‘Boeuf bourguignon,’ he said, handing her a bowl. Taking a seat opposite, he raised his glass to her. ‘Salut. And welcome to Burgundy.’
Tired as she was, Ginny did not miss the faintly caustic glance directed at him by Jules as he joined them. Maybe her arrival was not going to be greeted by universal rejoicing, and Andre might possibly come to regret his hasty offer.
She’d thought she’d be too tired to eat, but it took just one delicious mouthful of tender beef, beautifully cooked with wine, herbs, tiny onions and mushrooms to convince her she was wrong.
The wine was astonishing too, filling her mouth with rich earthy flavours while caressing her throat like velvet. Or a lover’s touch...
She even had some of the sharp, creamy cheese which followed the stew and sighed as she finally pushed her plate away.
‘That was—utterly delicious,’ she said stiltedly and looked at Jules. ‘My compliments to the chef, monsieur.’
For a moment he stared at her, astounded, then a broad grin spread across his rugged face as he turned to Andre, making some incomprehensible remark.
‘Jules is flattered,’ Andre translated. ‘But the credit must go to his aunt, who has been cook here for many years. Madame Rameau is busy elsewhere tonight, but you will meet her tomorrow.’
Jules got to his feet, still grinning. He said, ‘Bonne nuit, Andre, mam’selle.’ His dark eyes danced as he looked from one to the other. ‘Et dormez bien, n’est ce pas?’
Well, she didn’t need a translation of that, Ginny thought, flushing angrily as Jules sauntered across the kitchen and out into the night.
She said tautly, ‘Where has he gone?’
‘Home to sleep. He lives in a house on the edge of the vineyard. La Petite Maison is always occupied by the manager.’
He picked up her coat and suitcase. ‘And I think it is time that you, too, Virginie, went to bed. Viens avec moi.’
A door in the corner led up a winding flight of wooden stairs to a curtained archway. He held the velvet aside to allow her to precede him and she stepped through to find herself in a broad corridor, its pastel walls illumined by elegant gilded sconces, which appeared to lead to a pair of ornate double doors at the end.
Conscious that with Jules’ departure, she seemed to be here alone with him, she felt her apprehension mounting.
Swallowing, she saw he’d reached the doors and was holding one of them open, motioning her to enter. Ginny obeyed warily and stopped dead, gasping, as she gazed round the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen.
All the elaborately carved furniture—the enormous armoire, the dressing table and chair, the night tables and the linen chest at the foot of the bed—were clearly very old and made from wood the colour of horse chestnuts. While the bed itself...
It was easily more than double the width of the queen-size bed she’d slept in at Barrowdean, making it what? Emperor-size? Dictator-of-the-world-size? And rendered even more imposing by its four carved posts, and its canopy and curtains in pale gold brocade.
And totally inappropriate for single occupation—if that had ever been his intention.
Her heartbeat faltered then steadied as Andre set her coat and case down on the chest, then walked across the room to open a door on the other side and reveal the gleam of ivory tiles.
‘I am sure Clothilde has provided all that you need,’ he said. ‘Permit me to wish you goodnight.’
As he reached the bedroom door, she said huskily, ‘Just a moment. There must be some mistake. This is not a servant’s room.’
‘Tu as raison,’ he agreed. ‘This is the room always occupied by the Baron de Terauze and his wife. Papa Bertrand, being a widower, chooses to sleep elsewhere. And although I am not yet the Baron or a husband, I have decided you will sleep here as my chosen bride until I am legally entitled to join you.’ His smile touched her like the stroke of a hand across her skin. ‘I live for that night, ma belle.’
Her throat tightened. She said dazedly, ‘But that’s tantamount to a public announcement. You can’t do that.’
He shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, it is done.’
She gave him a challenging look. ‘And when it’s confirmed that there is no baby and I go back to England, what will you do then?’
‘I shall cross that bridge,’ he said softly, ‘only if I come to it.’
‘When,’ she said. ‘Not—if. And another thing. You told us all—you let us think you worked in a vineyard.’
‘And so I do,’ he said. ‘Very hard, and so do Papa Bertrand and Jules. If your mother wished to believe that as well as a bastard I was a peasant toiling in a field, that was her concern.’ He added reflectively, ‘But I do not think, Virginie, that you were fooled even for a moment.’