Place Of Storms. Sara Craven

pair of denim jeans, topped with a ribbed black polo-necked sweater. She looked about her with critical eyes as she went downstairs. The place was clean, certainly, but it was uncared for. There were some magnificent pieces of furniture, but they were not displayed to their best effect, and there were no flowers to be seen anywhere. She gave a little sigh. There might be no money for structural repairs, if Blaise Levallier was heavily committed to this farming co-operative of his, but it would take a very small outlay to make the interior of the chateau far more pleasant. Covers could be mended, she thought, and it might even be possible with care to dye some of the faded curtains. Then she checked herself abruptly. She had to remember why she was here, she told herself vehemently. The state of the chateau, or any of its occupants for that matter, was none of her concern. She would be better occupied in thinking about how she was going to get hold of Clare’s letter.

      She was somewhat disconcerted to find Blaise Levallier already seated at the dining table, going through some mail. He did not look any more approachable in the cold light of day, she thought uneasily, as she slid into her place with a murmured greeting.

      ‘I hope you slept well, mademoiselle.’ The words were civil enough, but the tone of utter indifference in which they were spoken stung Andrea.

      ‘Not particularly.’ She shook out her table napkin, and helped herself from the basket of warm croissants.

      His eyebrows rose. ‘You distress me.’ His voice was sardonic now. ‘May I ask why not?’

      ‘You may.’ She spread the croissant with jam and bit into it appreciatively. ‘The roof above my room leaks.’

      He frowned swiftly. ‘Then you should naturally not have been given such a room. I will speak to Clothilde.’

      ‘Oh, it isn’t her fault.’ Andrea reached for the coffee pot and filled her cup. ‘She says all the rooms are the same.’

      ‘Mine is not.’

      She gave him a dulcet smile. ‘Naturally,’ she agreed.

      He lifted his cup and drank with a meditative air. ‘Then what do you suggest, mademoiselle? I hesitate to put forward the obvious solution …’

      She hated herself for her faint, involuntary blush. ‘Naturally,’ she repeated, hanging on like grim death to the dulcet smile. ‘But you could also get the roof mended.’

      He shrugged. ‘Gaston does what he can.’

      ‘So I’ve gathered, but perhaps it’s time you got a professional opinion—unless it’s your intention to have the house crumble about your ears eventually.’ She smiled at him again. ‘You’ll forgive my frankness, but I do have a vested interest in it now.’

      That was good, she thought with satisfaction, and it should help allay any suspicions he might have about her motives. If she could convince him that she had given way to force majeure over their marriage, it would make her task very much easier.

      ‘Yes.’ He studied her for a moment, and she could sense he was puzzled. ‘You are—reconciled to our contract, then?’

      ‘I don’t seem to have much choice,’ she said, with a slight lift of her shoulders. ‘You’ve made it clear what will happen if I back out, and I couldn’t stand that.’ She gave an exaggerated shudder.

      ‘So I imagined.’ There was a wry satisfaction in his voice. ‘It would lead to the sort of publicity that neither of us desires, I am sure, apart from the probable injury to your father’s health.’

      Andrea, who had just taken a mouthful of coffee, choked and had to replace her cup hastily on its saucer.

      ‘I—I don’t know what you mean,’ she managed at last.

      ‘No?’ His look was bleak. ‘I think I make myself perfectly clear, mademoiselle. Your father is an eminent man, and the deterioration in his health has caused a great deal of concern in circles with which I am well acquainted. You could not imagine I would make no enquiries about your background.’

      She could not very well reply that they had been counting on it, she thought, her heart hammering unevenly.

      ‘I suppose not,’ she said at length. ‘That was why you knew you could threaten me, of course. Because of—Daddy.’

      ‘Hardly threaten, ma mie. I simply pointed out to you what the consequences would be if you failed to fulfil the terms of our agreement, and left the decision to your good sense.’

      He was mocking her, she knew, and her resentment hardened.

      ‘I hope you think your victory is worth the means you had to stoop to to win,’ she said sharply.

      ‘That remains to be seen.’ He finished the coffee in his cup and stood up. ‘When you have finished breakfast, I thought you might like to ride with me. As you reminded me, you have a vested interest in the estate now, and you may be interested in the changes we are making.’

      She was just about to inform him frankly that the only thing she could imagine worse than a morning in his undiluted company was a morning on horseback, when she remembered with dismay that Clare was a keen rider and had probably mentioned this in her letters. She nearly groaned aloud. She could always invent a headache or some other minor ailment, but this might arouse his suspicions, and this was the last thing she wanted. She could ride, but she had none of Clare’s equestrian flair, and she was nervous of horses.

      She forced a smile. ‘That would be lovely,’ she agreed. ‘I—I’ll just get a jacket.’

      ‘Soit.’ He sent her a long look, and for the first time she noticed, inconsequentially, how long his eyelashes were. ‘Shall we say then that we will meet at the main door in—ten minutes’ time?’

      As she came downstairs again, Andrea wondered if it would be possible to slip on the stairs and feign a sprained ankle. But as she came round the final curve of the stairs, she saw Blaise Levallier just below her glancing idly through an agricultural catalogue.

      He glanced up at the sound of her step. ‘Docile—and punctual,’ he remarked. ‘You will make an admirable wife, ma mie.’

      She glared at him in impotent silence. Crossing verbal swords with him would get her nowhere, she reasoned, and all past scores would be paid off anyway when she took her departure and he realised he no longer had the proof he needed of his hold over Clare.

      She noted ironically that the stables were in much better condition than the house itself, and commented sweetly on the fact.

      ‘Perhaps because I find animals of considerably more value than human beings, mademoiselle,’ came the immediate retort, and she subsided angrily.

      Her heart sank when Gaston led out the mare that Blaise had designated for her to ride. She was a far cry from faithful old Penelope on whose broad back a much younger Andrea had taken her first quaking lessons. She was a sprightly roan, who sidled and jumped and tossed her head, and her bright eyes spoke of mischief.

      ‘She needs exercise,’ said her tormentor, already astride his own horse, and looking, Andrea thought bitterly, as if he were part of it.

      She looked round for Gaston to help her mount, but he had disappeared back into the stables, so she had to lead the reluctant Delphine over to an ancient mounting block and get herself somehow into the saddle. It was not a polished performance, but at least she found herself on the mare’s back, instead of spreadeagled on the ground when it was completed. So far, so good, she thought, her sense of humour aroused by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

      If I break my neck, at least it will be one way out of this mess, she told herself philosophically.

      But before they had been out for very long, Andrea knew that it was a very different part of her anatomy that was going to suffer. Apart from that, Delphine was proving the handful she had feared and more. Clare had always said that horses could sense who had the mastery, and it was clear that the mare had written her off as an easy