In The Best Man's Bed. Catherine Spencer

uncertainty usurping her normal self-confidence, or wouldn’t the Seigneur approve?

      Probably not!

      “He’ll be very charming, very attentive to your comfort and needs, but don’t expect him to treat you the way a North American host would,” Solange had warned. “He’s much too reserved for that. He’ll probably call you Mademoiselle Barclay, the entire time you’re here. It took him ages to unbend enough to call me by my first name.”

      When she’d descended the steps from the jet and set foot on the tarmac, the sun’s shimmering heat had hit Anne-Marie like a wall, and she’d been glad to take refuge in the dim, air-conditioned comfort of the Mercedes. But as the vehicle left the town behind and climbed the hill leading to the Beaumont estate, her friend’s warning settled unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach like a too-large meal of badly prepared food.

      More than a month of having to bow and scrape to some domineering individual given to feudal delusions of grandeur was enough to kill anyone’s appetite! Worse, it promised to leach all the pleasure out of her coming to Bellefleur to be her best friend’s maid of honor, and instead threatened to turn the visit into a penance for sins not yet committed.

      That an autocratic stranger should wield such power that he cast a pall over Solange’s wedding was indefensible. But more troubling by far, in Anne-Marie’s opinion, was the fear that his domination would spill over and influence the marriage, as well.

      She had met Philippe Beaumont, and liked him. He and Solange were well-matched. But he’d never struck Anne-Marie as a particularly strong or forceful man. Given a choice, he’d choose the easy route over the difficult, and whether he’d be any match for his assertive half brother seemed questionable, given what she knew about the latter.

      Her concerns intensified as the Mercedes swept through the gates guarding the entrance to the family estate and, a short time later, drew up in the forecourt of the main house.

      She was no stranger to luxury. She’d attended the best schools, seen something of the world, never known what it was to lack money or material comforts. Yet, quite apart from its architectural beauty, the sheer size and opulence of the Beaumont mansion overwhelmed her.

      She’d heard that royalty had slept under its roofs and she could well believe it. This was no mere villa, no rich man’s private island hideaway. This was a palace which, surrounded though it might be with smothering tropical heat, nevertheless exuded an intimidating aura of cool, dignified formality. If it was representational of its owner, then small wonder Solange held him in such awe.

      “Mademoiselle?”

      With a start, Anne-Marie realized the passenger door stood open, and a manservant, immaculate in starched white Bermuda shorts and tailored, short-sleeved white shirt, waited to hand her out of the car. Bracing herself to cope with whatever situation might await her, she slid across the leather seat and stepped into the courtyard.

      Somehow, that made all the difference to her perceptions. Everywhere she looked, she saw flowers. But rather than viewing them from behind the tinted windows of the Mercedes, her eyes were assaulted by the splendor of color spilling over cream stucco walls, and tumbling from huge stone jardinieres in a riot of purple and scarlet and bright orange.

      She became instantly aware of the cooling splash of fountains, and the raucous shriek of brilliantly feathered birds; of the exotic scent of gardenias; of ginger blossom and plumeria.

      Shading her from the sun with an exquisitely painted parasol, the manservant escorted her up a shallow flight of steps and into the building—not by way of a front door because, for all its luxury, the villa didn’t appear to possess one. Instead, a pair of curved iron gates, so delicately wrought that they resembled black lace, led directly to a covered inner courtyard, circular in shape and large enough to serve as a ballroom.

      Solange waited there, her dark eyes liquid with emotion, her smile tremulous. “Oh, how I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed softly, gliding forward over the marble-tiled floor, and kissing Anne-Marie on both cheeks. “Welcome to Bellefleur, ma chère, chère amie! I’m so glad to have you here at last!”

      “Glad?” A little teary-eyed herself, Anne-Marie held her friend at arm’s length and inspected her searchingly. “If you’re so glad, why are you crying?”

      “Because I’m happy.”

      “You don’t look happy, Solange.”

      Solange gave her little Gallic shrug, cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, and said, “Come, let me show you where you’ll be sleeping. We can talk more freely there. Ethan instructed the staff to put you in the guest pavilion next to mine.”

      “You mean to say you’re not staying here in the house?”

      “Not until I’m a married woman. Ethan wouldn’t approve. Philippe might be tempted to sneak into my bed at night.”

      “The way he did when you were still living in Paris, you mean?”

      “Hush!” Solange pressed a nervous finger to her lips. “No one must know that, Anne-Marie. Standards are different here.”

      “So I gathered,” she muttered, following Solange through another curved gateway on the opposite side of the foyer, to a paved terrace overlooking an enormous, infinity-edged pool. The view beyond was breathtaking; a sweeping panorama of sky and sea framed with swaying coconut palms and poinciana trees. “Tell me, do the guest pavilions have doors and windows, or must we whisper all the time we’re there, as well, in case anyone overhears?”

      “We’ll be quite private, except for when our maids are present. Then we must be discreet.” She led the way down a shady path which wound among a series of ponds connected to each other by miniature waterfalls and pebbled, man-made streams. “We’re a good distance from the main house, as you’ll see, but the suites are very luxurious and spacious.”

      “That’s good. I’ll need plenty of room to finish working on the dresses.”

      Solange flung a glance over her shoulder and, just for a moment, her usual vivacity showed in her face. “I can hardly wait to see mine. The drawings you sent were gorgeous.”

      “We can have a fitting later on, if you like, to give you an idea of how you’re going to look in the finished product.”

      “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Because you’ve been traveling all day, we’re having an early dinner, and I expect you’ll want to shower and change first.”

      “Presumably, I’ll be meeting the formidable Ethan Beaumont.” Anne-Marie grimaced. “I’ve got indigestion already!”

      “Not tonight, you won’t,” Solange said with a laugh. “I ordered a private meal to be delivered to my suite. Ethan’s aunt and uncle are visiting friends until tomorrow afternoon, and he’s away on business.”

      “I understood running this island and the lives of everyone on it was his business.”

      “Mon Dieu, non! He has investment and real estate portfolios all over the world, though he’s recently begun delegating Philippe to take charge of them, and concentrating all his energy on his oil interests. That’s what’s taken him away this time.”

      “To the Middle East? Good! The farther away he is, the better! I already dislike the man and I’m in no hurry to meet him.”

      “Oh, he’s much closer than the Middle East, I’m afraid. Just off the coast of Venezuela, in fact, which is no great distance from here at all. He’ll be back in a few days, I’m sure, but until then you’ll have to make do with his aunt and uncle, who also live on the estate, and with Adrian.”

      “Who’s Adrian?”

      “Ethan’s son.” Her voice softened. “He’s an adorable little boy. I don’t think you’ll find being around him a very great hardship, regardless of how you feel about his father.”

      The path opened onto a wide expanse of lawn just then,