Czytaj książkę: «Loves Choices»

CHAPTER ONE

IF only something would happen, Hope wished rebelliously, dragging the toes of already grubby tennis shoes along the dusty earth. If Sister Maria knew of her thoughts she would give her a penance for their wickedness, but as she had undoubtedly already earned herself a scolding by skipping tennis, she might as well compound her sin.

Although hidden from her by the high hedge surrounding them, Hope could hear the sounds from the tennis courts; the almost soporific springy thud of the ball against the racket, which came with such regularity that she knew without going to see that Charlotte Howell was playing. Charlotte was by far and away the convent’s best player—way, way out of her class, Hope thought dreamily, bending her head to study the ambling flight of a bee, tennis and her other sins forgotten as she watched the small creature entranced, the silky silver-blonde weight of her hair sliding from its clasp.

Her hair was just another grievance. She hated its long straightness, but whenever she pleaded to have it cut, Sister Maria told her that her father had refused his permission. The nuns knew a good deal more about her father’s wishes than she did herself, Hope reflected a little bitterly. She hadn’t even seen him in years. Sometimes the panicky feeling that he intended to leave her in the convent for the rest of her life, swept over her, almost drowning her. Already several of the girls in her class had left, swept away by parents and family, some going on to exclusive finishing schools, others disappearing into carefully arranged marriages.

Hope shivered a little, glancing apprehensively over her shoulder, but no one had come to disturb the calm peace of the cloister gardens—her secret retreat for those times when living constantly surrounded by other people swamped her spirit.

What must it be like to have a home and family of one’s own, Hope wondered enviously. As a younger girl she had fantasised frequently on this subject, imagining that her father would arrive, a laughing, warm-hearted woman at his side, who would tell her that a daughter was the very thing she had always wanted. Only her father had never married again, and her own mother, who had died when Hope was two, was only a vague memory.

The intensity of the Spanish sun beating down out of the cobalt sky warned Hope that her peace would soon be at an end. The lesson would shortly come to a close and then she would have to join the others for lunch—a frugal but meticulously served meal in the large refectory, as the school dining room was called.

The convent wasn’t simply a school in the ordinary sense—even Hope with her limited knowledge of the world knew that. The majority of the girls came from wealthy and titled families who had sent their daughters to St Cecilia’s knowing that the nuns’ strictly enforced regime and very stern moral attitudes would produce young women of a type the French described approvingly as bien élevée.

Even in her innocence Hope was aware that a far different world existed outside the convent walls from that she knew. Although she had no one special friend at school, she was a popular if somewhat aloof girl and knew from the chatter of the others—girls whose parents were not quite as elusive as her own father, and who spent holidays at home and abroad—that the ways of the world were not entirely as portrayed to them by the nuns.

Only at Easter—six short weeks ago—Leonor de Silva, one of her closest acquaintances, a South American girl of lush, dark beauty, had returned to the convent, her eyes sparkling, her mouth soft and warm with an emotion which caused a curious pang to quiver through Hope’s own inexperienced flesh, as the girl described her feelings for the young man she had met while at home.

‘Of course, Rodrigo is not “suitable”,’ she had added in an unhappy voice. ‘My parents have told me this, and I know that it is so—there has been a marriage arranged for many years with my cousin …’

That was Leonor’s fate, but what was her own? Hope brooded. She had been eighteen two weeks ago—the event totally ignored by her father—and she could not remain at the convent for ever. At least the majority of the other girls knew what their families had in mind for them. She was unusual in that she was the only English girl at the school. Most of the others were Spanish, or Latin American, with the odd French and Italian pupil, but she was the sole representative of her own country, and sometimes that made her feel very alien, despite the fact that the convent had been her home since she was eight years old.

As the bell rang for lunch, Hope sighed and slowly uncurled herself, stretching as she stood up, examining her uniform for grass stains and dust. Cleanliness was next to Godliness as far as the nuns were concerned, and Hope, with her long swathe of pale blonde hair and her coltish, almost gawky limbs, often earned the Sisters’ disapproval for her ungainliness.

Recently, though, her body had started to change—her legs still seemed as awkwardly long as ever, but she was no longer as terribly thin as she had been; in fact it made her blush a little to realise how provocatively full her breasts had become, her waist so narrow that her uniform, now straining across her breasts, hung like a sack on the rest of her body.

Bianca Vincella, an Italian girl who had befriended Hope when she was a shy young junior, had remarked only days before her scandalous expulsion that Hope was starting to look incredibly sexy, but then Bianca had always enjoyed teasing her. Besides, Hope was not so naïve that she didn’t know that ‘incredibly sexy’ was the last thing the convent wanted its pupils to be.

