Love in Vogue (6 page)

A car horn sounded loudly behind him. He pulled over to let a sleek black MG streak past and whistled at its speed. An old coupé, it had obviously been expertly reconditioned. It was also expertly handled, taking the bend ahead in consummate style. He hardly saw the driver. The rest of his leisurely progress to St Xavier was punctuated by reflections on why anyone should want to hurtle through such beautiful countryside, and in an MG of all cars.

‘Well we’re closed, monsieur,’ barked a surly cellar man at the Château de Rochemort. ‘Can’t you see? It’s the weekend.’

‘Couldn’t you possibly show me round? I’d like to buy …’

‘
Buy
?’ The man was incredulous, and pushed his grubby denim cap a little further back on his head. ‘We’re sold out. Viewing only, and as I said, not at the weekend.
Monsieur le baron
insists on his privacy.’

He scowled threateningly, and Miles decided there was nothing for it but to leave. Damn the baron and his privacy; damn his bloody rude minions, too. He started up the car and reversed down the track which led back to the main road. Things were not going according to plan. Le Tastevin was fully booked, the Château de Rochemort closed, and the sun was now unrelenting. Glancing back, he saw the cellar man, brawny arms folded across his chest, still standing outside the
cuverie
, which housed the vats and press, and cursed him again. He should have accepted Madame Lebrun’s offer of a packed lunch.

Le Manoir de St Xavier was three kilometres away, on the other side of the village. Well, at least they would have to let him in. But when he reached the imposing wrought-iron gates they were shut and locked. Built of stone in Baroque style, the building had an inviting air. Unlike Rochemort, this was elegance on an intimate scale, complemented by the formal French flower beds and miniature box hedges along the drive. Just visible at the side of the house was a car he recognised with surprise – a black MG. Miles was pulling out his mobile to call Corinne when he heard a dog barking. She was coming round from the rear of the house with a golden Labrador at her heels.

He sprinted up to the gates. ‘Mademoiselle Marchand!’ he shouted.

She looked in his direction, paused, then walked slowly down the gravel sweep towards him. He was glad to see that for once she was dressed casually. The change out of corporate armour was all to the good. Those long legs of hers were encased in navy pedal pushers, while her arms were bare and swung gracefully by her sides. A short striped top clung to her breasts. Her hair was loose and ruffled by the breeze. She looked relaxed and free. Until she recognised him.

‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Corsley,’ she said coolly, stopping some distance away. ‘You’re very early.’

Perfect English, perfect indifference. He wondered how she had got so fluent, without even the trace of a French accent. Still, it was a sign of progress that she was letting him speak his own language for a change.

‘I know. I’d made up my mind to taste a few wines, but never on a Saturday seems to be the motto here.’

Corinne swiped a card by a small post, and the gates swung open. ‘You’d better come in. I’ll see if my manager will show you round.’

‘I tried the Château de Rochemort, but it was shut,’ said Miles, bending down to make friends with the dog, who was introduced as Marius, ‘and Le Tastevin wouldn’t even offer me a seat at the bar.’

‘Oh, they wouldn’t. Their
maître d’
has become intolerable since they acquired their last Michelin star. Is that your car?’

‘Yes.’

She glanced at him mischievously. ‘Well, I’ve heard of cautious bankers, but you’re the first I’ve known to bomb along at thirty miles an hour.’

Miles fell into step beside her, inhaling the fresh spicy notes of her perfume, wondering if she had decided to be friendly at last or was softening him up for a killer blow. Marius, having satisfied himself that the stranger meant no harm, followed them into the house through a side door that opened on to a passage to Corinne’s office. Miles studiously examined the wine chart on the wall as she picked up the telephone, then turned his head and was captivated by the Fragonard. He heard a rapid volley of French, then Corinne hung up and told him that her manager had agreed to forego a fishing trip to come and show him the
cuverie
and the cellars.

‘There’s absolutely nothing Gaston Leclerc doesn’t know about wine,’ she said as they made their way outside once more. ‘His father and grandfather were both managers here.’

They were soon in a neat courtyard, flanked by buildings that were completely invisible from the front gates. A few barrels stacked in one corner gave a patch of shade where Marius flopped down on his belly and stretched out for a sleep.

‘Could I buy a case?’ Miles ventured.

‘I expect so,’ said Corinne as they sauntered across the cobbles. ‘We don’t usually have much left to sell, but my father always liked to keep a small stock here for passing enthusiasts.’

