Count Toussaint's Pregnant Mistress. Kate Hewitt

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      ‘But you speak English almost perfectly.’

      ‘As you do French.’

      She accepted the compliment with a graceful nod. ‘You’ve never heard me play before.’

      ‘No.’ He took a sip of wine. ‘You’re quite the detective.’

      ‘You don’t live in Paris?’

      ‘No.’

      Feeling relaxed and yet also a little bold, she added, ‘You’re rich.’

      Luc gave a shrug of assent as only the rich could do. ‘I have enough. As do you, I suppose?’

      Abby nodded slowly. Yes, she had plenty of money. Her father took control of it, had done since she’d started playing professionally at seventeen. She had no idea how much money she had, or what kind of accounts it was kept in. Her father gave her spending money, and that had been enough. She’d never needed much; she liked to visit museums, buy cappuccinos in their cafés, or books. Her clothes were mostly picked by a stylist, who also took care of her hair, her nails, her make-up. She ate in restaurants and hotels, and sometimes on trains. There was little she needed, and yet somehow right now it all made her sad.

      ‘You look rather wistful,’ Luc murmured. ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad.’

      ‘You didn’t,’ Abby said quickly. ‘I was just…thinking.’ She smiled, wanting to shift the attention from herself and her own dawning realizations about her life. She’d been happy, or at least content, until tonight…hadn’t she? Yet in Luc’s presence she was happier and more alive than she’d ever felt before. It made her aware of the deficiencies in her life, how before this her life had been mere existence, simply a waiting period for this moment. For him. ‘You’re not from Paris, so where are you from?’

      Luc paused, and Abby had the sense that he didn’t want to tell her. ‘Down south,’ he said finally. ‘The Languedoc.’

      ‘I’ve never been there.’

      He gave a little smile. ‘It has no concert halls.’

      Her life had been defined by concert halls: Paris, London, Berlin, Prague, Milan, Madrid. She’d seen so many cities, so many gorgeous concert halls and anonymous hotel-rooms, and she felt it keenly now. The Languedoc. She wondered if he had a villa, or perhaps even a chateau. For some reason she imagined a quaint farmhouse with old stone walls, a tiled roof and brightly painted shutters amidst gently waving fields of lavender. A home. She gave a little laugh, shaking her head. Now she really was imagining things.

      ‘Do you like it there?’

      Luc paused. ‘I did.’ He spoke flatly, and Abby felt a new tension coil through the room. Then he shook it off with an easy shrug of his shoulders and smiled, leaning forward so Abby could see the lamplight glinting in his eyes; she inhaled the tang of his cologne. ‘But enough of me. I want to know of you.’

      Abby smiled back, feeling self-conscious. It seemed as if neither of them wanted to talk about themselves. ‘Fire away.’

      ‘I read in your biography that the Appassionata is one of your favourite pieces to play. Why?’

      The question surprised her. ‘Because it’s beautiful and sad at the same time,’ she finally said.

      ‘And that appeals to you?’

      ‘It’s…how I’ve felt sometimes.’ It was a strange admission, and one she hadn’t meant to confess. One, she realized, she hadn’t even acknowledged to herself. She loved music, loved playing piano, and yet somehow her life, the pinnacle of success, hadn’t happened the way she had wanted it to. Or at least it hadn’t felt the way she’d wanted it to. She felt like she was missing something, some integral part of life, of herself, that everyone else had.

      Did she expect to find it here, with this man? Was such a thing possible? Abby took another sip of champagne. ‘Why do you ask?’

      ‘It is one of my favourite pieces, for the reason you just named, I suppose.’ He nodded, smiling faintly. ‘Beautiful and sad.’

      Abby gave a little laugh. ‘We both sound so gloomy! I love playing it, at any rate.’

      The waiter returned to clear their plates, and then disappeared again as quietly as a cat. Abby was conscious of time passing; it must be nearing midnight. Her father, if he was awake, would be expecting her. Would he wait up? He had a cold, and had probably taken a sleeping tablet. He wouldn’t worry, because for seven years her routine had been unfaltering—play the piano and return to the hotel, at first by chauffeured car and later by taxi.

      When would she return tonight, and how? How would this evening end? The thought made her insides fizz with both wonder and worry, for she didn’t want it to end. Not yet, not ever. This was a snatched moment, one night carved from a lifetime of music and duty—strange how those went together—and she wanted to savour it. She wanted it to last for ever.

      ‘What are you thinking?’ Luc asked, and before Abby could answer he continued, ‘Are you thinking that time is running out? That we only have a few hours left?’

      ‘How did you—?’

      ‘Because I am thinking the same.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps that is all we are meant to have.’

      ‘No!’ The word was ripped from her, a confession, followed by another, deeper one: ‘I don’t want the evening to end.’

      Luc gazed at her, his head tilted to one side, his eyes dark. ‘Neither do I,’ he replied quietly, and then, his tone turning wry, added, ‘And so it won’t. We have four more courses left, surely? This is France, after all.’

      ‘Bien sûr,’ Abby agreed after a moment, although she hadn’t been talking about food and, she believed, neither had he. Yet what had she been talking about? What did she want? Her insides tightened, coiling in anticipation and awareness.

      Luc smiled easily, and as if on cue the waiter brought the next course, a terrine of vegetables and herbs that was as light and frothy as air.

      The evening passed in a pleasant blur of wine, food and easy conversation. It was easy, surprisingly easy, to talk to him, to slip off her heels and curl her feet under the folds of her gown, to try the escargots with a wrinkled nose as she confessed, ‘But they’re snails. I’ve never got over that somehow.’

      ‘If you could do anything,’ Luc asked as the waiter silently cleared their third course, ‘what would it be?’

      By this time Abby was all too relaxed, her chin propped in one hand, her eyes sparkling. ‘Fly a kite,’ she said, earning a surprised chuckle from Luc. ‘Or learn to cook.’

      ‘Fly a kite?’ he repeated. ‘Really?’

      Abby shrugged, suddenly conscious of how childish such a wish seemed. ‘When I was a child, I always saw them flying kites on Hampstead Heath.’

      ‘Them?’ Luc repeated softly, and Abby shrugged again.

      ‘Them. Other children.’

      ‘And СКАЧАТЬ