Love in Vogue (20 page)

‘Miles is here.’

‘Already?’ Corinne was struggling with a back fastening on her dress. ‘But it’s so early! Will you lend me a hand?’

‘Something has disturbed his sangfroid,’ Toinette said, deftly undoing the fiasco Corinne had made of a set of hooks and eyes. ‘Stand still for a moment, will you? There, that’s better. This turquoise really suits you. Now, what about jewellery?’

She carefully picked through the jewellery case on the dressing-table, intent on creating the best possible impression. Corinne let her fuss. Her stepmother’s taste was never less than impeccable. When Toinette had met Miles the previous month, her reaction to him had been remarkably similar to Grace’s, much to Corinne’s amusement. But they could push her at him all they wanted – until she was ready for a relationship, Miles Corsley would have to wait.

Once accessorised to Toinette’s satisfaction, Corinne went into the salon with a warm smile, which died as soon as she caught sight of his face.

‘Miles! What’s wrong?’

She hurried across to him, and he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her hard against him for a long and ruthless kiss. She felt herself going under, giving way again, before her brain kicked in and she stiffened, pressing her hands firmly against his chest.

‘What was that for?’ she asked as he released her.

‘I’ve already told you how much I enjoy kissing you – I thought you’d got used to the idea.’

‘You caught me off guard, that’s all. Let’s try again.’ She pressed her lips against his in a soft, tender welcome. ‘You’re early. I thought the table was booked for eight?’

He groaned as he held her close. ‘Corinne, I’m afraid I can’t take you to dinner. I’ve got to go to London tonight. Urgent business for my uncle. I’m so sorry.’

He caught the flash of hurt in her dark eyes before she covered it with a bright smile and stepped away. ‘I see. Well, I wouldn’t want you to miss your train. You should have phoned instead of coming over. I expect you’d like a drink.’

The fixed smile was worse than a slap on the face. So chillingly formal. Why was she still so unapproachable? Even now, when they seemed to understand each other so well? Corinne went over to the sideboard and poured whisky and soda.

‘I was going to ask if you’d like to spend this weekend at St Xavier,’ she said rather quickly. ‘Will you be back by then?’

Miles cheered up instantly, then had gloomier second thoughts. The house would probably be full of other guests, which would kill any opportunities for intimacy.

‘I should be able to make it,’ he replied soberly. ‘Thanks.’

She handed him a glass and sat beside him, forcing another smile. Philippe would be home this weekend. He was possibly at Rochemort already. Yves had given her plenty of advance warning, but she wasn’t going to run away. It would help to have Miles there as a support. The thought that it might take their relationship to another level had entered her mind, but obviously not his. In fact he didn’t seem at all pleased to be invited. She had evidently misread the signs. Again. She wondered if she would ever be able to understand men.

‘If you’ve got something better to do, it’s OK.’

‘No, really, Corinne. I’d love to come. I’m just annoyed about this evening. Perhaps you and Toinette could use the reservation? My treat.’

 ‘Well, darling,’ said Toinette, sitting opposite Corinne at a table at Taillevent at eight-fifteen, ‘I’m very disappointed for you. But since he’s paying, we might as well have some fun.’

Corinne ran her eye down the menu, then looked up with a mischievous grin. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

Miles Corsley quickly learned that no one stood up Corinne Marchand with impunity.

Philippe strode through customs at Charles de Gaulle airport with the minimum of fuss. He only had hand baggage, having sent his belongings home by air freight the previous week. Once clear of the crowd that had disembarked with him from an Air France jumbo, he looked about the arrivals lounge, trying to control his excitement. Only now that he was finally back on French soil did the homesickness he had shrugged off for nearly four years really hit him. It was marvellous just standing in the noisy confusion with staff who spoke French and French magazines on sale at the news stand. The sense of release from a protracted nightmare was overwhelming. Then he saw his brother. A little American girl was quite flabbergasted as they ran to each other and embraced.

‘We got your things safely,’ said Yves, once the hugging was over. ‘Is that all the luggage you’ve got?’

‘Yes. Now, let’s go. I don’t want to attract attention.’ Philippe winked at the little girl, linked arms with Yves, and exited at top speed. It was early and they weren’t in the VIP lounge, but he was taking no chances. He wanted to see his mother before Claire heard he was back in France.