As she made her way to the refectory, Hope shivered a little, her eyes, a soft dove-grey, pensive. Sex was something only to be discussed in hushed, excited whispers in the dormitories at night, and Hope, who had not spent so much as a few days outside the convent walls since she had entered them, had no knowledge of this activity bar that passed on by the Sisters during biology lessons, and what she had gathered from the other girls’ whispered confidences.

From her reading she knew of the ecstasy two people could experience together, but how this ecstasy was to be equated with the dismal facts of procreation described by the nuns, and the fumbling intimacies of her friends, she did not know.

Today was a ‘French’ day, which meant that only French conversation was allowed, but Hope was fluent enough in this language not to mind. Indeed, she was fluent in most languages, and not simply the regulation French, Spanish and Italian taught at the school. German was another of her languages, and she had started to learn Russian. At the back of her mind was the idea that once she left the convent she would like to have a job—to train as a secretary perhaps, and use her languages in that capacity. Hope always did well at her lessons, but the convent set no conventional examinations for its pupils, so she had no real way of judging her ability.

Lunch was frugal as always, but the food was well prepared and attractively served. Any girl returning from her holidays spotty and plump soon found both spots and extra weight disappearing under the convent’s strict regime.

‘Summer holidays soon, what bliss,’ the girl on Hope’s right said dreamily. ‘My parents have a villa on Capri and we’re going there.’ She was a kind girl, who had known Hope since they were both fourteen, and she bit her lip self-consciously, not wanting to hurt Hope’s feelings. Many of the girls had invited Hope to share their holidays, but Hope’s father had always refused permission.

‘It is almost as though he wants to keep you locked up behind these walls for ever,’ one friend had remarked rebelliously when yet another refusal had been received, and although she had smiled the comment aside, a tiny sliver of fear had lodged deep in Hope’s heart.

But now she was eighteen and surely her own mistress? In law perhaps, she admitted inwardly, but although she was equipped to choose menus for fifty guests and upwards without blinking an eye; although she knew exactly what vintage wine to serve with what dish, and how to cope with staff, she had very little idea of how to take care of herself in a world which she sensed she might find alarming and even hostile after the cushioned protection of the convent.

Hope might be naïve, but she was no fool. The convent had an excellent library and Hope had made good use of it, but all her knowledge of the past could not compensate for her lack of knowledge about the present. Newspapers, other than those permitted by the Church, were not allowed. The convent possessed no television and the girls were not permitted to have radios. In the past this had not bothered Hope unduly, but lately … She frowned as she tried to analyse the cause for her recent discontent, the strange restlessness that pursued and possessed her.

‘Hope? Hope, you are daydreaming again!’ The exasperated tones of Sister Catherine’s voice penetrated her thoughts and Hope flushed guiltily.

‘The Reverend Mother wishes to see you,’ Sister Catherine told her, watching not unkindly as the colour came and went in Hope’s face. ‘Run along child—you must not keep her waiting.’

Keep the Reverend Mother waiting? It was unthinkable! Hope didn’t believe she had been summoned to the lady’s room on more than half a dozen occasions during her school life and her heart started to thud as she wondered why she had been sent for now. It couldn’t have been because her father had refused her permission to spend her holidays with yet another schoolfriend—this year she had known better than to ask.

The Reverend Mother had a suite of rooms separated from the main school building by a long cloistered walk, and normally Hope would have enjoyed admiring the enclosed garden the Reverend Mother’s rooms looked out on, but today she felt inexplicably nervous, searching her conscience for any sin which might have merited this summons. Skipping tennis hardly seemed worthy of the Reverend Mother’s intervention—and surely, omnipotent though she was, she had not read her charge’s rebellious and resentful thoughts, Hope wondered nervously.

Outside the study door she knocked and waited to be told to enter. The Reverend Mother was only small, barely five foot two to Hope’s five foot seven, but possessed of such a presence, such an aura of calm peacefulness, that it was Hope who felt dwarfed.

‘Sit down, child,’ the Reverend Mother commanded with a smile. She had been the head of the Convent School for nearly thirty years, and she knew her charges better than they knew themselves.

Hope was her only English pupil and the Reverend Mother had been startled at first when the child’s father had told her his wishes. Hope was to be kept cloistered in a way she herself would not even have recommended for a proposed novice. The Reverend Mother was no romantic—those who wished to forsake the world must first experience it. But while she might deplore what she secretly thought of as Sir Henry’s lack of feeling for his only child, with one or two exceptions Hope had been brought up largely as he had wished.

