Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (12 page)

Because, Abby acknowledged, she wasn’t satisfied. She was still in Luc’s life, even if she wasn’t involved in it. She didn’t understand his past, the secrets he kept, the suffering he bore like a physical burden, weighing him down, reflected in the shadows in his eyes. She wanted to know. She wanted to understand.

And, yes, she acknowledged starkly, even as a little seed of hope inside her refused to die, she wanted more. She just didn’t know if she would ever get it.

L
UC
was as good as his word and left soon after a breakfast of coffee and rolls, telling Abby that he was touring offices nearby but that he could be home within minutes if needed.

‘For an emergency?’ Abby clarified, and he gave a tiny shrug as if to say ‘of course’. Then he was gone.

She tidied up the kitchen before slipping into her one pair of maternity jeans—the waistbands of her normal clothes were by mow much too tight—a long-sleeved tee-shirt, a pair of sturdy hiking boots and headed outside.

The air was dry and fresh, the sun shining benevolently on the world, and a slight breeze ruffled Abby’s hair and kept her from getting too hot. It was a perfect day for a walk.

She walked along the road for a while, past olive groves and rolling meadows, enjoying the chatter of birds above her, the sighing of the wind through the plane trees. Only one car passed her the entire time she walked, and the driver honked his horn in friendly salutation. Abby waved back, her spirits lifting slightly now that she was away from the increasingly oppressive atmosphere of the farmhouse.

Within a quarter of an hour she’d made her way to the ornate iron gates of Chateau Mirabeau; she acknowledged as she stood in front of them that this had been her destination all along. The gates were locked, and the wall on either side
of them was at least six feet high of weathered, crumbling stone. There was no way in.

Not that she should go snooping around, Abby told herself. Someone probably lived there, some reclusive movie star or tycoon who would call the police if he saw someone skulking out in his garden.

Yet she was curious, intensely curious, drawn to this building in a way she couldn’t even explain, yet somehow feeling as if she needed to see it. Uselessly she rattled the gates, the lock banging loudly against the iron, and then to her surprise the lock dropped to the ground. It was rusted, she saw instantly. The gate swung open, its hinges squeaking in protest, and Abby stepped inside.

The gravel drive up to the chateau was choked with weeds; the trees and shrubs on either side hung over it, nearly cloaking the lane in darkness, desperately needing to be cut back.

Abby walked up the twisting drive practically on her tiptoes, afraid she might disturb someone, although it became increasingly clear that no one lived here. The chateau was shrouded in neglect.

The drive snaked through the trees before opening up to a stunning vista of the building—a palace, really, for the chateau was certainly palatial. Towers flanked two long rows of windows now shuttered against the sun; Abby counted twenty-eight before she stopped.

She approached the house gingerly, coming to the front door and resting her hand on the heavy, bronze knob, warm from the sun, knowing before she tried that it wouldn’t turn. Of course it wouldn’t; whoever owned this place wouldn’t leave it unlocked. Still, she circled the chateau, which took some time, picking her way along the terraces in the back which overlooked a splendid panorama of formal gardens, fountains and crumbling Roman aquaducts, all the while
looking for another door, or even a broken window. There was nothing. She peered through the slats of a shutter, only to glimpse a salon full of dust sheets.

Why was she trying to break into this place? Abby wondered. What could she possibly find here? Shaking her head, now disappointed, tired, and hot, she finally returned the way she had come, picking her way through the weeds and then back along the hot, dusty road to the farmhouse.

She slept most of the afternoon, waking only when she heard the door open and footfalls downstairs. It was nearing supper time, and Luc had finally returned.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t make any supper,’ she said as she came downstairs. Luc was standing by the stove, sorting through some post. ‘I’m not earning my keep, am I?’

He looked up, his gaze meeting hers, seeming to light on her, warmly and openly, before it turned cool and blank once more. ‘That’s not why you’re here.’

‘Mmm.’ Abby went to the fridge to retrieve the leftover cassoulet. That would have to do for dinner. ‘I wonder why
I am
here.’

‘To rest and relax and keep our child safe,’ Luc replied, his tone turning a little sharp. ‘Why else?’

Why else, indeed? Abby thought sourly. One day into her enforced exile and she was already feeling restless, picking fights. ‘I walked over to the chateau today,’ she said after a moment, and didn’t think she imagined the tension that suddenly coiled through the room, emanating from Luc’s stiff body.

