Royally Seduced (17 page)

“Heat stroke,” he corrected automatically. “I’ll have Marthe-Louise mix her some homemade rehydration solution.” But Lily was in the guesthouse, upset and hurting. He ran in the door and shouted her name.

“Go away, Jack!” she shouted. It sounded like she was upstairs.

“Lily, my mother needs me—wait for me.” Nadine was tugging on his arm so he left, casting an anguished look upstairs.

“Here, take the Rolls,” Nadine told him. “I’ll walk down in a minute.” His ex bundled him into the car and he directed the chauffeur to take him to the manor house.

He’d fix up his mother and then he’d fix up his mess with Lily.

“L
ILY
?” A
FEMALE
French voice called her name.

Lily came out from the bedroom and peered over the railing. Nadine stood in the foyer staring up at her with a pitying glance. If there was anything Lily hated in the world more than humiliation, it was pity. She took the offensive. “So you’re Jack’s fiancée.”

“Jack?” She gave that nerve-grating laugh again. “Ah, Jacques and that American phase he went through.”

Lily squeezed the railing hard, not liking the idea that she was a continuation of his “American phase,” whatever that had been. “He never mentioned you.” That was the closest she could come to apologizing for inadvertently committing premarital adultery.

Nadine shrugged and climbed the stairs, Lily’s stomach falling with every step. “Jacques and I have a different relationship than you are accustomed to.” She reached the top landing and stood eye to eye with Lily.

Next to the Frenchwoman’s perfectly tailored cream-colored linen pants, white T-shirt and French designer silk scarf knotted chicly around her neck, Lily’s own outfit fell sadly short—cutoff khaki shorts and pink tourist T-shirt with a big black camera and strap silk-screened on it that she’d bought for herself as a gag gift.

But she tried to rally. She was not the high school’s token poor girl anymore. “What kind of relationship
do
you have?”

Nadine smiled gently. “Jacques was not himself when he came back from Borneo.”

“Burma,” Lily corrected. Geez, didn’t she know what country in which he’d been deathly ill? “And you didn’t fly out to be with him when he was so sick?”

Shock and disgust flared in her crystal-blue eyes but she quickly dampened it. “I didn’t have all my immunizations, and I knew Jacques wouldn’t want me to become ill, as well.”

“Hmmph.” Lily would have risked it.

“He needed space and a way to, how to say it? Blow off steam.” She gave Lily a meaningful look. “I knew very well what he might do once out here in the country. He gets the physical appetites of a peasant.”

Ah, and Lily was the peasant pressure release valve. Did Nadine
not
like “blowing off steam” with Jack? Was she nuts? Or as cold in bed as she seemed outside of it? “Look, I don’t know how the French nobility does things, but you don’t seem very upset that he has cheated on you.”

“Men do what they must.” Catching the doubt in Lily’s eyes, she raised her eyebrows. “But perhaps you doubt me? I
am
here with his mother, after all.”

Lily pursed her lips.

“You would like proof we are engaged? You of course may ask Jacques himself, if you are inclined to a messy and upsetting conversation.” She pulled her phone out of her purse and pressed it a few times. “Here is our engagement photo.”

Lily unwillingly looked at the small digital display. Yes, it was Jacques in that formal tux-and-tails outfit, complete with sash across his chest, tastefully embracing Nadine, dressed in an ice-blue satin ballgown.

“And here is the notice of our engagement in the Paris newspaper.” She typed for a minute and brought up a newspaper webpage written in French, of course, but their names and the words
fiancé, fiancée
and
le mariage
were mentioned several times.

There it was in black-and-white on the web. She cleared her throat. “And you still want to marry him despite the fact he cheated on you?” This didn’t make sense. Jack was scrupulously honest.

Except that he had lied about what he did for a living, lied about his real name and lied about his family owning a good chunk of Provence.

So much for scrupulously honest. She shook her head. Had she ever really known him?

Nadine waved her nicely manicured hand—French-manicured, of course. “We will, naturally, have much to discuss. But I am a forgiving woman. Jacques already told me about you. He said you are trying to be a writer.”

“I try.” Nadine needed to leave before Lily biffed her.

“Jacques says someday if you get lucky, you may be able to get a real writing job.”

“He said that?” That really stung. Her blog and the articles for the
Fashionista Magazine
website wouldn’t earn the Nobel Prize for Literature, but, dammit, she wrote carefully and put a lot of effort into them.

