me to take such a radical decision. The thing is that if I don’t remain here—or at least at the Manoir—I’ll probably have to sell it.’
‘Sell the Manoir?’ Raoul’s cup hit the saucer with a crack. ‘You can’t sell the Manoir. It has been in the Saugure family for almost three centuries. The original house much longer than that. It’s unthinkable.’ His voice cut the air like a knife and his dark eyes flashed with anger.
‘I know that. But all things have to move on at some point,’ she reasoned thoughtfully.
‘That is a ridiculous statement,’ he bit back. ‘Selling the Manoir is out of the question.’
‘Might I remind you,’ she said, drawing herself up, ‘that it really is none of your business what I do with my property.’
‘You can remind me as much as you like,’ he answered, his burning eyes meeting hers full on in a clash of wills, ‘but I assure you, mademoiselle, that I will personally make your life as difficult as possible should you even contemplate such an action. Mon Dieu. What would Marie Louise do if she could hear you? She must be turning in her grave at this very instant.’ He sent her a withering look across the table and signalled the waiter for the bill.
‘I don’t see how you can stop me if I do decide to sell,’ Natasha challenged, furious at his meddling. ‘I have every right to do whatever I like with all three properties. Neither you nor anyone can stop me.’
‘Technically I may not be able to stop you,’ he replied in a low, menacing voice as the waiter approached, ‘but I assure you that you would regret it if you so much as thought about selling the Manoir.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Her chin jutted out and she faced him head on.
‘Merely warning you that you are on shaky ground when it comes to selling. You have inherited a duty to your name and your lineage,’ he threw, his tone as biting as it was derisive. ‘Surely even an Englishwoman like you can understand that? Doesn’t your bloodline mean anything to you?’
‘You are insupportable,’ Natasha hissed, throwing down her napkin on the table and getting up while the waiter hovered anxiously. ‘I’ll do whatever I like with my property, and I’ll thank you to leave me alone. I need neither your assistance nor your advice. Goodnight.’ On that dramatic note she swept regally from the table and made her way to the entrance of the restaurant.
When the doorman asked her if she wanted a cab she acquiesced gladly, still fuming from the altercation while desperately trying to ignore the needling truth that Raoul’s words had brought home: she did feel a link to the past, and to her name and to all she owed it. But she was damned if she would admit that to him, she reflected savagely, letting out a cross huff as she waited impatiently for the cab.
So she had a temper. Well, he liked her all the better for it. But he was damned if he was going to let her get all sorts of ridiculous ideas into that pretty head of hers. Sell the Manoir indeed. Absurd. Plus, that might lead to the divulging of past history much better left buried.
Having settled the bill, Raoul made his way to the entrance of the restaurant, where he could see Natasha’s back stiffly etched in the doorway. A smile hovered about his lips. She was turning out to be quite a handful, the drab little English miss. Not only had she been transformed into a raving beauty, but her character was proving more and more intriguing by the moment.
Signalling the doorman, he murmured to him to cancel the cab and approached Natasha.
‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, if I said anything to offend you,’ he murmured in a conciliatory tone, ‘but the truth must be faced.’
She whirled around, eyes blazing. ‘I’ve had just about enough of you for one evening, Raoul d’Argentan. Now, please leave me alone. I’ve ordered a cab and I can find my way back to the apartment perfectly well on my own.’
‘But the doorman has just indicated to me that there are no taxis available in Paris at this hour,’ he said, sounding much more French than he had before, and raising his hand in a very Gallic manner while shaking his head, eyes twinkling.
‘Really? That wasn’t the case five minutes ago,’ she replied coldly.
‘No? Well, things can change very fast in Paris. Transport is unreliable.’ He slipped an arm into hers and began walking. ‘Much better to let me accompany you—which, I might add, I do with pleasure.’ The slight lilt of a French accent thickened and his eyes sparkled. ‘Really, Natasha, there is no need to be upset. It is only a ride home, après tout, and you are only cross because I pointed out something that I have a funny feeling you already know deep down inside yourself.’
Natasha swallowed, bereft of words. How did he know? And how could she deny the truth? She glanced back at the doorman, who sent her an apologetic look. Anger still seethed inside her at the way she’d been so accurately read and cleverly manipulated. But, she realized, letting out a sigh, it was unlikely that the doorman would order her a cab now that the Baron had imposed his wretched will, and the best she could do, without causing an embarrassing scene, was to concede gracefully.
Several minutes later they drove alongside the Seine, past famous bridges, with the lights from the barges and bateaux mouches shimmering. On the Isle Saint-Louis she heard the chime of the bells at Nôtre Dame. It was impossible to be here, in this the loveliest of cities, and not surrender to its charm and enchantment.
‘How about a drink before we turn in?’ Raoul asked, taking a sidelong glance at her as he kept the car steady in the flow of traffic. She looked calmer, more composed. And he had no intention of letting her go home right now. She looked too beautiful in that silk dress, her hair flowing like golden wheat over her shoulders. Plus, he’d finally dispatched Clothilde and was therefore free as the wind. Added to all these valid reasons was the fact that the kiss they’d shared the other night in the car had remained strangely imprinted in his mind.
‘I suggest we pop over to the bar of the Plaza Athénée. If you haven’t been there before you’ll find the decoration amusing.’ He pulled his mobile out of his pocket, and before Natasha had a chance to agree or refuse he was reserving a table in quick French.
‘Raoul, I never said I was going,’ she said when he’d finished.
‘Do you always have to protest against every good idea?’ he countered with a shrug, a wicked smile breaking on his handsome face. ‘Just relax—voyons—and go with the flow, as they say in America. After all, you’re in Paris. Enjoy it.’
She sighed, realizing she was beaten and that actually she rather wanted to go for a drink. Plus, there really could be no possible harm in joining him in the bar of one of Paris’s best hotels, she justified.
Soon they were seated in the corner of the dimly lit bar and Raoul ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. The atmosphere was fun and young, and Natasha eyed the bar counter—a replica of a huge slab of ice, internally illuminated—intrigued.
‘Like it?’ Raoul asked, following her gaze. ‘It’s fun, isn’t it? I like coming here.’
It was only then that he saw a slim familiar figure silhouetted across the room, seated with friends by the window, and his heart sank. Clothilde sat, sylphlike and languorously elegant, dressed as always in the latest Dior fashions. Her dark-eyed gaze fulminated as it rested upon him. Raoul glanced away. Why hadn’t he remembered that she’d probably be here tonight? Hopefully she would be too proud to make a scene.
But his hopes were dashed when two minutes later Clothilde snaked between the tables, her slim hips swaying, then stood before him, her long black hair shrouding her face, a cigarette waving in her nervous fingers.
‘Monsieur le Baron,’ she threw sarcastically, ‘to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence here tonight? I thought you were ruralizing for a while.’
‘Good evening, Clothilde. May I introduce an English friend of mine, Natasha de Saugure?’
‘Non!’ Clothilde exclaimed. ‘I’m