They drove to Yves’ small apartment on the Avenue de Ségur in the 7
^th
arrondissement
so that Philippe could freshen up before the drive down to Burgundy. After a breakfast of coffee and croissants in the tiny kitchen, Philippe relaxed at last. He unbuttoned his collar as he sauntered into the bedroom.

‘Do you want to sleep?’ asked Yves.

‘I’d better not, or you won’t wake me for a week. That flight was fiendishly noisy.’ He sat down in an armchair and stretched out his long legs, stifling a yawn. ‘Nice pad. When did you get it?’

Yves sat on the bed. ‘About six months ago. I don’t use it much.’

‘Cigarette?’ asked Philippe, lighting one for himself.

‘No thanks.’

‘Still a health freak, eh? You’re looking very well. So what happened to your old place on the Rue de Varenne?’

‘It was too large. I was never there, so I sold it. Made a good profit.’

Philippe looked at him thoughtfully. The apartment on the Rue de Varenne had been furnished and decorated very much with Yolande in mind. Yves had obviously given up all hope of her now.

‘I rang Yolande before I left. She didn’t have any messages. Do you still love her?’

Ouch
. Yves hadn’t been expecting that. ‘No point now, is there?’

‘So you do.’

‘Shut up. I’m supposed to propose to Gabrielle d’Emville.’

Philippe laughed loudly, and Yves felt as though nothing had changed. He had always suffered a little from being younger brother to someone so sophisticated. There was an eight-year gap between them, due to their mother having had three miscarriages before giving birth to Yves.

‘So you’d marry a girl because you’re
expected
to? For God’s sake, think of yourself. You’re the one who has to sleep with her. Wasn’t Gabrielle that little one with the brace on her teeth?’

‘Yes.’ Yves paused. ‘She’s fairly pretty now. Nothing compared to Yolande, of course.’

‘Well, I shouldn’t rush into anything. You’re a handsome guy. You could have anyone.’

‘Except the woman I want.’

Philippe raised his eyebrows. He was damned if he was going to see his brother shackled in an unhappy marriage just to satisfy their mother’s desire for grandchildren. And the fact that Yves could even entertain the idea showed how depressed he was over Yolande. What a bloody mess. He’d have to see what he could do.

‘How’s business?’ he asked. ‘Flourishing, I imagine. Even I used to think twice when I saw the price of Château de Rochemort in the States.’

‘We’re doing very well. I bought some new bottling equipment last June, and we’ve had a couple of excellent years.’

‘You still do the marketing with St Xavier?’

‘Naturally. Corinne’s delegated even more to me recently because of the takeover threat at Marchand.’

‘How’s she coping?’

‘It’s only a matter of time now before she regains overall control,’ said Yves. ‘She managed to pull off a deal with Toinette to block the owner of Yolande’s shares.’

‘I’m glad. Will she be at home if I call?’

Yves wasn’t sure how to answer. Corinne hadn’t expressly forbidden him to mention her movements to Philippe, but he had a feeling she would prefer to handle any communications her own way. ‘She’ll come down to St Xavier on Friday as usual.’

‘OK, I won’t embarrass you by further interrogation.’ Philippe stood up and began to undress. ‘Leave the bathroom door open while I shower, and I’ll recount my global exploits in fifteen minutes’ flat. I want a full account of Maman’s arthritis and the specialists she’s consulted on the drive home.’

‘But aren’t you going to tell me what happened so you could come back?’

‘Patience,
mon enfant
,’ Philippe threw off his shirt. ‘Now be a good chap and get some clean clothes out of my bag. You’ll see a box in the bottom. That’s for you. It’s some fancy new device for measuring sugar levels in the vat.’ He tore off his jeans and headed naked for the bathroom, a tall, lean, muscular figure, moving like a panther.

Yves laid out the clean suit and shirt packed neatly in a suit-bag, examining the labels. Both tailor made. Typical Philippe. He hadn’t changed at all. The same dominating manner coupled with a nonchalant charm few could resist. Just like him to pick up the latest piece of American gadgetry for professional winegrowers and offer it as a casual present. Yves had read about it in a trade magazine, and the price was far too much for his manager, who had nearly choked with rage at the thought of the Americans trying to teach him anything, let alone making him pay for the privilege.