“Although every tourist who comes to France dabbles in travel writing, you were luckier than most and found your own personal tour guide.”

“Right. But I think my tour is over.”

“Good, I had hoped you will understand that he and I need some time together.” Nadine gazed meaningfully at the open bedroom door, which showed Lily’s clothes tossed on a chair.

“I understand.” Lily headed into the bedroom, blinking hard.

Nadine followed her. Why didn’t she back off and leave Lily alone? She’d go as soon as she could pack. But how would she leave? They were in the country, several miles from the nearest train station. “I’ll have to get a ride to the train.” Not that she wanted to run into Jack, rather
Jacques,
again.

“The driver will take you,” Nadine quickly offered. “You can ride in the Rolls-Royce. You will like it, your first ride in a Rolls.”

Lily didn’t bother to tell her she used to ride in one to school if Mrs. Wyndham was out of town. “Fine. Now, if you don’t mind…”

Nadine made a graceful gesture and wafted out of the room, her heels clicking on the steps.

Lily chucked her clothes into her suitcase and grabbed her toiletries. She spotted the lavender perfume from the Count de Brissard’s special AOC fields and dropped the bottle into the wastebasket. That kind of souvenir she didn’t need.

Her shredded heart was enough.

16

J
ACK’S MOTHER WAS
nowhere in sight as the Rolls dropped him off. He ran into the manor-house kitchen. “Marthe-Louise, where is my mother?”

She looked up from her pots and pans, startled. “What?”

“My mother. Where is she?”

Marthe-Louise gestured upstairs. “In her rooms. She said she was feeling the heat….”

Jack headed upstairs two at a time. “
Maman, Maman,
are you ill?”

There was no answer at her door, so he opened it. His mother was stretched out on her bed with a wet washcloth on her forehead. He crossed the wide room to put one hand on her forehead and the other around her wrist to check her pulse.

She lifted the cloth and stared at him. “Jacques, what are you doing?”

“Nadine said you were getting heat exhaustion.”

“What?” She batted his hands away and he’d noticed she’d changed into a lightweight caftan, or muumuu, or whatever they called it. “I always get a touch of the heat when I am forced to come to the South in the middle of the summer.”

Jacques decided not to point out she regularly came to the Riviera that time of year, but probably the sea breezes and glamour helped.

“Marthe-Louise gave me a cool drink and sent me upstairs to rest. But heat exhaustion?” She gave a tiny laugh, covering her eyes again. “Don’t be ridiculous. And what are you doing with that American girl?” She laughed again. “Never mind, if you and Nadine have an agreement, it is none of your
maman’s
business.”

Jacques shook his head. “
Maman,
Nadine and I have no agreement because we are not engaged anymore.”

She sat upright, the cloth falling onto her mouth. She tossed it aside impatiently. “What?”

“
Maman,
I told you we broke up before I left for Burma.”

She waved her hand impatiently. “She told me that was a lovers’ spat.”

He shook his head. “I won’t tell you all the details, but Nadine cheated on me. I caught her.”

She stared at him with narrowed blue eyes. “She did?”

“
Oui.
I didn’t want to tell you because…”

“Because you were terribly hurt.”

Jack shrugged, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. More relieved than hurt once the shock had worn off, but still…

“Jacques! Always when you are hurt you are crawling away to lick your wounds in private.” She puffed in exasperation. “And you do not think to tell your poor
maman?
I invite that
salope
to your party. Oh,
mon dieu,
no wonder you run away. Your poor heart, it was broken, and to find the cause of it standing in your own home.” She threw back her head in an anguished gesture.

“Really, I am fine now….”

“And now that you have found
l’amour
again with the American girl— She isn’t a bimbo you picked up, is she, Jack?”

He shook his head, trying to stifle a startled snicker at Lily being called a bimbo.

“Now that you have found love,” his mother continued, “your own mother brings the lying piece of trash who broke your heart back into your country home. Ah!” She clutched at the breast of her muumuu, or caftan. “How can you ever forgive me?”

“I forgive you,
Maman,
” he answered truthfully. His mother may have been a drama queen, but she was sincere in her efforts.

She cast away the wet cloth and jumped out of bed. Jack followed her. “Where is that awful girl? Nadine? Nadine?” She descended the stairs, shouting for his ex. Nadine appeared from the salon with a fashion magazine, having wisely decided to stay away from the kitchen, a pissed-off Marthe-Louise and her collection of sharp utensils.

“Oh, madame, you’re feeling better. Jacques and I were worried that the heat was making you sick.”

