At The French Baron's Bidding

“What’s that?” she asked warily.

“To want is not a sin. It is a natural, healthy reaction. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, because you do. Very well. Last night proved that to me.”

“Last night was—was an aberration,” she muttered, trying to resist the delicious sensation of his finger caressing the inside of her bare forearm in what was turning into a dangerously erotic motion.

“Last night was the proof that you want to make love with me,” he murmured huskily. “In fact, I have already made love to you. Only not fully. The rest is still to come.”

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

IT WASN’T that she didn’t want to go back to France, for in truth she did. But as the chauffeur-driven car drove sedately through the gates of the Manoir that she remembered only vaguely from early childhood, Natasha de Saugure experienced a rush of mixed emotions: she really should have responded to her grandmother’s summons sooner.

Yet the past hung between them, and had impeded her from doing so. Now, Natasha hoped that it wouldn’t be too late. Her grandmother had sounded so frail over the phone. But taking leave from her job with a humanitarian organisation in Africa wasn’t easy. She had, in the short space of time she’d been employed, acquired a post of much responsibility. She owed it to the starving mothers and children they were so desperately trying to save to be there.

Still, after the car had crunched across the gravel driveway and come to a stop, Natasha stepped out and breathed a unique fragrance that she recognized as fresh lavender and thyme; she knew she’d been right to come.

‘Voilà, mademoiselle.’ The driver smiled at her over his shoulder before jumping out and solicitously opening the car door.

‘Merci.’ Natasha smiled back. In a quick movement she straightened her long ash-blonde hair and glanced up at the ancient stone façade of the Manoir: its rounded turrets at each corner, the lead-tiled roof, the ivy that weaved over its centuries-old stone walls. Making her way towards the stately front door past grand stone pots filled with well-trimmed shrubs, Natasha sighed. It was many years since she’d last seen her grandmother—after the irreparable rift between the old lady and Natasha’s father when he’d married out of his set.

All at once the ancient front door creaked, opened, and an old, white-haired man in uniform appeared on the steps.

‘Bienvenue, mademoiselle,’ he said, his face breaking into a wrinkled smile. ‘Madame will be so pleased.’

‘Bonjour, Henri,’ she said; she’d heard her mother talk about the old retainer. She stepped inside the flagstoned hall and gazed about her at the high ceilings and doorways leading this way and that into the warren of passages and rooms beyond. Little by little vague memories unfurled as long-forgotten images jumped forth to greet her.

But the question that still tugged at her as she entered the Manoir was why, after all these years of silence, had her grandmother insisted she come? There had been little in the letter she’d received to indicate her reasons; little in her imperative tone on the phone to suggest she’d unbent after all this time.

Yet insist she had.

And, despite her first inclination to refuse, Natasha had known she had to come. After all, notwithstanding the past, now that both her parents were dead Natasha was the old lady’s only living relative.

After Henri had exclaimed, with a tear in his eye, at seeing her again, all grown up, thrilled that she’d remembered his name, Natasha followed him up the stone staircase, amazed at how much she recognized. Over twenty years had elapsed since her last visit to Normandy, but so much felt familiar: the scents, the light pouring through the tall windows and bathing the muted walls, the echo of her heels resonating on the well-trodden steps. And something else that she couldn’t quite identify.

‘Madame is waiting for you upstairs in the small salon,’ Henri pronounced in stentorian tones.

‘Then I had better go to her at once.’ Natasha smiled again, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. The situation was so dreadfully formal, as though she’d walked into another time and place.