Harlequin Presents January 2015 Box Set 3 of 4(175)

‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t—you can’t mean that.’

‘You forget, Virginie.’ His voice was harsh. ‘I know what my father suffered, knowing his only child was being raised in another country by another man, and the extreme it drove him to. You think I will allow that to happen to me? That I would be content to provide financial support and the occasional visit?’ He drew a sharp breath. ‘Never in this world.’

‘But you don’t understand...’

‘No,’ he said grimly. ‘It is you, ma belle, who cannot comprehend how I would feel if our child was sick or in an accident and I could not be with you at the bedside. Or the pain of not seeing that first step—hearing that first word.’

He paused. ‘And whatever you may believe, there is still a stigma attached to a child born outside marriage. Bastard is an ugly word which some people do not hesitate to use. Almost from the moment she arrived back in Terauze, Maman had the support and protection of Papa Bertrand, but even so, she was not invulnerable.’

He added quietly, ‘And nor was I.’

Ginny was silent, remembering from her own youth how cruel children could be, in her case, if you did not have the trendiest clothes, or if they found your school meals were subsidised. Imagining the kind of jibes that would have been levelled at the man looking at her so steadily.

He said, ‘But who will defend you, Virginie? Your mother? I do not think so.’

Nor did she, all her attempts at making contact over the past weeks having totally failed, but, just the same, she lifted her chin defiantly. ‘You’re determined to think the worst of her.’

Andre shrugged. ‘I wish you to face reality. And, in doing so, to accept the shelter of marriage for yourself and our baby. We should not forget that the child could be the future heir to Terauze.’

But marriage is the reality I can’t bear to face, Ginny thought wildly.

Living with you, sleeping with you, needing you. And, when you’re not with me, wondering where you are and who you’re with.

How can I do that? How can I—when the shelter you offer will only make me more vulnerable?

Her voice shook a little. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for this heir to be born in a marriage of love rather than convenience?’

‘Peut-être,’ he said. ‘In an ideal world. But we must deal with the situation as it is.’

He walked over to the sofa and knelt, taking her hand. ‘Virginie, I beg you honour me by becoming my wife.’ He added with constraint, ‘I promise I will try to make you happy.’

At the expense of someone else’s sorrow...

She thought it, but did not say it. She looked at the tanned fingers enclosing her own, and nodded reluctantly.

‘Then I suppose—yes.’ She released her hand from his clasp. ‘I—I don’t know how to fight you any more, Andre.’

He smiled at her and rose. ‘Vraiment? Then you will make the perfect wife, ma mie. Now I shall tell Papa Bertrand the good news.’

‘All of it?’ she asked apprehensively.

He shrugged again. ‘Pourquoi pas?’ he countered. ‘If he has not guessed already.’

He bent and, realising he intended to kiss her and unable to trust herself not to respond, she shrank back against the cushions.

He straightened, the firm mouth twisting in derision. ‘Keep your distance by day, if you wish, chérie. But the nights will bring their own compensations.’ He walked to the door and turned. ‘For us both,’ he added softly. ‘As I am sure you remember.’

And left her staring after him, her heart beating wildly.

* * *

The black taffeta, Ginny decided critically, surveying herself in the mirror, looked almost better tonight than it had done in the shop, which was gratifying when this might be the only occasion she’d be able to wear it. And her high-heeled court shoes and sheer black tights somehow made her slim legs look endless.

It was a long time since she’d been to a big party and even longer since she’d possessed a dress quite as flattering and—well, sexy as this one, and, in spite of her very real concerns about the future, she felt a flutter of excitement inside her.

I’ve scrubbed up pretty well, she thought, reverting to self-mockery. Tonight I might even have given Cilla a run for her money.

She’d phoned both Rosina and her sister the previous day, telling them that she was to be married, but, again, her messages went straight to voicemail, and there had been no call-back. Yet surely they couldn’t still be in the Seychelles.

It’s as if I’ve ceased to exist for them, she acknowledged with a faint sigh as she went downstairs.