“You better worry about yourself,
ma petite.
” It wasn’t an endearment. “How dare you lie to me—twice—about being affianced to my son? After what you did to him, with whomever you did it.” His mother looked at him for more information but he shook his head.

His mother continued, obviously disappointed at the lack of details. “He is a good and brave man who deserves a decent woman, and you are not the woman for him. Get out!” She flung her arm to point to the front door.

Jack was torn between the desire to clap at her stage-worthy (but genuine) performance as Outraged Mother and the desire to get back to the guesthouse and smooth things over with Lily. Option two won. “
Maman,
you deal with her. I have to talk with Lily.”

Nadine gave him a half smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. She left.”

“Lily left?” He seriously considered throttling Nadine. “What did you say to her?”

“We chatted.” Her half smile pulled into a smirk. “She decided she wanted to return to Paris. I suppose the slow, rural pace wasn’t to her liking.”

“That’s not true,” he snapped. “She loves it here—loves Provence, loves the lavender farm.”

“Obviously not, or she would have stayed,” she answered.

“And how did Lily leave?”

“The Rolls.” Nadine started to get defensive as she realized how angry he was getting. “She insisted. She said she wasn’t going to stick around this dusty, hot place in the middle of nowhere and wanted to hurry back to Paris. I think she wanted to shop for clothes.” She wrinkled her nose. “She certainly needs some help in that area.”

Now he knew she was lying. Lily hadn’t bothered to shop much when she was in Paris the first time, preferring to concentrate on the people and sights. “You better hope the chauffeur unloaded your luggage because you’re taking the train back to Paris, not Lily. Now do as my mother says and get out. You and I are going to the local train station.”

“Jacques, wait!” his mother called.

“No,
Maman,
I’ve waited too long to meet someone like Lily, and I’m not going to wait any longer.”

His mother gave him a sweet smile. “Nor should you, my treasure. But you need a shirt, do you not?”

“Oh.” He glanced down at his bare chest, still damp with lavender florets stuck here and there. He pounded upstairs to his rarely used boyhood room. “Nadine, you better really hope she’s still there, or…or…I’ll think of something nasty.”

He yanked open a drawer in his dressing room and grabbed the first T-shirt he found, pulling it over his head. It was snug since he’d filled out quite a bit since he’d last worn his scouting jamboree shirt, but he didn’t care.

He ran down the stairs and found his mother nose to nose with Nadine.

“My son may be nice, but I am not. If you have driven this Lily away, you can be sure that I will ruin you.”

For the first time, Nadine started to look worried. His mother continued, “You may as well move to Burma because you will never get invited anywhere, you will sit behind a column at the opera house and you will never,
ever
get your photo in the society page again. What is the English term for that, Jacques?”

“Blackball?”

“Yes, how appropriate. Social
death,
” Maman hissed. “And you know I will do it.”

Nadine was pale and quivering by then. Jack rolled his eyes. He couldn’t imagine Lily even caring about those things, as long as they were together.

“Go, go.” His mother flapped her arms at them. “And you—
don’t
come back,” she told Nadine.

J
ACK GRIPPED THE
steering wheel of the small rental car, Nadine’s luggage stuffed to the ceiling and jammed into the trunk. Lily hadn’t answered her phone, so he was racing to catch her in person.

Nadine sat next to him, her arms crossed over her chest. Their trip had been rather predictable, first filled with begging and pleading, then accusations and insults and finally a sullen silence that he welcomed.

He slowed down as he reached the village, driving as quickly as was safe over the narrow streets, which were still made of stone in parts. He stopped in front of the nineteenth-century train station and jumped out, dodging old ladies with their market baskets and tourists with maps.

“What about me?” Nadine screeched.

He pointed to the large timetable posted. “Get a ticket because you’re not staying here.”

He ran to the ticket office. “When did the last train leave?”

The older man inside checked the clock. “It has been two hours.”

“Good.” He sagged in relief. Lily had to be somewhere around here. “When does the next train leave?”

“For where, monsieur?”

“Anywhere.”

“The train to Avignon leaves in ten minutes.”

Jack thanked him and moved away, scanning the small crowd gathering to board. If she got to Avignon, he wouldn’t be able to catch up. The high-speed train would take her to Paris in a few hours, and hundreds of flights left Paris every day.

If Lily had left France, he would follow her to Philadelphia. He would follow her to the ends of the earth—after all, he knew his way around them by now.