‘Do you sell through a merchant?’

‘Not any more. We used to sell to a merchant in Beaune, but there was some suspicion that our wine was being diluted with a cheaper variety. Nothing was ever proved, but we decided to go independent. We store all the wine here, of course, but the bottling is done jointly with the Château de Rochemort.’

They stood together in the afternoon sunshine, for once at ease in each other’s company but finding it difficult to direct the conversation to a more personal level. He was far too conscious of her beauty, and she felt strangely nervous and exposed.

‘Your English is flawless,’ Miles said. ‘I’m surprised you’ve put up with my French for so long.’

‘My mother will be pleased. She’s English, you know.’

Miles saw the sly smile flicker across her face and was tempted to slap her. ‘You could have told me before.’

‘Why? It was more fun this way.’

And because it was easier, he just let the laughter out. ‘God, you’re obnoxious.’

Corinne found herself laughing too. ‘It’s incurable, I’m afraid. Look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, Miles. Friends?’

He shook her proffered hand, tried not to get lost in the depths of those bright eyes alight with warmth and humour. ‘Friends. If I offended you in any way, I’m truly sorry too. We met at a very bad time.’ His expression was suddenly very gentle and sympathetic. ‘It must be tough without him.’

She tried to remember that he wasn’t someone she could possibly trust with her deepest feelings, despite his unexpected kindness. ‘It is. He was so full of life. Such fun.’

‘Yes, he was. He made me feel old.’

‘You? Old!’

‘Oh, I’ve knocked around a bit.’

She looked him over, the picture of health and fitness. Bad idea. She couldn’t avoid noticing that he was utterly gorgeous. He was looking at her in a way that sent a shiver through her again. Just what had she let herself in for by dropping her guard with Miles Corsley? But he smiled so genuinely, she had to smile back. He had an intelligent face and his voice was pleasantly deep and warm. A man you could respect, she thought, a man who knew his own mind. Suddenly she sensed that he was also assessing her, and she looked away, slightly embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry for the delay. Gaston’s probably having lunch.’

‘Lucky bugger,’ remarked Miles.

‘Haven’t you eaten at all, then?’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps you’d care to stay for lunch here?’ she asked quickly. ‘It will be rather late, I’m afraid. The Rochemorts are coming, but Yves has been held up with business.’

Miles accepted the offer with alacrity. He’d be mad to turn down lunch with the owners of the two St Xavier
grands crus
on their home turf. And any chance to get closer to the intriguing Corinne Marchand was extremely welcome. He felt in serious danger of being bowled over by his good fortune.

Gaston Leclerc was a short dynamo of a man who blew in like a whirlwind and was passionate about his job. He kept pressing Miles to taste more vintages as they toured the long, welcomingly cool vaulted cellar which ran beneath the entire length of the house. It had been part of the original medieval abbey, and appeared to have changed very little. Miles almost expected to see a monk pop out from behind a pillar. There were rows of oak casks in which the wine was matured for three years, racks of dusty bottles, and a small alcove that served as Gaston’s library, containing piles of tasting notes and a board on which he had pinned newspaper and magazine clippings. Several featured pictures of Jean-Claude Marchand.

‘Mademoiselle Marchand doesn’t seem much like her father,’ remarked Miles, as he slowly absorbed the rich texture and flavour of a three-year old St Xavier .

Gaston watched him cautiously. ‘In four years’ time that will be marvellous, monsieur. It hasn’t fully matured yet.’

‘One can already tell the genius who made it.’

The Frenchman raised his glass in acknowledgement. ‘Did you mean Mademoiselle Corinne?’ he asked, reverting to Miles’ original comment. ‘I think she is – well, certainly when it comes to business. She’s very sharp. But she takes after her mother in looks. Mademoiselle Yolande is more like her father.'

‘I sense that you enjoy life here.’

‘I wouldn’t work anywhere else,’ said Gaston emphatically. ‘After all, Leclerc and St Xavier are synonymous. My eldest son is studying at the wine college in Beaune, and he’ll take over when I retire.’

‘Do you have shares in the business?’

‘No. But I get a percentage of the profits, so it’s in my interest to see we stay top of the league. Now, come this way. I thought you might like to see the old press. We don’t use it now, of course, but it’s an interesting machine.’

‘Has Gaston quenched your thirst, Miles?’ asked Corinne as they finally reappeared at the door of her office.

‘He certainly has. He even sold me a case. Shall I pay for it now?’

