At The French Baron's Bidding. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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      Then, when she least expected it, Raoul leaned over and in one smooth, swift movement slipped his hand under her chin and drew her mouth to his.

      She should protest, should stop him, should do something, Natasha realized. But it was impossible. For the next thing she knew Raoul’s firm lips were parting hers, forcing them to surrender to his will. His arms came about her and her breast cleaved to his hard chest. It was crazy, but all she could do was succumb, allow his probing tongue to wander, seek, explore, and try to ignore the delicious tautness of her nipples, to control the myriad sensations coursing through her body from head to toe. When finally he withdrew his mouth, and stayed staring down at her, she pulled out of his arms, breathless, her pulse racing.

      ‘I’ll be back at the end of the week,’ he murmured, his voice husky with undisguised desire, ‘then we can pick up where we’ve left off, ma belle. I look forward to it already.’

      ‘We will do nothing of the sort,’ she retorted, regaining some measure of composure. ‘And I’ll thank you to leave me alone. I have no need or desire for your attentions. Keep your kisses for your own kind. I have no wish for them.’ With that she flung out of the car and, stumbling on the gravel in her high heels, reached the front door.

      Henri had given her a heavy key before dinner. Now she inserted it in the lock, her fingers struggling nervously to undo it. ‘Oh, bother,’ she exclaimed, when it wouldn’t turn.

      ‘May I?’ Raoul, composed and gentlemanly once more, stepped forward.

      ‘Oh, just go away and leave me alone,’ Natasha exclaimed crossly, her nerves still jangling from their unexpected encounter.

      ‘But you’ll be stuck out here in the night,’ he remarked matter-of-factly. ‘Let’s be reasonable about this, ma chère, after all it was only a kiss.’

      With an annoyed huff Natasha stepped back and let Raoul take over. After one expert twist the key turned. ‘Voilà,’ he said, smiling down at her with that same mischievous twinkle which had the effect of making her melt inside. ‘Bonne nuit, lovely lady. May you have sweet dreams.’ Then he turned abruptly, just as he had the other day. And the next thing she knew he was driving off down the drive as she let herself into the dimly lit hall.

      Sleep was impossible. She simply must pull herself together. Instinctively Natasha walked to the library and switched on a lamp. Perhaps another drink would do her good—a nightcap. Or maybe that was the problem. She wasn’t used to much alcohol, and, although it hadn’t seemed much at the time, over the course of the evening she must have consumed quite a bit. Perhaps a book might do the trick—distract her from the evening’s adventure.

      But, as she skimmed the packed shelves of classics, Natasha could still feel the touch of Raoul’s lips on hers, the tingling sensation that caused her breasts to peak even now, and a strange delicious throbbing travelling through her. It was ridiculous, she reasoned. Outrageous that a man she barely knew could cause such havoc. Why, she hadn’t had a boyfriend since Paul, and even then she’d been hesitant to sleep with him, as though something deep down inside had warned her of his future behaviour. But she had. And it hadn’t been a success. She’d been afraid, unexcited, but determined to do what she had to. Never in the two years they’d gone out together had she felt anything close to the extreme rush of pleasure she’d derived in those few minutes with Raoul in the car.

      ‘Absurd,’ she muttered, glancing at the rows of titles, determined to find something to distract her. All at once her eyes fell upon a large leatherbound volume. A Concise History of the Famille d’Argentan, she read. Extracting the large volume from its slot, where it had obviously remained for many years, she brushed off some dust. There was nothing concise about it, she reflected with a grimace, carrying the enormous book over to the sofa.

      Wrapping herself in a rug, Natasha opened the stiff cover and began curiously to turn the pages. There was a long detailed family tree. Suddenly her eye fell upon Regis. His dates were interesting. 1768 to 1832. So he had been a young man during the French Revolution. Then, to her amazement, she read a name that was all too familiar: Natasha de Saugure.

      The name was not printed, in the manner of a wife’s, but inscribed as a handwritten side-note. A shiver ran down her spine. So she had been named after an ancestor. Her father had never mentioned the fact. Avidly she glanced at Natasha’s dates. 1775 to 1860. The woman had lived to a ripe old age. But what had been her relationship to Regis? There were no details. Just the scribbled note. How strange, she thought, flicking through the pages, that her namesake should be inscribed next to the name of the man nobody seemed to want to talk about.

      After a while perusing the book, she felt sleep begin to press upon her, and, laying the volume down on an ornate table, she rose and yawned. Time to go upstairs and rest. Tomorrow she would seek further information.

      As she wandered up the grand stairway Natasha glanced up at the portraits on the wall. A lovely grey-eyed girl in a stiff brocade dress with a revealing décolleté—as had been the fashion in the late eighteenth century—stared down at her from one of them. Natasha held her breath as her eyes went to the tiny bronze plaque on the frame. As she’d supposed, it was Natasha de Saugure. Who had she married and had she been happy? she wondered suddenly. Her eyes in the portrait looked bright and filled with hope. But there was something else, a mysterious melancholic twist to the smile.

      Natasha glanced at the painting a moment longer, then, letting out a sigh, she climbed the rest of the stairs and headed to her room.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      A WEEK passed and still Natasha hadn’t taken any definite decision regarding her future. To her annoyance she experienced a moment’s disappointment when there was no sign of Raoul at the end of the week. But she shook it off, reminding herself that it was for the best. He’d obviously seen the light, realized how embarrassing any involvement would be. After all, they might be neighbours for the next half-century for all she knew.

      Neither had she had time to further her investigation into the lives of Regis d’Argentan and her ancestor Natasha, for Monsieur Dubois had appeared at the château the morning following her evening with Raoul, armed with heavy manila files overflowing with documents needing to be signed and filed, and others she needed to read to become familiar with her grandmother’s estate.

      ‘And you should visit your grandmother’s apartment in Paris immediately,’ the notaire had admonished in his precise legal tone.

      So now here she was, a week later, sitting on a train headed to Paris.

      Except for an old schoolfriend, she knew no one in that city. But, despite this somewhat daunting fact, Natasha was excited. Here she was, going to Paris to stay in her very own apartment. It seemed incredible. It was a long time since she’d visited the city with her parents, and the thought of rediscovering such exciting places as the Louvre and the Centre Pompidou, and ambling down the Champs Elysées, stopped her being anxious for long. Perhaps she would even hit Avenue Montaigne, now that she’d discovered the novel and intriguing delight of creating a new wardrobe.

      As the train drew up to the platform at the Gare du Nord, Natasha stepped down with her practical roll-on case. She was about to follow the crowd down the platform towards the main station entrance when she heard her name called.

      ‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed as Raoul stood looming over her, his dark features stark in the afternoon sun. ‘You gave me such a fright.’

      ‘Forgive me. It was not my intention.’

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