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

eight o’clock sharp Natasha, dressed in a dark blue silk dress she thought her grandmother would approve of, glided gracefully down the main stairway and was met by Henri, who immediately guided her into the formal dinning room. Natasha sighed. She had no desire to sit alone at a table big enough to seat sixteen. But she said nothing. This was the way things were—she’d heard it often enough from her father’s stories about his boyhood. There was little use saying she’d rather have a tray in the sitting room, as it wasn’t going to happen.

      After the meal she got up, relieved to have finished, and made her way upstairs to her grandmother’s bedroom. She’d say goodnight before it was too late, then go to her room, have a bath in the huge antique tub, and curl up in the blue satin-swathed four-poster and read.

      After three unanswered knocks she decided to open the door and peer inside. She smiled when she saw the old lady sleeping. Perhaps she shouldn’t disturb her. Yet something pushed her to stay, and she moved towards the bed and gazed down at her grandmother. The Comtesse de Saugure lay perfectly still, her expression peaceful. Then all at once Natasha gasped, leaned forward, and felt for the older woman’s pulse.

      But there was none.

      Heart trembling, Natasha tried to wake her.

      ‘Grandmère,’ she murmured, gently touching her shoulder. ‘Please wake up.’ But she met with only silence. Horrified, her hands shaking, Natasha stood straighter and allowed the truth to sink in.

      Her grandmother was dead.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE early Norman chapel was filled with mourners, both local and foreign. Old retainers who had worked for the Comtesse for most of their lives lined the narrow road as the hearse made its way through the countryside. Natasha followed in the ancient Rolls, driven by Henri.

      Now, as she stood alone in the front pew, dressed in black, listening to the priest read the funeral service, Natasha felt both sad and bewildered. She knew no one except for Henri and his wife Mathilde, standing respectfully in the pew behind her. Part of her shock was caused by the meeting she’d had this morning with the local notary who’d come to read her grandmother’s will. To her astonishment Natasha had learned that she was her grandmother’s sole beneficiary. She had inherited not only the château in Normandy, but the Comtesse’s sumptuous flat in the 16ième arrondissement in Paris, and her villa on the Côte d’Azur.

      Natasha had gathered her thoughts and prepared to follow the coffin down the aisle when all at once she looked up and saw the man she’d encountered in the field, seated in the opposite pew. He looked different dressed in a dark suit and tie, with his hair groomed. Their eyes met and once more Natasha wondered who he was.

      Then, turning away, she followed the pallbearers out of the church to the graveyard where the Comtesse would end her life’s journey, laid to rest among the ancient crooked headstones, many of which bore the name of Saugure upon them. As the coffin was lowered into the earth and the priest spoke the words she’d heard not that long ago when her parents were buried, Natasha experienced a moment of deep sadness and solitude.

      Now she had no one left. Not even the estranged grandmother whom she’d hoped to get to know. Now she had only herself to count on.

      Raoul d’Argentan stood a few steps away from the mourners, eyes fixed on the young woman standing next to the grave. Who was this granddaughter of the Comtesse de Saugure who had appeared out of nowhere on the day of her death? He knew, of course, that Marie Louise de Saugure had been estranged from her only son. But that all went back a long way. This, he supposed, must be his daughter. But what a strange coincidence that she should have returned only for her grandmother to die. Well, it was none of his business. The Saugures and the Argentans had been neighbours for several centuries and knew each other well. But their history had not always been pleasant. There were instances dating back a few hundred years, grievances that still rankled. Not that he cared. He had his own affairs to contend with: his auction house in Paris, which dealt in some of Europe’s finest art, and, of course, the estate to run.

      As he walked back to his car Raoul supposed that he should pay his respects before his departure for Paris the next morning. It was only polite, after all, to offer his condolences. Though it seemed cynical when the girl obviously barely knew the woman who had left her a fortune.

      As he drove off down the hill Raoul cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror. The mourners were leaving the graveyard and he glimpsed the woman once more. Whatever else she was, she was damn lovely, that was for sure.

      Telling himself to stop being ridiculous—the last thing he needed was to find himself attracted to a Saugure—he pressed his foot on the accelerator and made his way back to his estate, determined not to think about the lovely wan face and that pair of limpid green eyes, which, despite every instinct, he’d felt strangely attracted to. He consoled himself with the fact that she was unattractively dressed, had no chic at all. In fact, he would go as far as saying she looked frumpy. With a shake of his head he headed back to his château and thought about the upcoming telephone call to New York that he needed to make.

      ‘Mademoiselle?’

      ‘Yes, Henri?’ Natasha looked up from the desk where she was going through some of her grandmother’s papers and smiled.

      ‘The Baron d’Argentan is here to offer his condolences.’

      ‘Right.’ She sighed, laying down the missive. Rising, she straightened her one black dress, realizing she simply must go into Deauville and acquire some suitable clothes. This was not the first neighbour come to pay their respects and satisfy their curiosity regarding the new owner of the Manoir, and she needed to dress accordingly. Better get used to it, she realized, following Henri across the hall to the formal drawing room where the butler liked to install the guests.

      But, on stepping inside the room, Natasha felt her pulse leap when she recognized the tall figure silhouetted against the window. She was about to speak, then stopped, and swallowed.

      ‘I come to present my condolences,’ he said, in a haughty, rich baritone that seemed to resonate through the elegant room. Then he stepped forward and, raising Natasha’s fingers to his lips, bent his head towards them.

      ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, feeling her pulse pick up speed. His fingers felt strangely vibrant, as though an electric current were coursing through them. ‘Uh, do sit down,’ she said hurriedly, taking a step back and indicating the Louis Quinze chair opposite.

      ‘Thank you.’ He waited for her to sit, then followed suit. Natasha was relieved when the door opened and Henri entered with a bottle of champagne, which he proceeded to open.

      ‘I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance,’ the Baron remarked, placing one leg over the other. ‘I wasn’t aware that the Comtesse had a granddaughter.’ He raised a quizzical black brow at her, as though questioning her authenticity. ‘I don’t seem to recall meeting you in the past.’

      Natasha bristled and felt her cheeks flush, a flash of anger take hold. ‘That is because I haven’t been here for many years,’ she said coldly.

      ‘Aha. That would explain it.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Natasha felt irritated with herself. Why was she allowing this stranger to make her feel ill at ease? She was, after all, in her own house now, for whatever that was worth.

      They each accepted a glass of champagne from Henri and the Baron raised his. ‘To a very great lady. The Comtesse will be sorely missed in the region—won’t she, Henri?’ he said, addressing the butler.

      ‘Ah, oui, Monsieur le Baron, she most certainly will.’ Henri nodded in agreement. ‘But of course we are blessed to have mademoiselle,’ he added quickly.

      ‘Very true. This has come as rather a surprise to the community.’ The Baron twiddled his flute and studied her lazily.

      ‘I hope not an unwelcome one?’ Natasha retorted, her chin tilting upwards,