Corinne rose from her desk as the doorbell sounded. ‘That will be the Rochemorts. Gaston, would you see to Mr Corsley’s invoice? And don’t forget,’ she shouted as she disappeared down the passage, ‘our wine should be treated with the greatest possible care. You’ll have to stick to fifteen miles an hour on your way back.’

Lunch was a lengthy affair, served in a handsome panelled dining room overlooking sloping vineyards which stretched away into the distance. Miles was greeted warmly by Baroness Marie-Christine de Rochemort, Yves’ very aristocratic mother. She walked slowly, in obvious pain, leaning heavily on her son’s arm and a stick, though she didn’t seem particularly old.

‘Arthritis,’ whispered Corinne as they followed her and Yves to the table. ‘She doesn’t like to talk about it.’

Perhaps it was this hint, or more likely the effect of the wines he had already tasted, that brought Miles’ powers of entertainment to the fore. Marie-Christine soon extracted his life story, and even Yves managed to show some interest in his army career, although often his eyes focused mournfully on the seat Yolande usually occupied when at home.

‘Do you know, I’ve never spoken such fluent French in my life before?’ said Miles, as the meal drew to a close. ‘It must be this superb cooking,’ he glanced across the table at Corinne and the baroness, ‘and the delightful company.’

Marie-Christine smiled. ‘I know whose
beaux yeux
have improved your French. Not that she’ll let you say such a thing.’

Yves sensed Corinne’s embarrassment and quickly switched the subject to the Range Rover, since he was thinking of buying one. It was a good move, and within a few minutes he and Miles left the room so its finer points could be demonstrated.

‘I’m afraid he’s suffering terribly,’ said his mother when they had gone, ‘but he won’t talk about it. Where is Yolande, exactly?’

‘In Dorset – with our grandparents.’

‘Ah yes – at their country house? I stayed there years ago with your mother. We had a great time.’ She paused, her fingers tracing the carved head of her stick, then fixed fierce blue eyes on Corinne. ‘Has she taken that actor with her?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it’s serious. I thought she’d come back to Yves but … oh well. He’s so reserved, that’s the trouble.’

Corinne didn’t know what to say and twirled her wine glass absentmindedly.

‘She’ll regret it, Corinne,’ continued Marie-Christine. ‘I know she will. Yves would give her anything she wanted. He adores her. This Patrick sounds like a gold digger.’

‘You’ve made enquiries?’

‘Naturally. My son’s happiness is at stake. But what’s the use?’ She shrugged her shoulders resignedly. ‘No one seems to know where Patrick Dubuisson comes from. I suppose it’s his real name?’

‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’

The baroness was astonished. ‘Just like your father! Never thinking people might do you harm. Look how he was caught off guard when Philippe sold his shares in Marchand.’

Corinne’s heart lurched. It had all happened only a fortnight after Philippe had asked her to move in with him. But he had left without explanation, without even saying goodbye. It had been a painful episode for them all.

‘Have you heard from Philippe lately?’

‘Not for several months,’ replied Marie-Christine, her expression betraying her pain. ‘The last postcard was from California. Does it still hurt?’

‘It annoys me when I realise how naïve I was.’

Corinne sounded braver than she felt. Oh yes, it hurt like hell. More than anyone would ever guess. But the baroness was ill, and she too had suffered a great deal because of Philippe. It wasn’t fair to burden her with additional misery, particularly now Yves was clearly causing her concern.

‘Well you’ll never be short of men, anyway,’ said Marie-Christine with a smile.

‘I’m not interested – which is a good thing, as I simply don’t have time for a boyfriend.’

‘Corinne!
Really
. What about Miles – didn’t you invite him to lunch on a whim? I must say, I admire your taste. You’ve made a conquest, darling.’

‘You mean he’s been vanquished by Françoise’s
boeuf
bourgignon
. And don’t you really fancy him yourself?’

The baroness laughed loudly and the conversation shifted to less dangerous topics, but when Miles and Yves returned, the warm smile the Englishman gave Corinne produced a provoking
‘What did I tell you?’
look from Marie-Christine. Corinne wasn’t so put out as she would have been over anyone else. Somehow during the past few hours the entire dynamic of her relationship with Miles had changed. No longer the priggish banker she had been determined to dislike, but an interesting man she wanted to know better. In fact he was beginning to feel like an old friend, and as they all said goodbye outside an hour later, she wasn’t surprised when he kissed her.