Ginny found herself glancing at Andre Duchard, observing with faint alarm that his mouth was curling into amusement, and something else besides.
Not just a bad idea, this party, she thought uneasily. The worst ever.
When dinner was announced, Ginny discovered that her carefully devised seating plan had been discarded.
‘No need for formality on a family occasion,’ Rosina announced brightly from the head of the table, indicating that the Welburns should sit on either side of her.
Ginny saw with foreboding that Andre Duchard had adroitly taken a seat next to Cilla, leaving Jonathan to sit opposite to them.
The salmon mousse was eaten with great appreciation, Rosina blandly accepting the praise lavished on it.
‘Cooking has always been one of my great pleasures,’ she added.
Lady Welburn looked over her glasses. ‘I thought this was one of your wonderful Mrs Pel’s specialities.’
Rosina didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m afraid this sort of thing is rather beyond her now. She really should have retired long since.’ She turned to Ginny. ‘The next course, dear. Would you mind?’
Inside the pastry case, the fillet of beef with its layer of pâté and mushrooms was cooked to pink perfection and the garlicky roasted vegetables made a delicious and colourful accompaniment.
Sir Malcolm had jovially offered to act as wine waiter, his brows lifting a little when he saw that Ginny had chosen a St Emilion to succeed the Chablis served with the first course.
‘Bordeaux, my dear chap, not Burgundy,’ he boomed as he filled Andre Duchard’s glass. ‘I hope you won’t see it as a challenge.’
‘By no means,’ Andre returned softly, his gaze meeting Ginny’s across the table. ‘A wonderful wine is always that, no matter where the grape is grown.’
She flushed. ‘I don’t really know much about wine,’ she said untruthfully, and saw his smile widen.
Lady Welburn came to her rescue. ‘Where in Burgundy do you live, Monsieur Duchard?’
‘A village called Terauze, madame.’
‘Terauze?’ Sir Malcolm mused. ‘That name’s familiar. Are you involved with the wine industry, Mr Duchard?’
‘I work in the Domaine Baron Emile, monsieur.’
To Ginny’s horror, the look Rosina sent Lady Welburn could not have stated, A peasant. I knew it, more obviously if she’d shouted it aloud. But her air as she turned to Andre Duchard was gracious.
‘Are you one of the people who tread the grapes, Mr Duchard?’
‘Non, hélas.’ His dark face was impassive. ‘They are no longer crushed in that way. Although still picked by hand.’
‘Ah,’ Rosina said vaguely. ‘Then I suppose you have little to do at this time of year.’
‘Perhaps, at this precise moment, madame.’ He shrugged. ‘But after the feast of St Vincent, the patron of vignerons, in ten days’ time, we begin pruning.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Rosina, and turned back to Lady Welburn with a query about the Women’s Institute.
While Andre Duchard, still smiling, resumed devoting his attention to Cilla.
Or as it was better known, blatantly flirting with her under the nose of her fiancé, thought Ginny furiously. And her ‘beautiful sister’ was responding, all sideways glances under her darkened lashes, and little soft giggles.
She’d once heard flirting defined as ‘making love without touching’ and here was a practical demonstration, as Andre Duchard smiled into Cilla’s eyes. Murmured to her, his lips just a breath from her ear...
Very different, she thought, a sudden strange pain twisting inside her, to the way he treated me. Grabbing me and kissing me—like that.
Which is something I’ve decided not to think about again, and to behave as if it never happened.
The Welburns, she could see, were studiously pretending not to notice what was going on at the other end of the table. However, one glance at Jonathan told her he was wearing his normally pleasant expression like a mask.
She turned to him, nailing on a smile, asking him about the horse she’d heard he was buying.
‘I’m paying a hefty price for it,’ he returned tersely. ‘I just hope it turns out to be worth it.’
Ginny found herself suddenly remembering Andre Duchard’s mocking reference to village gossip about Jonathan paying for his pleasures—which she’d almost forgotten in its disturbing aftermath. Taking a deep breath, she resolved to issue a sisterly warning at the earliest convenient moment.
Every scrap of food disappeared, so Ginny presumed she was the only one who’d felt that the tender flavoursome beef was like chewing old leather gloves. And the champagne jellies decorated with frosted grapes provided a delicate and perfect finale to the meal, with only Sir Malcolm and Andre Duchard opting for cheese as well.