In these enlightened times it was neither wise nor practical to keep young girls ignorant of sexual matters. The Reverend Mother had been of a generation where in Spain this ignorance had been the norm, but it was like trying to hold back the tide to keep mentally innocent, young girls whose families were as wealthy and powerful as those to whom her pupils belonged. Indeed, she herself had had to fight against considerable opposition to have sex education included in the curriculum, and what she knew of Sir Henry made her wonder rather cynically at the double-standards operated by the world. Which made her all the more relieved about today’s turn of events.

Sir Henry had not been in touch with her before Hope’s eighteenth birthday, as she had expected. Most of her pupils left at seventeen, and it grieved her that Hope, who was one of her brightest pupils, would never go on to university. Indeed, it was her own personal view that Hope would fare better in the life she suspected Sir Henry planned for her, if her intelligence was less, and she eyed her sympathetically. In a school comprised of mainly Latin races, Hope’s silvery blondeness was unique. Her bone-structure differed from the other girls, too; like her body it was far more fragile and delicate, betraying her Anglo-Saxon ancestry.

‘Don’t look so worried, Hope. I’ve got some good news for you. You are to leave us and join your father, who apparently is in France at the moment. A friend of your father’s, the Comte de Serivace is calling to collect you tomorrow and he will escort you to your father.’

She busied herself kindly with some papers on her desk, well aware of the changing emotions and turmoil churning Hope’s stomach and mind. If anything, she wished that Hope was less vulnerable, more equipped to deal with the vagaries of life outside the convent, but it was not up to her to question the dictates of her pupils’ families. Sir Henry had been most adamant that Hope was not to be ‘contaminated’ by any contact with the outside world. A strange desire for a man who … Sternly the Reverend Mother suppressed the uncharitable thought, turning her attention to the girl standing before her.

‘I know this has come as something of a shock, Hope. Indeed, we could have wished for your father to give us more notice, but you are eighteen and it is time that you took your place in the world. Remember, child, we will always be here if you should need us.’ It was something she said to all the girls when they left, but some deep instinct told her that Hope was more likely to stand in need of the shelter offered by the convent than any other pupil.

Like someone in a dream Hope made her way back to her room. At sixteen, girls were promoted from sleeping in a dormitory to sharing a room with three other girls. The girls who shared with Hope had all left at Christmas and she had been alone ever since. Not that she minded. Solitude was something one came to appreciate, living in such a busy community. But it had happened at last—her father had sent for her!

In her room, Hope sank down on the narrow bed, staring unseeingly through the window down into the convent grounds. Strange how, after she had longed for something like this to happen so much, she should feel so curiously empty; frightened almost. Although never of a particularly religious turn of mind, Hope found herself praying silently, suddenly terrified of the world she would find outside the convent.

After dinner Sister Teresa sent her to pack her things. Her father had sent her an expensive case, no doubt realising that the one she had taken with her to the convent ten years previously was rather the worse for wear. It was a pity he had not realised the same thing about her clothes, Hope thought unhappily. Apart from her uniform, she had nothing!

After dinner the girls were allowed a free period when they could chat, but Hope found herself strangely reluctant to announce her departure. She was intelligent enough to know how much some of the other girls pitied her, and she had no wish to let them know that after ten years her father was not coming to collect her himself, but had sent someone else.

Daddy was probably too busy, she told herself loyally.

Her father had many business interests, but the most important was his small share in Montrachet’s, the worldwide merchant bankers, whose headquarters were in Paris. Her father had often written to her about the Montrachet family; their wealth and their pride, and once again she shivered, dreading facing the outside world. How contrary she was. Only this morning she had been longing to escape the convent and now … now she was hanging back nervously, confused and alarmed by her own reactions.

It wasn’t until after breakfast that the Reverend Mother sent for Hope. Breakfast was eaten early at the convent, although this morning Hope hadn’t been able to touch hers, and she had had nothing to do for several hours afterwards, other than walk in the gardens, trying to suppress her nervousness. No doubt the Comte, who would probably be staying in Seville, the nearest town to the convent, would have breakfasted at leisure, perhaps in his room, unaware and uncaring of her growing tension. For some reason she didn’t like the Comte, which was surely ridiculous as she hadn’t met him. Deep down inside her Hope acknowledged that her resentment probably sprang from the fact that she would have preferred her father to come for her, and that she was transferring her resentment, because he had not, from her father to the Comte—but knowing this still did not change her feelings.