He snatched a quick look at the present, then drew a chair up to the bathroom door and laughed for the next half hour. He’d forgotten just how amusing Philippe could be, and the telescoped account of his adventures with wine and women in Australia and California was side-splitting. How good it was to have him home again – he would be just the tonic their mother needed. Just the catalyst to make Yves realise that he too was a vigorous and handsome Baron de Rochemort, not necessarily condemned to eternal misery with Gabrielle or any other suitable girl.

Miles was surprised to find a smartly-dressed man of about forty occupying a chair in his uncle’s office when he arrived at eight twenty on Wednesday morning. The stranger put down his coffee and stood to shake Miles’ hand. He wasn’t particularly tall, but was very powerfully built, fit, and carried himself well. Bright blue eyes slightly moderated the hawkish cut of his face.

‘You must be Miles. Good to meet you.’ Miles felt the firm grip and the strength behind it. ‘I’m Grant Macdonald.’

‘Regiment?’

Macdonald smiled. ‘Not so illustrious as yours. But I’m in a different racket now. Coffee?’

He turned to pour, perfectly at home. Miles knew now why his uncle had been so mysterious. If the British security services were involved, Stessenberg’s past must be even murkier than he had suspected. Rupert himself strode in ten minutes later to find them debating the team selections for the upcoming Six Nations rugby match between France and England like old friends.

‘I see you’ve met,’ he said, slapping his briefcase down on the desk. ‘Ah, thank you.’ He took a cup of coffee from Macdonald and scowled. ‘Damn, don’t tell me they still have white, two sugars on file?’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry. I’ll get you another.’

‘It’s black and no sugar.’ Miles grinned as Macdonald poured a replacement. ‘How are the mighty fallen.’

‘Shut up, boy. It’s too early and I haven’t had nearly enough caffeine yet. Grant, perhaps you could fill my nephew in on your project.’

Macdonald resumed his seat. ‘It looks like we’ll be working together on UVS, Miles – and hopefully we’ll both get out of it exactly what we want.’

Philippe couldn’t play it cool when he finally arrived at Rochemort. For days he had been rehearsing what he would say to his mother, how best to break the news about Claire and Isabelle. But when the car drew up outside the entrance to the château’s west wing, he ran out and bounded up the grand marble staircase two steps at a time to the first floor drawing room where Yves had told him she would be waiting. She was sitting in an armchair facing the door. Struck by her fragile look, he almost fell at her feet to embrace her. Then he cried.

‘Philippe, my darling.’ Marie-Christine held him close, stroking his hair and kissing him as though he were a small boy.

‘Maman, do you forgive me?’

‘Of course. I love you. Now get up and be sensible. I can’t walk very well.’

He watched with concern as she slowly pulled herself up, wincing with the pain. She was much worse than he had expected. He would have to get her to consult another specialist soon, though Yves had told him she was deaf to all persuasion. He put an arm around her and they stumbled across to the sofa, where they sat together for some time in silence.

Marie-Christine surveyed her eldest son with her keen blue eyes, noting his tired look and the odd flecks of grey in his jet-black hair. But he was still handsome, still the warm, lively Philippe who had made Rochemort such an inviting place before he left – virtually without warning – almost four years before. He held her hand fast, too overwhelmed for speech. His mother was the one woman he loved without reservation, and seeing her in this half-crippled state made him curse his years of exile, and even the years before it when he had fallen far short of being the kind of son she deserved. How was he going to tell her now why he had abandoned her?

‘Philippe, don’t squeeze my hand. I shan’t run away.’ She smiled bravely, and he hurriedly loosened his grip.

‘Does it hurt?’

‘A little, darling.’

‘Arthritis? Or just my clumsiness?’

‘It’s damp today. That’s when I feel it in my fingers – but I’m all right. I still get around. You mustn’t worry.’

‘Maman, you can’t go on like this! Yves has told me everything. You must have hip replacement surgery. You wouldn’t even need a stick.’ He put his arm round her shoulders and hugged her. ‘You’re still the most beautiful woman I know. I want you on my arm at Longchamp for the Arc this October.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said sharply, trying to push from her mind the very fine figure she used to cut at Longchamp when his father used to escort her there, smiling at her in much the same way as Philippe was now.

Yves, having dawdled up the stairs to give them time alone, now appeared to announce that lunch would soon be ready.