Susan Stephens Selection: The French Count's Mistress / The Spaniard's Revenge / Virgin for Sale / Bedded by the Desert King
the centre of attention, Kate put a brave face on it and walked up to the counter.
‘Now then, let me see, mademoiselle,’ Monsieur Dupont said as he paid her the ultimate compliment of leaving his post to come around the counter into the main body of the shop.
Before she could stop him, Guy had taken hold of her arm and was holding out her hand for the dapper older man to examine. The rest of the customers formed an arc around them as they waited in breathless anticipation for Monsieur Dupont’s diagnosis.
‘Nasty,’ he began as he peered myopically at Kate’s hand. ‘Slight abrasion.’ He turned her hand carefully in front of him, pulling his spectacles down on to the very end of his nose to take a closer look. ‘Bruising…painful no doubt…but fortunately no deep wound,’ he proclaimed to sighs all round. ‘Not a horse-riding accident, I hope, mademoiselle?’ he teased, winking at Guy and then glancing at the stallion tethered to the rail outside his shop. Every head in the place turned to follow his gaze and one by one some of the older women broke into delighted laughter embroidered by a round of eloquent nudges.
‘Not a horse-riding accident,’ Kate confirmed, feeling her face flush as she realised what people must be thinking.
‘Hold her steady while I bathe the wound, if you please, Monsieur le Comte,’ the pharmacist instructed Guy. ‘This may sting a little, mademoiselle,’ he confided in Kate. ‘And I wouldn’t like her to pull away,’ he added in a dramatic stage whisper.
‘Don’t worry, monsieur,’ Guy assured the jaunty pharmacist. ‘I won’t let her get away.’
Kate’s heart started beating to its own crazy rhythm. And it was a rhythm that had nothing to do with stinging wounds or the unselfconscious scrutiny of anyone in the shop.
Monsieur Dupont was determined to draw out the drama to its fullest extent and was brandishing a length of bandage that could have easily bound her up like an Egyptian mummy from top to toe. ‘Now you may release her,’ he informed Guy. ‘The unpleasant part is over—’
This time he was wrong, Kate thought as Guy let her go. As far as she was concerned, the pleasant part was over. She was conscious of Guy watching her, leaning back casually against the wall with his arms loosely folded and one tightly clad leg crossed nonchalantly over the other.
‘There!’ Monsieur Dupont declared with a flourish. ‘A neat job, if I say so myself.’
‘A very neat job,’ Guy confirmed as he eased himself away from the wall. ‘What do I owe you, Monsieur Dupont?’
‘Owe me!’
Kate felt sure that all the women in the shop tensed and leaned forward a little to catch him, so great was Monsieur Dupont’s affront.
‘I want nothing from you, monsieur, except your assurances that you will escort this young lady home. She’s had quite a shock today.’
Understatement of the year! Kate thought wryly as Guy accepted the gesture with his customary charm.
‘I’m sure there must be something I can do in return for you,’ he insisted.
‘Monsieur le Comte,’ Monsieur Dupont exclaimed bashfully with a very low bow indeed, ‘I assure you, there is no need whatever—’
‘I have a better idea,’ Kate broke in impulsively. ‘In about three weeks’ time I intend to have a housewarming—’ Well, that was one way of describing the opening of her guest house and the safest option whilst Guy was around. ‘I’d like to invite you…all—’ She caught sight of Guy’s face and stopped.
‘I hope that includes me,’ he said.
Her mouth dried.
‘Mademoiselle could not possibly leave you out, Monsieur le Comte,’ Monsieur Dupont exclaimed as he turned from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match. ‘Well, could you, mademoiselle?’
‘No, of course not. You’re very welcome, Guy.’
‘You don’t sound too sure,’ he murmured so that only she could hear. ‘Don’t forget to send that invitation.’
‘I won’t,’ Kate promised, backing her way towards the entrance. ‘Well, thank you, Monsieur Dupont…everyone… Guy.’
‘Not so fast,’ Guy drawled, coming after her. ‘I have to see you home, remember?’
‘I can manage…honestly,’ she protested when he insisted on guiding her out by the elbow. ‘I can walk.’
‘So can I,’ he pointed out. ‘Or we can ride back. It’s entirely up to you.’
‘You don’t have to treat me like a child. I hurt my hand, that’s all. It’s been attended to. Thank you very much for your assistance—’
‘Et au revoir?’ he suggested sardonically.
‘Yes. No,’ Kate amended quickly, realising how ungrateful he must think her.
‘Walk, or ride?’ he demanded.
The day had mellowed into a hazy, lazy afternoon and in spite of all the warning klaxons sounding in her head, Kate chose to walk. She waited outside under the green and white striped awning of the pharmacie until Guy found one of the young village lads to ride his horse back to the stables at the château.
‘You’re very trusting,’ she said, seeing the young boy’s face light up with excited anticipation as he urged the magnificent animal into a brisk trot.
‘Yes, aren’t I?’ Guy agreed dryly. ‘But since I’ve known Leon since birth, as I have all the youngsters in the village, I’d say it was a calculated risk. I didn’t pick him out at random. He is one of the best young riders we have around here. Letting him ride Fireflash is my way of showing my appreciation for the hours he puts into his training.’
‘I’m sorry. That was clumsy of me. I should have realised—’
‘Forget it,’ Guy said, steering her in the direction of the shops.
‘Where are we going now?’ she demanded when he paused to stare into the window of the patisserie.
‘Cake? No,’ he said, reading her face. ‘I take you for a bread, cheese and salad woman right now.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Kate asked suspiciously.
‘Cake signals self-indulgence to me. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but, right now, you strike me as being in a rolling up your sleeves kind of a mood.’
‘Hardly,’ Kate said, struggling to rein in her wayward senses as she raised her bandaged hand to make the point.
‘Well, as I suppose I’m indirectly responsible for that, how about I do the labouring and you give the orders?’
‘Count Guy de Villeneuve labouring?’ Kate exclaimed as she threw him a look.
‘I am quite a capable individual,’ he confided, moving in close. ‘Believe it or not, I can even put jam on my own croissant in the morning.’
As his breath warmed her ear, Kate backed away. ‘Please stop teasing me, Guy.’
‘Why?’ he murmured. ‘You used to love it when you were a little girl.’
Her heart thundered at the reminder. Once any attention from the handsome young aristocrat had been bliss, but now it only spelled trouble.
‘What do we need food for anyway?’ she said, trying to keep her mind from straying on to dangerous territory.
‘I get very hungry when I work.’
‘You’re not going to be doing any work,’ Kate insisted firmly. Her original resolution still held firm. No one was setting foot inside the cottage until she was completely satisfied that the interior