‘He couldn’t come down this weekend.’ Helen halted, chin lifted in challenge. ‘Not that it’s any concern of yours.’
‘This weekend?’ he said musingly. ‘And how many weekends before that? It is a matter of comment in the village, you understand.’
‘The public bar of the Monteagle Arms anyway,’ Helen said tersely. ‘You really shouldn’t listen to idle gossip, monsieur.’
‘But I learned a great deal,’ Marc Delaroche said gently. ‘And not merely about your missing lover. They spoke too about your fight to keep this house. Opinion is divided as to whether you are brave or a fool, but none of them thought you could win.’
‘How kind of them,’ she said between her teeth. ‘That must have done my cause a lot of good.’ She paused. ‘Did they know who you were—and why you were here?’
‘I said nothing. I only listened.’ He shrugged. ‘They spoke of your grandfather with affection, but not of your parents. And you do not mention them either. I find that strange.’
Helen bit her lip. ‘I hardly knew them. They left Britain when I was still quite small, and my grandfather brought me up with the help of various nannies. That’s why we were so close.’
Marc Delaroche frowned swiftly. ‘My father’s work took him abroad also, but I travelled with him always. He would never have considered anything else.’
‘My father didn’t work—in the accepted sense.’ Helen looked past him, staring into space. ‘He’d been brought up to run Monteagle and the estate, but after the financial disasters we’d suffered that no longer seemed an option. Also, he knew he would never have a son to inherit what remained. My mother, whom he adored, was very ill when I was born, and needed an immediate operation. The name was going to die out.’
‘He had a daughter. Did he not consider that?’
Helen’s smile was swift and taut. ‘I never had the chance to ask him. There’s always been a strong gambling streak in our family—fortunes won and lost down the centuries—and my father was a brilliant poker player. He had a load of friends among the rich and famous, so he travelled the world with my mother, staying in other people’s houses and making a living from cards and backgammon.’ Her mouth twisted wryly. ‘At times he even earned enough to send money home.’
‘But then his luck ran out?’ Marc Delaroche asked quietly.
She nodded, and began to walk along the corridor again. ‘They were in the Caribbean, flying between islands in a private plane with friends. There was some problem, and the aircraft crashed into the sea, killing everyone on board. My grandfather was devastated. Up to then he’d always believed we would recoup our losses somehow, and carry out the restoration work he’d always planned. That we’d be reunited as a family, too. But after the crash the fight seemed to go out of him. He became—resigned. Instead of winning, he talked about survival.’
She stared ahead of her, jaw set. ‘But Monteagle is mine now, and I want more than that.’
‘Has it hurt you to tell me these things?’ His voice was oddly gentle.
‘It’s all part of Monteagle’s history.’ She hunched a shoulder. ‘So you probably have a right to ask. But that’s as far as the personal details go,’ she added, giving him a cool look. ‘You’re here on business, and I feel we should conduct ourselves in a businesslike manner.’
Oh, God, she groaned inwardly. Just listen to yourself. Miss Prim of the Year, or what?
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And therefore all matters of gender should be rigorously excluded?’ His grin was cynical. ‘How do you do that, I wonder?’
She bit her lip. ‘That is your problem, monsieur. Not mine.’
She reached the imposing double doors at the end of the corridor and flung them open. ‘And here, as you requested, is the State Bedroom.’
The curtains were half drawn over the long windows, and she walked across and opened them, admitting a broad shaft of dust-filled sunshine.
It was a big room, the walls hung with faded brocade wallpaper. It was dominated by the huge four-poster bed, which had been stripped to its mattress, although the heavily embroidered satin canopy and curtains were still in place.
‘As you see,’ she added woodenly, ‘it has not been in use since my grandfather died.’ She pointed to a door. ‘That leads to a dressing room, which he always planned to convert to a bathroom.’
Her companion gave it a cursory glance. ‘It is hardly big enough. One would need to include the room next door as well.’
‘Just for a bath? Why?’
He grinned lazily at her. ‘A leading question, ma mie. Do you really wish me to enlighten you.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Marc Delaroche took a longer look around him, then walked over to the fireplace and studied the picture hung above it. The girl in it looked steadily, even a little shyly back at him, a nimbus of warm-toned ringlets surrounding her face. She was wearing pale yellow satin, cut decorously for the fashion of the time. There was a string of pearls round her throat, and she carried a golden rose in one hand.
He whistled softly. ‘I wonder how long she fought before she surrendered to your king?’ he said, half to himself.
‘You think she did surrender?’
‘Eventually. As all women must,’ he returned, ignoring her small outraged gasp. ‘Besides, there is no question. You have only to look at her mouth.’ He held out an imperative hand. ‘Viens.’
In spite of herself, Helen found she was crossing the worn carpet and standing at his side. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘She is trying hard to be the virtuous lady, but her lips are parted and the lower one is full, as if swollen from the kiss she longs for.’
‘I think you have a vivid imagination, monsieur,’ Helen retorted, her voice slightly strained.
‘And I think that you also, mademoiselle, are trying much too hard.’ His voice sank almost to a whisper.
Before she could guess his intention and move away, out of range, Marc Delaroche lifted a hand and put his finger to her own mouth, tracing its curve in one swift breathless movement, then allowing his fingertip delicately to penetrate her lips and touch the moist inner heat.
In some strange way it would have been less intimate—less shocking—if he’d actually kissed her.
She gasped and stepped backwards, the blaze in her eyes meeting the mockery in his. Her words became chips of ice. ‘How dare you—touch me?’
‘A conventional response,’ he said. ‘I am disappointed.’
‘You’re going to have more than disappointment to deal with, Monsieur Delaroche. You’ll live to regret this, believe me.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Because I, too, shall be making a report to your committee, informing them how you’ve abused their trust while you’ve been here, conducting enquiries on their behalf. And I hope they fire you—no matter how much money you have,’ she added vindictively.
‘I am desolate to tell you this, but you are in error, ma belle,’ he drawled. ‘The committee is not concerned with my visit. It was my decision alone to come here.’
She looked at him, stunned. ‘But—you’ve asked all these questions …’
He shrugged. ‘I was curious. I wished to see this house that means so much to you.’
The breath caught suddenly, painfully in her throat. She turned and marched to the door, and held it open. ‘And now the tour is over. So please leave.