Read Online A Place of Storms by Sara Craven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara Craven
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suddenly. I told him my real name. She swung round and almost flew back to the gatehouse before he could shut the door.
'Hello.' Alan looked at her in surprise. 'Forget something?'
'Yes.' She moistened her lips. 'I—I'd completely forgotten. Do you think you could call me Clare instead?'
He was looking at her as if she was mad, and little wonder, she thought miserably. She went on, improvising desperately, 'I—I don't use my own name—for professional purposes. Monsieur Levallier knows me as Clare. It would only cause confusion if you started calling me something different, and the language problems are bad enough without that.
The puzzled look vanished, to her relief. Language problems were something Alan could associate with.
'I'll remember.' He looked her over and gave a regretful shake of his head. 'But I don't approve of the change. You're no Clare.'
He could say that again, Andrea thought, as she hurried back across the courtyard. If their roles had been reversed, Clare would have revelled in a situation like this, enjoying the play-acting and the sense of conspiracy.
Madame Bresson was hovering, her face agitated, as Andrea entered the chateau.
'Mademoiselle.' Her voice was reproachful. 'Monseigneur has been asking for you.'
'Oh dear,' Andrea said lightly, taking off her coat. 'Am I going to be shot?'
She walked into the dining room with a jauntiness she was far from feeling. Blaise Levallier was standing by the window smoking a cigarette. He swung round as she entered and his face wore a thunderous frown.
'Where have you been?' he demanded harshly.
'Looking round.' She dropped the bunch of keys Madame had given her on to the table and faced him defiantly.
'It takes so long?' He expelled a cloud of smoke impatiently.
'Why?' she asked with deliberate innocence. 'Have you missed me?'
There was a long silence. Then, 'Have a care,
ma mie
,' he said softly. 'It may seem very entertaining to provoke me, but the consequences might be less—amusing.'
His dark face looked satanic, and it took all the courage she possessed to stand her ground.
'Your threats don't worry me,
monsieur
,' she said untruthfully. 'I have been forced to accept the prospect of our marriage, and nothing could be worse than that.'
'You think not?' His laugh was soft and jeering, but there was a note in it which chilled her. 'Then you still have a lot to learn,
ma chère
Clare, in spite of your much-vaunted sophistication.'
Just what had dare told him in those letters of hers? she wondered frantically, her hands clenching at her sides in a swift nervous gesture she was sure would not have escaped his gaze.
'And was your exploration of my house as—rewarding as you hoped?' His changes of mood were as unpredictable as the Auvergne weather, she thought exasperatedly. And yet at the same time she had the uneasy feeling that tone of courteous interest concealed something very different. Almost as if he knew exactly what she had been up to and was silently mocking her.
'It was most interesting,' she replied expressionlessly.
'And your visit to the gatehouse? No doubt that was more interesting still.'
So that was what this cat-and-mouse game was all about.
'Quite fascinating, thank you,' she said clearly. 'I'm surprised, however, that you didn't think it was worth telling me that you had a lodger.'
He smiled sardonically. 'Perhaps,
mademoiselle
, I was aware that you were perfectly capable of ferreting out such information for yourself.'
She flushed at the implication in his words, and was glad when the door opened to admit Madame Bresson with a tureen of soup. Madame fortunately seemed totally unaware of the tense atmosphere in the room, and bustled about putting the finishing touches to the dinner table, and uttering motherly adjurations to eat her good soup while it was still hot.
Andrea picked up her spoon. 'I still don't see why you didn't tell me,' she protested. 'You must have known I would be interested in the fact that one
'Hello.' Alan looked at her in surprise. 'Forget something?'
'Yes.' She moistened her lips. 'I—I'd completely forgotten. Do you think you could call me Clare instead?'
He was looking at her as if she was mad, and little wonder, she thought miserably. She went on, improvising desperately, 'I—I don't use my own name—for professional purposes. Monsieur Levallier knows me as Clare. It would only cause confusion if you started calling me something different, and the language problems are bad enough without that.
The puzzled look vanished, to her relief. Language problems were something Alan could associate with.
'I'll remember.' He looked her over and gave a regretful shake of his head. 'But I don't approve of the change. You're no Clare.'
He could say that again, Andrea thought, as she hurried back across the courtyard. If their roles had been reversed, Clare would have revelled in a situation like this, enjoying the play-acting and the sense of conspiracy.
Madame Bresson was hovering, her face agitated, as Andrea entered the chateau.
'Mademoiselle.' Her voice was reproachful. 'Monseigneur has been asking for you.'
'Oh dear,' Andrea said lightly, taking off her coat. 'Am I going to be shot?'
She walked into the dining room with a jauntiness she was far from feeling. Blaise Levallier was standing by the window smoking a cigarette. He swung round as she entered and his face wore a thunderous frown.
'Where have you been?' he demanded harshly.
'Looking round.' She dropped the bunch of keys Madame had given her on to the table and faced him defiantly.
'It takes so long?' He expelled a cloud of smoke impatiently.
'Why?' she asked with deliberate innocence. 'Have you missed me?'
There was a long silence. Then, 'Have a care,
ma mie
,' he said softly. 'It may seem very entertaining to provoke me, but the consequences might be less—amusing.'
His dark face looked satanic, and it took all the courage she possessed to stand her ground.
'Your threats don't worry me,
monsieur
,' she said untruthfully. 'I have been forced to accept the prospect of our marriage, and nothing could be worse than that.'
'You think not?' His laugh was soft and jeering, but there was a note in it which chilled her. 'Then you still have a lot to learn,
ma chère
Clare, in spite of your much-vaunted sophistication.'
Just what had dare told him in those letters of hers? she wondered frantically, her hands clenching at her sides in a swift nervous gesture she was sure would not have escaped his gaze.
'And was your exploration of my house as—rewarding as you hoped?' His changes of mood were as unpredictable as the Auvergne weather, she thought exasperatedly. And yet at the same time she had the uneasy feeling that tone of courteous interest concealed something very different. Almost as if he knew exactly what she had been up to and was silently mocking her.
'It was most interesting,' she replied expressionlessly.
'And your visit to the gatehouse? No doubt that was more interesting still.'
So that was what this cat-and-mouse game was all about.
'Quite fascinating, thank you,' she said clearly. 'I'm surprised, however, that you didn't think it was worth telling me that you had a lodger.'
He smiled sardonically. 'Perhaps,
mademoiselle
, I was aware that you were perfectly capable of ferreting out such information for yourself.'
She flushed at the implication in his words, and was glad when the door opened to admit Madame Bresson with a tureen of soup. Madame fortunately seemed totally unaware of the tense atmosphere in the room, and bustled about putting the finishing touches to the dinner table, and uttering motherly adjurations to eat her good soup while it was still hot.
Andrea picked up her spoon. 'I still don't see why you didn't tell me,' she protested. 'You must have known I would be interested in the fact that one
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