The Right Bride?. Jessica Steele

closed her own eyes and allowed herself to drift slowly away.

      She awoke with a start, and lay for a moment totally disorientated, her heart thudding. Hugo, she thought. Oh, God, I was dreaming about Hugo.

      Then she heard the rain still lashing the window and realised where she was, and why, and relief and joy flooded through her.

      She turned her head slowly and looked at Remy, still fast asleep beside her. At some point he must have moved a little, lifted himself away from her, although his arm was still thrown possessively across her waist.

      Did he know? she wondered with passionate tenderness. Did he have the least idea how she was feeling? Did he understand her starved body’s reaction to the miracle of physical delight he’d created for her?

      For the first time in years she felt totally relaxed and at peace. Also happier than she had ever believed possible.

      And when he woke she would tell him so, along with, she decided, a suitable reviver.

      She slid carefully from under the protection of his arm and swung her feet to the floor. From the tangle of clothing beside the bed she retrieved Remy’s shirt and slipped it on, fastening a few discreet buttons on the way. She could detect the faint fragrance of the cologne he used, and she put the sleeve to her nose, sniffing luxuriously.

      She pulled the coverlet over him, then padded quietly out of the room and downstairs to the kitchen, where she stood looking around her, getting her bearings.

      He’d offered her coffee some lifetime ago, she told herself, so the makings had to be available.

      She looked first in the refrigerator, finding milk, and mineral water too, and she uncapped one of the small bottles, drinking thirstily as she leant back against the work surface.

      This would be an amazing kitchen to work in, she thought, imagining herself here with Remy, preparing a meal together.

      She sighed, smiling. Well—perhaps—one of these days. But coffee would do to be going on with.

      Inspection of the pale wood cupboards eventually yielded a pack of ground beans and a cafetière, so she filled the elegant stainless steel kettle and set it to boil, humming quietly to herself as she did so. She’d just located a set of earthenware beakers when she heard a sound behind her and turned quickly.

      Solange was standing in the middle of the living room, staring at her, lips parted, eyes burning with anger and disbelief in her white face.

      And Allie knew, of course, what the other girl must be seeing. The dishevelled hair, the half-buttoned shirt reaching only to mid-thigh, the shining eyes and swollen mouth. Everything about her, she realised with dismay, must be screaming Sex.

      Oh, God, she thought. Why didn’t I get dressed properly?

      ‘Chienne.’ Solange’s voice shook. ‘Sale vache.’

      For a moment, all Allie wanted to do was run. To get away from the fury and the ugly words. And from the French girl’s bitter disappointment, too—which, perhaps, was the worst thing of all. But she stood her ground, lifting her chin defiantly.

      ‘Please don’t call me names, mademoiselle,’ she said quietly. ‘I am neither a bitch nor a dirty cow. I have been making love with the man I love, and I have nothing to be ashamed of.’

      Solange took a step closer, her hands balled into fists at her sides. ‘You don’t think so? But I tell you different. Because you do not belong here, you—espèce de raclure.’ Her tone was a hiss. ‘You are an outsider—not one of us—and Remy needs a woman beside him who can support him in his work. Someone who knows this community—who has its respect. Not a slut of an English girl who will soon be gone, back to her own filthy country.’

      Allie was almost reeling under this onslaught, but she made herself stay ice-calm. And her voice reflected this. ‘I think Remy is free to make his own choices, Mademoiselle Geran.’

      ‘And what is this great choice? To degrade himself with a putaine like you? Well, he will soon regret that.’ The other woman drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Always—always I knew what you were. Knew that you could not wait to throw yourself into his bed.’

      ‘What exactly are you complaining about?’ Allie asked coldly. ‘That I have taken your place—or that you never received an invitation?’

      Solange gasped, and her head went back as if Allie had struck her, the once pretty face twisted with rage and crimson with mottled blood. She lifted her hands, bunched into a semblance of claws, and her voice was thick. ‘Would he still want you, I wonder, if I scratched out your eyes?’

      From the stairs, Remy said grimly, ‘An interesting point, Solange, but we will not put it to the test. And now I think you should go, before you make matters any worse.’

      His feet were bare, concealing his approach, and he’d clearly dragged on his jeans simply for the sake of marginal decency, because they hung, only half-fastened, low on his hips.

      Solange’s small red-tipped hands were suddenly uncurled. Extended in appeal.

      ‘Remy, chéri, I do not blame you for this. A man has—temptations.’ She tried, horribly, to laugh. ‘I—I understand this, and I can forgive—’

      But he cut coldly across the stumbling words. ‘There is no need for forgiveness, Solange. Let me speak plainly. Local gossip may have paired us together, yet I have asked nothing from you, and promised nothing in return. This—understanding between us does not exist.’

      She swallowed harshly. ‘Remy—mon coeur—how can you say that?’

      ‘Because it is true, and you know it.’ He paused. ‘And I would prefer you did not visit here again without an invitation.’

      She stared at him wild-eyed, her mouth working soundlessly, then she whirled round and was gone, the big doors slamming behind her.

      Remy leapt the last few stairs and came to Allie’s side, sliding his arms round her and drawing her protectively against him. She buried her face in his bare brown shoulder, her voice muffled. ‘That was—vile.’

      ‘I woke up and you were gone, which troubled me.’ His voice was uneven. ‘And then I heard talking, and thought that my father might have arrived, or Grandpapa, and that this could cause you embarrassment.’

      ‘I came down to make coffee,’ she said. ‘And she was suddenly—here. But why?’

      ‘It is entirely my fault,’ Remy said harshly. ‘She used to visit often, while the work was being done, in order to find fault with Gaston Levecq, and, I think, to persuade me to employ her cousin instead. Also to offer advice that I did not need. I should have realised—and stopped it when it first began.’

      The kettle came cheerfully to the boil and switched itself off. Remy released her and went to fill the cafetière.

      He said quietly, not looking at her, ‘Alys, tell me, je t’en prie, that she has not made you hate this house—or regret what has happened between us here.’

      ‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘No one—not even Solange—could ever do that.’

      She saw the tension relax from his shoulders. He said softly, ‘Soit.’ And continued making the coffee.

      He said, over his shoulder, ‘I am relieved that it was not Grandpapa who found you just now. Seeing you like that might have provoked une petite crise cardiaque.’

      ‘At least I’m wearing something,’ Allie returned with mock defensiveness. ‘And your shirt was the first thing I found on the floor,’ she added, not altogether truthfully.

      ‘Vraiment?’ The brilliant eyes were dancing with amusement. ‘Perhaps I should make you a present of it, chérie. I know it never looked so good on me.’

      She said huskily, ‘Everything