‘Oh?’ he said, tossing a letter aside.

‘Yes. It’s beautiful, if a bit neglected. Why does no one live there?’

‘I thought the gates were locked.’

Abby shrugged aside the question even as she wondered how Luc knew. He spoke of the chateau with a certain possessive
knowledge. ‘I managed to see a bit. It all looks terribly overgrown.’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘Do you know who lives there?’ Luc paused, and Abby saw a telling hesitation shadow his eyes. ‘Does the chateau belong to your family?’ she asked quietly. ‘If you’re the local nobility, it makes sense.’

‘Yes, it does,’ Luc replied tersely, his tone final. ‘But I choose not to live there. I find the farmhouse suitable for my needs.’

‘Except you don’t normally live here, either.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m a busy man, Abby.’

‘Obviously.’ She took a breath, needing the courage to continue. ‘Obviously too busy for me. Although, I can’t help but wonder if you’re just trying to avoid me.’

He stilled before slowly turning to face her. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘I don’t know, Luc. Maybe you should tell me.’

‘I’m not interested in some kind of amateur psychoanalysis.’

‘I wasn’t aware I was giving it,’ Abby retorted. ‘But, now that you mention it, maybe I should give it a try. Why did you invite me here, Luc, if you’re going to ignore me? I could call 999 as easily in Cornwall as I could reach you.’ She took a breath; it hurt her lungs. ‘There’s no real reason for me to be here, is there?’

His mouth tightened, his nostrils flaring. ‘That’s not true.’

‘I thought you wanted to be involved,’ Abby continued. ‘In our baby’s life, if not mine. But I’m realizing that can’t really work. For either of us.’

‘Abby—’

‘What do you want from me?’ she demanded, her voice raw, pleading. ‘I wish you’d just leave me alone—stay out of my life completely—rather than provide all these halfmeasures. You wanted me to come to France, but now you’re virtually ignoring me!’

‘I’m sorry.’ Luc’s face was shuttered, his mouth tightly pursed. ‘I thought I made it clear, what you could expect from me.’ He spoke flatly, unemotionally, and somehow that hurt too.

‘You mean, nothing?’ Abby said, half-sarcastically, and Luke didn’t respond.

‘I see.’ She swiped at a stray tear and forced herself to nod. She shouldn’t be surprised; Luc had made it clear. It was her own wayward heart that kept hoping for more. ‘Well, maybe it’s just all these pregnancy hormones that are making me feel so emotional.’

Luc inclined his head in acknowledgement; clearly he didn’t want to discuss it. ‘I’ll just clear a few things from my desk,’ he murmured, and miserably Abby watched him retreat from her once more.

The next day she found herself alone again. The sky was a bright azure, the sun shining once more. She spent the morning in the kitchen attempting another recipe—this time a simple pasta dish—but realized belatedly she was missing some rather important ingredients: like pasta.

The sun beckoned enticingly and Abby decided to escape the confines of the farmhouse once more. Funny how she longed to leave it, for when she’d first arrived it had felt so welcoming, like a home. Now it felt like a prison.

She slipped on her jacket and headed outside, only to pause by the front door. Lying on top of a shelf next to a bunch of coat-hooks was a heavy, iron key, old and a bit rusted. Abby picked it up, thoughtfully turning it over in her hands, before she slipped it into the pocket of her coat.

She walked with quick purpose to her destination; the gates of the chateau were closed but thankfully still unlocked. Abby slipped between them and hurried up the shadowy drive to the front door of the chateau.

The key was slippery in her hand and yet, like in the kind
of fairy tale she’d believed to be false, it fitted snugly in the lock; after only a second’s protest it turned, the squeaky sound seeming to echo in the silence. With the tip of her fingers Abby pushed the door open, and it swung inwards.

She stepped into the gloom of the central foyer; sunlight filtered from between the cracks of the shuttered windows and illuminated the dust motes dancing through the air. The chateau was utterly silent save for the drumming of Abby’s heart. She blinked several times to accustom her eyes to the gloom, noticing the ghostly shapes of furniture shrouded in dust sheets. She took a few cautious steps into one of the main salons leading off from the foyer. Her feet when she walked gave up little puffs of dust.

She lifted one of the sheets away from a table, which revealed burnished wood inlaid with marble. It was an exquisite antique, and she suspected the whole chateau was full of them. Why was no one living here? Why wasn’t
Luc
living here?

