Ginny said quietly, ‘Then it’s fortunate that I have no interest in being married.’ Which, she told herself defensively, was no more than the truth.
Mademoiselle’s brows lifted. ‘Then why, with Monsieur Charlton gone, did you accept such an invitation?’
The million-dollar question.
Ginny said carefully, ‘Perhaps I too needed to get away from the trauma of the last few weeks. And I admit I was curious about this part of my stepfather’s life, mademoiselle.’
‘And when your curiosity is satisfied?’
‘I intend to go back to England.’ And offered a silent prayer that there’d be nothing to prevent her. Or, at least, that she could convince Andre it was so.
Monique Chaloux’s nod suggested she too was satisfied. ‘You are wise. Whatever your beau-père may have hoped, mademoiselle, there is nothing for you here, except heartbreak perhaps.’ She paused. ‘Permit me to offer you more coffee.’
Ginny managed a polite refusal. She had just eaten a delicious meal, but she felt as hollow inside as if she’d fasted for a week. Shaken too.
Which was ridiculous, because how could the revelation that Andre was an experienced and predatory womaniser really come as any kind of surprise after the way he’d behaved with her?
I must have been one of his easiest conquests, she told herself bitterly as self-disgust attacked her again.
And presumably this Dominique Lavaux has all the necessary attributes of a future Baronne, even if I am temporarily occupying her bed.
Barney stirred, lifting his head, then got up, tail wagging, padding towards the door as it opened and the men came in, laughing together, and even with just a sideways glance across the room, Ginny felt her entire body clench in a sudden shock of need, and knew it was no wonder if women collapsed like ninepins under the sheer force of Andre’s attraction.
What she must not do was let it happen to her. Not again.
Now she watched Barney gently head-butt Andre’s long legs in welcome, as if underlining his change of allegiance. And felt as if she’d never been so much alone in her life.
After that, the party broke up fairly soon, Mademoiselle Chaloux insisting prettily that she had an early start in the morning. ‘They say the weather will become warmer tomorrow,’ she added with a mock shiver. ‘Like my mother, I find the winters harsh here compared with Provence.’
The Baron also excused himself on the grounds of having paperwork to attend to, and, to Ginny’s relief, Andre showed no wish to linger among the stripes and gilding.
‘You are very quiet,’ he observed as they entered the kitchen, neat, empty and silent apart from the hum of the dishwasher. ‘Did Monique bore you with more praise of Baronne Laure and her exquisite taste?’
She didn’t bore me at all, thought Ginny, with a pang. She forced a smile. ‘No, but perhaps she guessed it was a lost cause. The furniture may be valuable, but I prefer comfort.’
‘It was certainly expensive,’ he returned drily. ‘Papa says that one of the few times my grandfather lost his temper with her was when he discovered she’d been fooled by someone she’d met at a party into paying Louis Quinze prices for reproduction junk.
‘Heureusement, it ended her dalliance with interior décor.’ He smiled at her. ‘But if you have any ideas for improvements to the château, I would be delighted to hear them.’
Ginny bit her lip. He was talking about a situation that could not—must not exist, she thought resentfully. Acting as if they were an actual couple in love and planning their future home. Something she could not allow to go on, but was not sure how to stop.
She said, ‘I was surprised to see Mademoiselle Chaloux tonight.’
Andre shrugged. ‘But I was not,’ he replied tersely. ‘Monique has her own agenda to pursue.’
‘She’s a close friend?’
‘But an employee. A few days a week, she maintains the records for the house and the domaine and keeps the accounts, all with great efficiency.’ He paused. ‘Also, she hopes to marry Papa Bertrand.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Ginny swallowed. ‘Do you think she will?’
‘I try, ma belle, not to think about it at all,’ he drawled. ‘But I trust most sincerely that she will be disappointed.’
She said slowly, ‘She mentioned Provence. Wasn’t that where your mother’s friend went to live?’
‘Mais oui. Monique was the friend on whom Maman so mistakenly relied. She stayed in Provence until a few weeks after my mother’s funeral, then returned alone.’ He added drily, ‘Presumably she had another correspondante who kept her informed.’