The Right Bride?. Jessica Steele

me.’

      ‘Angry?’ She was startled. ‘How could I be?’

      His mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Then—disappointed. Because I wished to make it perfect for you—our first time together—to take away all the bad memories. But it was over far too soon.’ He added with a faint groan, ‘And then I fell asleep.’ He shook his head. ‘My only excuse, mon ange, is that I wanted you so very much.’

      She went to him, sliding her arms round his waist and smiling up into his eyes. ‘That sounds more like a very good reason than an excuse,’ she told him softly, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. She added teasingly, ‘And may I remind you that we both went to sleep?’

      She wanted to assure him, too, that the bad memories were all gone. But how could she when there was still the appalling problem of her marriage to be dealt with? she thought, conscious of a nervous tightening in the pit of her stomach. She pressed herself more closely against him, letting the warmth of his body dispel the sudden chill inside her.

      He put a finger under her chin, tilting her face up towards him. ‘Yet there is something, I think, that troubles you.’

      She forced a smile. ‘The aftermath of Solange, I expect. She did call me some pretty foul names.’

      There was a pause, then he said laconically, ‘D’accord. That must be it.’

      I can fix everything, Allie told herself fiercely, as she drank the coffee he’d poured for her. Somehow, I’ll make Hugo see that it was all a terrible mistake, which needs to be put right. After all, he’s had time to think too. He must know that it can’t go on. All it needs is a little goodwill on both sides.

      She was sharply aware that Remy was watching her thoughtfully, and lowered her lashes with deliberate demureness. ‘Has no one told you, monsieur, that it’s rude to stare?’

      ‘It would be a greater insult to ignore you, ma belle.’ His tone was dry. ‘And I stare for a purpose, you understand.’

      ‘Which is?’ She replaced the empty beaker on the counter top.

      ‘I am making a picture of you in my head, Alys, to carry with me always.’

      ‘Dressed like this?’ Laughing, she posed, hand on hip.

      ‘Pourquoi pas? But with a little adjustment, perhaps.’ He leaned across and undid two more buttons on the shirt, then gently pushed it from her shoulder, exposing one pink-tipped breast. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured in soft appreciation. ‘Perfection. If we have to be apart, I have only to remember how you look at this moment.’

      Ludicrous to feel shy after the intimacies they’d shared, but her skin warmed just the same.

      ‘And what about me?’ she challenged with a touch of breathlessness. ‘May I have a picture to remember too?’

      She reached for the zip on his jeans, but he captured her hands, laughing. ‘You may have any image you desire, mon amour—but in the bedroom, perhaps, in case more unwanted visitors arrive.’

      He kissed her, his mouth hot and fierce on hers, and she laughed back and ran with him, aglow and willing, towards the stairs, and the waiting bed.

      A long time later, she said drowsily, ‘I must go. Tante Madelon will be back by now, and wondering where I am.’

      Remy trailed a lazy hand the length of her body. ‘I think she will know, chérie, don’t you?’

      She moved pleasurably against the ingenious questing of his fingers. ‘Almost certainly, darling. But we don’t need to underline the fact.’

      He rolled over suddenly, imprisoning her under his body. ‘I don’t want to let you go,’ he told her huskily. ‘I need you to stay here with me, mon coeur. To sleep in my arms tonight.’

      ‘How can I?’ Allie appealed ruefully. ‘Tante is obviously trying to be understanding, but she has her limits, especially as I’m her guest.’ She paused. ‘Besides, she’ll certainly expect us to be discreet.’

      Remy sighed. ‘Tu as raison, ma mie. I am not thinking as I should—perhaps because I feel I am almost scared to let you out of my sight.’

      She put up a hand, her fingers tender against the roughness of his chin, her voice teasing. ‘Haven’t you had enough of me, monsieur?’

      He said quietly, ‘I have been waiting for you my whole life, Alys. I shall never have enough.’ He slid his hands under her flanks, raising her a little, so that, slowly and sweetly, he could enter once more her rapturously acceptant body.

      Unlike the fierce, searing passion they’d shared earlier, when he’d taken her to some blind, mindless sphere where she’d thought she might die, this time it was a gentle almost meditative union, composed of sighs and murmurs, and subtle, exquisite pressures, so that the moment of climax rippled through her like a soft breeze across a lake. And her voice broke as she whispered his name.

      Afterwards, Allie lay supine, her eyes closed, her body languid with fulfillment. But as she felt him leaving the bed, she lifted herself on to an elbow. ‘Where are you going?’

      ‘To take you back to Les Sables—after I have taken a shower.’

      She smiled mischievously up at him. ‘You don’t want company?’

      He gave her a wry look. ‘Oui, naturellement. But I am trying to learn to do without you, ma mie.’

      She tutted reprovingly as she swung her legs to the floor and followed him into the bathroom. ‘That sounds like a very dull lesson. Now, I think, my darling, that you should make the most of me when I’m around,’ she added serenely as she joined him in the glass cubicle under the power spray. She poured some shower gel into her hands and began to lather his body, beginning with his shoulders, then moving downwards across his chest to his abdomen, and lower, her fingers working in small, enticing circles. ‘Don’t you agree?’

      ‘Dieu,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You are insatiable. You will kill me.’

      She glanced down, and laughed softly. ‘Even though the evidence suggests otherwise, my love?’

      ‘But will the evidence be strong enough to prove your case, mon ange?’ He turned the shower full on, then reached for her, lifting her off the tiled floor, and locking her legs round his hips. ‘Eh bien, there is only one way to find out.’

      She said tremulously, ‘Remy—oh, God—Remy…’

      It was twilight when they eventually arrived at Les Sables, but there was no light in the house, and Tante’s car was missing from its usual parking place.

      ‘I seem to have beaten her to it,’ Allie said, as she opened the door. ‘Perhaps I can convince her that I spent the day here quietly on my own.’

      ‘I doubt it.’ Remy followed her in. ‘Madame is a woman who has loved. She will recognise the signs.’

      ‘And you,’ she said, ‘are altogether too pleased with yourself.’

      He slid a hand under the fall of still-damp hair, and kissed the nape of her neck. ‘But I am pleased with you, also, chérie. Does that excuse me?’

      The sound of the telephone made them both jump.

      ‘Is that Madame de Marchington—the great-niece of Madame Colville?’ an elderly-sounding male voice enquired when Allie picked up the receiver. ‘Ah, bon. I am Emil Blanchard. I regret to tell you that Madelon slipped on the wet pavement outside our house as she was leaving her car, and fell.’

      ‘She fell?’ Allie echoed, dismayed. ‘Oh, God, is she badly hurt?’

      ‘No, no. Our doctor made a thorough examination. But she is shocked, and bruised, of course, and it would not be wise for her to drive. So we have persuaded her to remain with us for a few days until