She walked through several of the main chambers, peeking under a few dust sheets, amazed at how empty and abandoned the entire place was. She should leave, she knew. She had no right to be here, to snoop and spy. Yet somehow she couldn’t make herself go.

The clue, the key to Luc’s life—his past life—was here. If he wouldn’t tell her, perhaps she could find out on her own.

The rooms were silent, seemingly filled with ghosts who offered no explanations.

Then she came to the last of the formal rooms on the ground floor, its shuttered French doors led out to the terrace. Like all the others, its furniture was covered in dust sheets, yet one item gave away its nature even under such a shroud.

It was a grand piano.

Slowly Abby moved into the room. With one hand she reached out and pulled the sheet from the instrument; it came
away in a whisper of a sound. The piano was beautiful. She recognized it as an Erard, an antique that had probably been in this family for a hundred years or more. The outside was heavily decorated with gilt, a work of art in itself. Slowly she eased the cover off the keys, not even sure why she was doing this. The piano would undoubtedly be badly out of tune, yet even so…

Her fingers hovered over the keys. She hadn’t played piano in a year, hadn’t
touched
a piano in a year. It was an unfathomably long time for someone who had played piano every day for several hours since she was five years old. She took a breath and then let her fingers ripple over the keys. Her fingers felt stiff, and the sound was out of tune, warbling disconsolately through the empty room, making Abby laugh a little. Something had loosened inside her when she’d touched those keys; she hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding onto it until it was gone. Slowly, without even thinking about what she was doing, she began to play the
Appassionata.

The gates were open, the lock dangling rusted and broken, as Luc pulled up to Chateau Mirabeau. He parked the car, his heart thudding with hard, heavy beats as he stared at the shadowy drive. He hadn’t even looked upon the chateau for more than a year; he certainly hadn’t been inside.

Ten minutes ago his security firm had rung him, saying the security system had picked up a person in the chateau. ‘No signs of a break-in, but we just wanted to check,’ the head of the firm, Eric, had told him.

‘It’s fine,’ Luc replied tersely. ‘There’s no break-in.’ For he knew just who had entered the chateau, who had been asking questions, who had undoubtedly found the key he’d left at the farmhouse for emergencies, who was snooping and prying into the past he longed to be forgotten. Erased.

Abby.

He slammed out of the car and walked up the drive, the gravel crunching under his feet. He hesitated briefly on the marble steps to the front entrance; the door was ajar. The last time he’d crossed that threshold he’d been running away, escaping the damning truth he’d found in Suzanne’s letters:

I’m so unhappy…I never thought it would be like this…I want to escape…

And she had escaped, in the most final way possible.

He drew in a shuddering breath and stepped through the doorway. The foyer was full of muted sunlight filtering through the shuttered windows and illuminating the thick layer of dust that covered every beautiful surface. Luc let his fingers trail through the dust on the once-polished mahogany banister, remembering its burnished glow. This home had been his pride, his joy, his obsession.

Now it lay in near ruin, and by his own hand. He’d forbidden anyone to come to the chateau, to maintain or clean it. He supposed he’d wanted it to moulder, a form of selfpunishment. Even now, gazing around at the shrouded rooms, he felt a stab of pain. How he’d loved this place. It hurt to see it like this.

And somewhere in this mausoleum of memories was Abby. He walked down the main hallway, past several salons, glancing in each one yet knowing, sensing, that Abby was not in any of them.

Then he heard it: music. Not just any music, but the most beautiful music of all,
Appassionata
played on a terribly out-of-tune piano yet recognizable nonetheless.

Luc walked like a man in a trance towards the music room. He paused in the doorway, his heart contracting. Abby stood at the piano, her body illuminated by the late-afternoon
sunlight filtering through the shutters, her head bent, her hair a glossy, dark waterfall as she played. There was a look of reverence on her face.

Even amidst the dust and decay, even with the chateau no more than a pale shadow of what it had once been, Luc liked seeing Abby there. She looked right; she fit. And the music caused an ache to start deep inside him, an ache that had already been there, always been there, but which he could only acknowledge now.

The numbness fell away;
he felt.
His defences were crumbling; Abby slipped under them time and time again. It was getting harder to hold onto the numbness. Now he felt longing and fear and, most frighteningly of all, something all too terribly close to love.