his child—was involved, Luc knew he needed to have Abby in his life. He needed to be in hers. Even if it hurt them both.

For a moment he allowed himself to think of the child he might have had. He or she would have been three years old now if Suzanne’s pregnancy had continued to term. It was nearly impossible to imagine what that life would look like now—a wife, a child, a home, a family. All things that had been denied him, all things he now never hoped to have, because he’d lost them once before. He’d as good as given them away.

Yet somehow, in a twist of fate or perhaps even providence, he was being given a second chance of sorts. A chance to be a father again.

And what about a husband?
a sly inner voice asked.
What about Abby?

He lifted his gaze from his papers to gaze at her covertly. She was staring out of the window, her expression distant and a little sad, the cool glass of juice pressed against one cheek. Her hair, carelessly tousled, lay in lustrous dark waves to her shoulders, and her eyes were wide and dark. She caught her full lower lip between her teeth and nibbled, a clear sign of anxiety.

Fresh guilt washed over Luc. He was the cause of that anxiety, no doubt. He should have stayed away from her completely, never have come to Cornwall to find her the first time. Yet even as he acknowledged this he knew he was tired of feeling guilty, tired of trying to find a way to redeem the past, atone for his sins.

To make it right.

He never could. No matter how well he might take care of Abby now, he’d already failed one woman.

He couldn’t bring Suzanne back from the dead. He couldn’t, as he’d told Abby months ago, turn back time.

And that, he determined, was why he would not fail Abby. He wouldn’t let her down, because he wouldn’t allow either of them the opportunity to be let down. It was the only way of keeping her safe.

The plane landed at a private airstrip near Avignon, and Luc had their bags transferred to a waiting luxury sedan. He slid into the driver’s seat, with Abby next to him, and within minutes they were speeding down a narrow road running along the Rhône River. Already Abby felt herself relaxing under the deep blue sky. The air was warm and dry, scented with thyme and lavender. Fields and meadows stretched alongside the river in a patchwork of green, and in the distance Abby could see the craggy tops of the Pyrenees.

‘How long a drive is it?’ she asked.

‘No more than thirty minutes. My house is just south of Pont-Saint-Esprit.’

They rode in silence, which was just as well, as Abby felt sleepy again and was content to sit there, drowsy from sunshine. Soon enough Luc turned the car off the main road to an even narrower track. Abby stirred herself to look out of the window with interest; they drove past a high stone-wall interrupted by ornate iron gates, the words
Chateau Mirabeau
worked into the iron in elegant scrollwork. The crenellated top of a turret was visible above the treeline. She glanced at Luc, to ask about the chateau, but then saw how tense he looked. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw taut with strain. Curiosity bit at her, but she said nothing as a few minutes later Luc parked the car in front of a rambling stone farmhouse.

‘It is a simple place,’ he told her. ‘But, I assure you, you will be comfortable.’

Abby could only nod, her throat suddenly tight. The farmhouse was just as she’d imagined on that long-ago night when she’d pictured Luc’s home and thought she was being fanciful.

It was made of old, mellowed stone, with a red-tiled roof and brightly painted shutters. Abby wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a more pleasant sight. Luc led the way to the old-fashioned Dutch door, swinging it open and ushering Abby inside.

Inside, the farmhouse had been renovated to create one large, airy space. The lounge area was scattered with comfortable sofas and chairs in front of a large stone fireplace. The kitchen looked like a perfect place to cook, with pale-oak cupboards and a smooth slate floor now dipped in sunshine. As Abby stepped in, a grey, cashmere-soft cat leapt from the shadows and, purring, wound its way around her ankles.

She laughed in delight and reached down to stroke the cat behind its ears.

‘I hope you’re not allergic?’

‘No. I always wanted a pet. What’s her name? Or
his
name, I suppose?’

‘That one?’ Luc squinted in concentration. ‘That must be Sophie. Simone has black stripes.’

‘There’s another?’ Abby reached down to scoop the cat into her arms and was rewarded with a deep, thrumming purr. ‘I don’t think I would have pegged you as a cat person.’

‘I’m not,’ Luc replied, his tone turning short. ‘They’re barn cats now, really.’

‘They don’t act like barn cats,’ Abby said with a laugh. Sophie was lying docile in her arms, her tummy offered for Abby to scratch.

‘They used to be quite spoiled,’ Luc replied. His back was to her as he moved about the room, switching on lights. ‘They’ll wrap you around their paws, I’m sure.’

‘Probably,’ Abby agreed. She let Sophie go, conscious of a sudden coolness in the room, in the air between them. The cats used to be spoiled, Luc had said. By whom—his wife? It seemed likely, and it made Abby a little sad. What had his marriage been like? What had his wife been like? She didn’t have the courage to ask, or even to hear the answers, yet she knew deep inside that she would never fully understand Luc until he told her.

If
he ever told her.

‘Where do I sleep?’ she asked after a long, silent moment.

‘There are three bedrooms upstairs. You may have whichever you prefer.’

‘Which one is yours?’ Abby asked, and then flushed to the roots of her hair. ‘I mean, so I know not to pick that one.’

Luc turned around; his eyes were dark and shadowed. ‘I usually sleep in the bedroom facing the back, but it doesn’t matter.’

‘You don’t live here?’ Abby asked. ‘I mean, you make it sound—’

‘I live here when I need to be in this area,’ Luc said with a shrug. ‘But mostly I travel for work.’

‘Managing those assets?’

‘Yes.’

‘All right,’ Abby said after a moment. ‘I’ll take a look.’ She moved towards the narrow, curving stairs in the rear of the kitchen, and then after a second’s hesitation scooped up the still-purring Sophie. She could use some pleasant company.

She picked the bedroom farthest from the one Luc used, a pleasant room with a wide double-bed, an old mahogany chest-of-drawers and a stunning view of the fields of lavender waving gently in the spring sunshine. Just as she’d imagined. It was eerie, how well she’d imagined this place, as if a part of her had
known.
She belonged here. It was a strange thought, an unsettling and even an unreasonable one, yet Abby felt it deeply in her bones, in her soul. This was home. At least, it
could
be, if things were different, if
Luc
were different…

Suppressing a sigh, she squinted in the sunlight as she gazed out of the window, making out the dark rooftops of what had to be the nearby chateau. Did it belong to Luc? If he really was a count, surely he had a chateau? Unless he had sold it. When they’d driven past, he’d seemed so tense. Had he lived there with his wife? Could he not bear to return now that she was gone? Although she was intensely curious, Abby knew she wouldn’t ask. She didn’t think she was ready for the answers.