At The French Baron's Bidding. Fiona Hood-Stewart

      

      “Natasha, let me tell you something.”

      “What’s that?” she asked warily.

      “To want is not a sin. It is a natural, healthy reaction. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, because you do. Very well. Last night proved that to me.”

      “Last night was—was an aberration,” she muttered, trying to resist the delicious sensation of his finger caressing the inside of her bare forearm in what was turning into a dangerously erotic motion.

      “Last night was the proof that you want to make love with me,” he murmured huskily. “In fact, I have already made love to you. Only not fully. The rest is still to come.”

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      At the French Baron’s Bidding

      Fiona Hood-Stewart

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WASN’T that she didn’t want to go back to France, for in truth she did. But as the chauffeur-driven car drove sedately through the gates of the Manoir that she remembered only vaguely from early childhood, Natasha de Saugure experienced a rush of mixed emotions: she really should have responded to her grandmother’s summons sooner.

      Yet the past hung between them, and had impeded her from doing so. Now, Natasha hoped that it wouldn’t be too late. Her grandmother had sounded so frail over the phone. But taking leave from her job with a humanitarian organisation in Africa wasn’t easy. She had, in the short space of time she’d been employed, acquired a post of much responsibility. She owed it to the starving mothers and children they were so desperately trying to save to be there.

      Still, after the car had crunched across the gravel driveway and come to a stop, Natasha stepped out and breathed a unique fragrance that she recognized as fresh lavender and thyme; she knew she’d been right to come.

      ‘Voilà, mademoiselle.’ The driver smiled at her over his shoulder before jumping out and solicitously opening the car door.

      ‘Merci.’ Natasha smiled back. In a quick movement she straightened her long ash-blonde hair and glanced up at the ancient stone façade of the Manoir: its rounded turrets at each corner, the lead-tiled roof, the ivy that weaved over its centuries-old stone walls. Making her way towards the stately front door past grand stone pots filled with well-trimmed shrubs, Natasha sighed. It was many years since she’d last seen her grandmother—after the irreparable rift between the old lady and Natasha’s father when he’d married out of his set.

      All at once the ancient front door creaked, opened, and an old, white-haired man in uniform appeared on the steps.

      ‘Bienvenue, mademoiselle,’ he said, his face breaking into a wrinkled smile. ‘Madame will be so pleased.’

      ‘Bonjour, Henri,’ she said; she’d heard her mother talk about the old retainer. She stepped inside the flagstoned hall and gazed about her at the high ceilings and doorways leading this way and that into the warren of passages and rooms beyond. Little by little vague memories unfurled as long-forgotten images jumped forth to greet her.

      But the question that still tugged at her as she entered the Manoir was why, after all these years of silence, had her grandmother insisted she come? There had been little in the letter she’d received to indicate her reasons; little in her imperative tone on the phone to suggest she’d unbent after all this time.

      Yet insist she had.

      And, despite her first inclination to refuse, Natasha had known she had to come. After all, notwithstanding the past, now that both her parents were dead Natasha was the old lady’s only living relative.

      After Henri had exclaimed, with a tear in his eye, at seeing her again, all grown up, thrilled that she’d remembered his name, Natasha followed him up the stone staircase, amazed at how much she recognized. Over twenty years had elapsed since her last visit to Normandy, but so much felt familiar: the scents, the light pouring through the tall windows and bathing the muted walls, the echo of her heels resonating on the well-trodden steps. And something else that she couldn’t quite identify.

      ‘Madame is waiting for you upstairs in the small salon,’ Henri pronounced in stentorian tones.

      ‘Then I had better go to her at once.’ Natasha smiled again, her green eyes sparkling with amusement. The situation was so dreadfully formal, as though she’d walked into another time and place.

      With a small bow the butler led the way slowly up the wide staircase. Natasha realized that he suffered from arthritis and found the climb difficult. She was about to suggest that he simply tell her where the salon was and she would find it herself when she realized that would be a grave breach of etiquette. Henri, who had worked here all his life, would not take kindly to any deviation from the rigorous habits her grandmother kept.

      Soon they stopped before a white and gold door. Henri knocked, then gently opened it. ‘She awaits you,’ he pronounced in a hushed tone.

      Natasha swallowed. Suddenly this didn’t seem quite as simple as she’d imagined it would when she was back in Khartoum. She was a compassionate person by nature, but the drastic way her grandmother had cut her own son out of her life had made Natasha distrustful of the older woman, whom she barely recalled.

      Then, knowing she must get on with it, Natasha gathered up her courage and stepped through the door that Henri was holding open and into the high-ceilinged, shaded room. It took a moment or two for her eyes to adjust to the half-light. Then she gazed over at the tiny white-haired figure shrouded under a silk coverlet on an antique pink-velvet day-bed under the window.

      ‘Ah, mon enfant, finally you have arrived.’

      The voice was a thin whisper and, despite her initial instinctive desire to hold back, Natasha’s natural empathy asserted itself. Instead of the grandmother who’d rejected her and her family for most of her life, she saw instead a feeble old lady in need of help. Quickly she approached.

      ‘Yes,