It was Marc Delaroche who occupied her mind, imprinting himself indelibly on her inner vision.
My first real proposal of marriage, she thought, fighting back the bubble of hysteria rising within her. And it’s from him.
She looked down at the hand he’d caressed and found she was clenching it into a fist.
As they headed through the village towards Monteagle her driver slowed as a car approached them, travelling smoothly and swiftly in the opposite direction.
Helen recognised it instantly. Oh, God, she thought, as she shrank further into her corner. His car. On its way back to the Monteagle Arms, no doubt.
But where on earth could he have been up till then? she asked herself in bewilderment. He should have returned long before her. Had his chauffeur become lost in the twisting lanes?
Whatever, he was far too close for her comfort. But perfectly poised for tomorrow, just an hour or so away, when he would come for his answer.
His package deal, she thought bitterly, for which he was apparently offering a blank cheque. Her house and herself—not necessarily in that order—and no expense spared. Or so he wanted her to believe…
It was—almost flattering. But she wasn’t fooled, Helen told herself with sudden, desperate decision. It wasn’t a genuine offer—not in a civilised society. It couldn’t be…
He was merely testing her resolve, and of course he expected her to refuse. He probably relied on it.
After all, why should he want to spend a fortune on a place he’d seen briefly a couple of times?
And, besides, even a marriage that was only a business arrangement had too permanent a sound for someone who counted his relationships in days rather than years.
It’s a wind-up, she thought with an inward sigh of relief, as the cab turned into Monteagle’s gates. It has to be, and unfortunately I fell for it. Let him see I was rattled. Big mistake.
But at least she had a whole day to decide how to deal with it.
She considered, and immediately discarded, the idea of trying to rattle him in turn. Of letting him think she was actually tempted by his proposition and allowing him to talk her out of it. It might be amusing, but it was also dangerous.
He was too unpredictable, and—which annoyed her even more—invariably several steps ahead of her.
The sensible plan would be to tell him unsmilingly that the joke was over and request him to leave her in peace—seriously and permanently.
Except that might not be as simple as it sounded. Marriage might not be in the equation, but Marc Delaroche still wanted her. Inexperienced as she was, Helen was unable to deny that. If she was honest, she’d recognised it from their first encounter, with a stark female instinct she’d never known she possessed until that moment. And he was determined for his desire to be satisfied, however fleetingly.
It was that knowledge which dried her mouth and set up that deep inner trembling when he was near, invaded her thoughts when he was far away.
Nigel had never looked at her with such hungry intensity, she admitted painfully. Had never touched her skin as if he was caressing the petals of a flower. Had never stirred her senses to the edge of fear.
That alone should have warned her, she thought, as she paid off the driver and turned to go into the house.
There was no sign of Daisy, but the kitchen was filled with the aroma of coffee and the percolator bubbled away cheerfully.
She still felt fuzzy round the edges. Daisy’s rich brew would clear her head and hopefully remove the shakiness in her legs too. Because she needed to be in total control, able to think positively. To plan tomorrow’s response to Marc. Convince him once and for all, and with some force, that both she and Monteagle would remain forever beyond his reach.
She locked the back door, then took a mug from the big dresser and carried it, with the percolator, along to the library. She had some heavy decisions to make, so why not in comfort?
The lamps were lit, and a small fire was burning briskly in the hearth. God bless Daisy, she thought gratefully, and took one step forward into the room, only to halt in startled disbelief as she realised suddenly that she was not alone.
As she saw, with stomach-lurching shock, who was rising from the sofa to greet her.
‘So, you are here at last,’ Marc said softly. And his smile touched her in cool possession.
CHAPTER SIX
HER heart was beating like a stone being thrown against a wall. She stared back at him, her eyes widening endlessly in dismay. His jacket and tie had been discarded, tossed over the arm of the sofa, and his shirt was unbuttoned almost to the waist, the sleeves rolled back over his forearms.
He could not, she thought numbly, have announced his intentions any more clearly.
Her voice, when she finally found it, was hoarse. ‘We—we said goodnight earlier. I saw your car on the way to the village—the hotel. So, what are you doing here?’
‘You have a short memory, ma belle. It was my unfortunate chauffeur you saw going to the hotel.’ The dark eyes glinted at her. ‘I told you that on my next visit I intended to spend the night here in this house.’
‘Yes, but I never thought…’ She stopped, biting her lip, struggling for dignity. For some kind of rationality. Most of all, for some way of keeping him at arm’s length—or an even greater distance. ‘I prefer my guests to wait for an invitation.’
‘I feared I might be made to wait for ever.’ His mouth curled sardonically. He walked across and took the percolator from her wavering hand. ‘Before you damage yourself, Hélène,’ he added drily. ‘Or me. Now, come and sit down.’
If she turned and ran he would only follow her, she knew, and she didn’t want to demonstrate that kind of weakness—let him see that she was scared in any way.
So she moved on legs that did not seem to belong to her to the sofa, and sank down, grateful for its sagging support. A small table had been drawn up, holding a tray with cups, a cream jug and sugar bowl, plus a decanter of brandy and two glasses.
She said shakily, ‘You certainly believe in making yourself at home—in every way.’
He shrugged. ‘Perhaps because I believe that very soon this will be my home.’ He sat down at the other end of the sofa and began to pour out the coffee.
She gave him a swift, wary glance. ‘Isn’t that a premature assumption?’ She tried to keep her voice toneless. ‘After all, you said you’d give me twenty-four hours to answer you.’ She paused. ‘And I also thought you’d have the decency to allow me to consider your proposition in private,’ she added, with a touch of hauteur.
‘But I decided I would pay court to you instead, cherie,’ he drawled. ‘Decency has always seemed to me such a dull virtue.’
His words, and the amused glance which accompanied them, were like an icy finger on her spine. Her hands were clamped round each other in an attempt to conceal the fact that they were trembling.
But she lifted her chin. ‘Virtue?’ she echoed cuttingly. ‘I’m surprised you even know what the word means.’
‘What a low opinion you have of me, ma chère,’ Marc drawled, pouring measures of brandy into the glasses. ‘But at least it releases me from any obligation to behave well.’
He leaned towards her and Helen flinched instinctively, realising too late that he was simply putting her coffee and brandy within her reach on the table. She saw his mouth tighten with sudden harshness, but when he spoke his voice was casual.
‘And I made you a proposal, not a proposition. Perhaps you would like me to demonstrate the difference?’