Count Maxime's Virgin. Susan Stephens

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      Everything about her was too big…

      Including the big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She hated them. They were a sign of weakness she couldn’t afford with Poppy to defend.

      Dashing them away, she sniffed loudly. Working out what was for the best, she decided on fastening the middle button on her jacket and leaving the other two undone…

      Better.

      Passable…

      Not smart, but not bulging quite so badly now.

      She was ready for whatever lay ahead.

      Including Lucien Maxime, the Count of Ferranbeaux.

      Lucien might be the all powerful Count of Ferranbeaux and hold all the cards, but did Lucien have the skills necessary to raise a child in the warmth and security of a loving family home? She wasn’t going to let Poppy live in Ferranbeaux, cared for by strangers, just as she and Freya had been. Lucien could buy most things, but he couldn’t buy time, and his business interests took up a lot of time…

      Hearing a tap on the outer door of her suite, Tara whirled around. Her stomach was in knots. ‘Come in…’ Her voice sounded small, tremulous, pathetic, even to her.

      ‘Ms Devenish?’

      Tension seeped from her shoulders when the door opened and the hotel manager walked in. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Monsieur le Conte has arrived, and is waiting for you downstairs…’

      Having powered through the gates in his twenty-first century equivalent of a fiery black stallion. Yes, she’d seen him.

      ‘Ms Devenish?’ the hotel manager prompted.

      She was panic-stricken. There were too many holes in her plan. She needed more time. She had brought Poppy to Ferranbeaux because her lawyers had said she must, but whose orders were they obeying? Tara wondered now. She had seen Lucien’s contempt for her as he must have seen her feelings for him. He believed the newspaper articles; ergo he believed her unfit to care for Poppy. He had come to take Poppy away. He thought her one more conniving woman who expected to profit from his brother’s death.

      As the hotel manager cleared his throat Tara swiftly refocused. Words had never come easily to her, and before the accident she had been content to remain in Freya’s shadow, but with Poppy to protect that part of her life was over now. Tipping her chin, she spoke firmly. ‘Thank you for delivering the Count’s message. Please tell him I would like a little longer—’

      ‘A little longer’ would never be enough. It was better to get on with it, get it over with.

      The manager’s huff of surprise suggested he thought so too. But this was all just such a leap from the quiet life she had shared with Poppy since the accident. All the more reason to hold their first meeting here, rather than in a public arena where she might make a fool of herself… ‘Could you ask the Count to come to my suite in say…ten minutes?’

      ‘Here?’

      The hotel manager seemed astounded, and Tara guessed that only years of training in the art of discretion allowed him to keep his opinions to himself.

      Her relief was short-lived when he turned to go, for now the clock was counting down the seconds before she saw Lucien again—the man she adored, the man whom, the last time they’d met, had paid her off like a whore.

      She listened intently to every sound, waiting for Lucien… She stilled her breathing, waiting for his footfall on the stairs. She wished she wasn’t so tense. If she’d been more skilled in womanly wiles she might have known how to soften him, or if she’d been feisty, rather than hapless, helpless and useless, she might have known how to stand up to him. Unfortunately, she was none of these convenient things. She was barely twenty, and pretty clueless when it came to men. She was also plump, plain and poor and even her own sister had called her boring. Finding the right words was the least of her worries when she couldn’t launch a good argument to save her life. And when it came to clothes and social graces…

      By this point Tara’s teeth were chattering with fear, which was no help when her body was thrumming with awareness at the thought of Lucien just a few strides away. She knew he wouldn’t have been idle while he’d been waiting. He would have been using this time to finesse his plan to eject her from Poppy’s life.

      She must blank her mind of fear if she was going to get through this. It was no good talking herself into meltdown; she must think things through clearly.

      But, try as she might, the only thought Tara could come up with was that if Poppy had been old enough to pick a champion, her Aunty Tara should be last pick.

      But who else was there to champion Poppy’s cause? Lucien?

      He’d make a far better job of it than she could, Tara reasoned, though he’d do it remotely through his servants.

      Crossing to the window, she flung it open and inhaled deeply, hoping for a miracle. But there were no miracles—there was just Tara, an orphaned baby, and the Count of Ferranbeaux. That was the cast and it was up to her to decide whether she was content to play a role, or whether she would write the play. It was certainly time to get a grip. She wasn’t the girl of two years ago; she was trained in childcare now and where Poppy’s happiness was concerned she would fight tooth and nail to preserve it. It helped remembering a tutor at the college telling her she possessed a natural air of authority, and that it would raise her tiny stature in the eyes of a child. Would it work on the Count of Ferranbeaux? Somehow, she doubted it.

      Lucien paced the room. Servants hovered, anxious to cater for his every whim. He waved them away. He wanted one thing, and one thing only, which was to have this meeting over with. Only then could he take his niece to a place of safety. At least, that was what he had been telling himself for the past half an hour, but the truth was more complicated. He wanted Poppy safe, that was a given, but Tara had dug her neat clean fingernails into some hidden part of him, and he was impatient to pluck them out.

      He glanced at his watch again. How dared she keep him waiting? Didn’t she think this meeting important enough to be on time? He had imagined she would be keen to get to work on him. Perhaps she was too busy luxuriating in the suite of rooms he had provided to remember her manners…

      He stopped pacing to rake his hair. Even he was prepared to admit that last thought didn’t reflect the Tara he knew. She might be cleaning the suite. He still remembered her surreptitiously picking up the napkin Freya had carelessly dropped on the floor, and then mopping up a pool of wine Freya had spilled on the table in the same graceful sweep. That Tara certainly didn’t live up the sluttish image the media and her sister had painted.

      He’d only just reassured himself with this thought when the old newspaper headline bounced into his head: The Unexpected Mistress. And the images of Tara in Guy’s arms that conjured up made him physically sick. Lucien thought back to his own night with Tara; when she had thought he was sleeping she had whispered that there would be no other lovers.

      So much for such adoration and innocence!

      What was keeping the hotel manager? Lucien’s eyes narrowed with suspicion as he stared through the open door towards the stairs. It was time to remember that Tara shared Freya’s tainted blood. It was time to confront her.

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