She was walking slowly through the gardens for the third time when Sister Teresa came hurrying towards her, breathless and hot, her brown eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘Hope, mon petit … the Reverend Mother wishes to see you.’ Sister Teresa was the youngest and friendliest of the Sisters. She taught French and often lapsed into this language, forgetting the rules. Today, by rights, was Italian day, but Hope answered her in French automatically, aware that her cheeks were suddenly burning with a colour that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun, as she followed Sister Teresa back to the cloisters.

As before, she paused and knocked outside the Reverend Mother’s door, catching the soft murmur of the Reverend Mother’s voice, and the deeper, masculine tones of her companion. When she entered the room the Reverend Mother smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Ah, Hope, my child, let me introduce you to Monsieur le Comte, who has come on behalf of your papa.’

Stubbornly, Hope refused to look in the direction of the Comte until the last moment, her eyes widening in stunned astonishment when she finally did so. This man was not at all as she had imagined a friend of her father’s to be. For one thing, he was so much younger. Thirty, or thirty-five at the most; considerably older than her, but far, far younger than her father, and for another …

Feeling like someone who has suddenly been deprived of breath, Hope forced herself to glance a second time into the face of the man watching her. Was it because she was used to seeing only softer female features that the harsh masculinity of high, sharply defined cheekbones and a dark, taut jaw had such an impact on her?

Hope’s eyes returned almost dazedly to the angles and planes of a face so totally male that she felt the shock waves of seeing it reverberating strongly through her. Green eyes, dangerous, predatory eyes, half concealed by thick black lashes, studied her coolly for several achingly long seconds, before subjecting her to an assessingly keen stare, holding her gaze deliberately until Hope felt she was drowning in emerald seas.

Tearing her gaze from the Comte’s eyes, Hope made an effort to study him as objectively as he had done her, her cheeks still hot with colour from the knowledge that he had deliberately and quite cynically stripped her of every article of clothing when he studied her—and in the Reverend Mother’s presence! She could not match his savoir-faire, but she did make a valiant attempt to study the sharply defined bone-structure of his face, wondering why it should be vaguely familiar and yet so different from what she had imagined. His mouth curled sardonically as though he was aware of her mental rejection of him, his thick, black hair brushing the collar of his shirt as he lazily flicked back his cuff to study a pale gold watch.

Taking the hint, the Reverend Mother came forward, kissing Hope gently on each cheek. ‘Remember, my dear, we are always here if you want us.’ She spoke in Italian and Hope responded in the same language, startled when the tall, dark man at her side drawled cynically in perfect Italian:

‘We must hope that life treats her too kindly for her to need a refuge, Reverend Mother,’ and then he was opening the door, one dark, long-fingered hand on Hope’s shoulder, her fragile bones feeling as though they were burning beneath his touch as he pushed her gently through the open door.

Outside in the front courtyard of the convent, a long, squat car glinted darkly in the sunlight, a fitting means of transport for this dark, almost menacing man, Hope thought, shivering a little as she recognised instinctively the power and threat of two such masculine objects.

Her case was placed in the boot, and the passenger door opened for her, dark eyebrows rising in a sardonic appraisal which hinted that he was not entirely surprised as he drawled, ‘Surely you have something else to wear? Or does the good Reverend Mother seek to remind me of what you are?’

Not entirely understanding the reason for his comment, Hope told him coolly that she had no other clothes.

‘None? Your father is not a poor man.’

‘My father … My father is not a wasteful man,’ she managed primly at last, trying not to notice the way in which the fine fabric of his dark pants stretched over his thighs as he slid into the driving seat, and her hands folded tensely in her lap.

‘You think it wasteful, to spend money on clothes? But you cannot spend the rest of your life in garments which, rather than reinforcing your schoolgirl status, draw attention to the fact that it is past time for you to change them for something a little more … womanly.’ His eyes rested meaningfully on the taut fabric stretching across her breasts and Hope blushed fiery red, hating the way he was looking at her, and yet curiously excited in some strange way.

‘You must fasten your seat-belt,’ the Comte told her coolly. ‘Like this.’ He reached across her, the dark fabric of his suited arm brushing the fullness on which his eyes had so recently rested. Something like an electric current shot through Hope making her stiffen automatically, shrinking into her seat as he secured the belt around her, apparently unaware of the effect of their momentary physical contact.

Having fastened his own belt, he started the car, the powerful roar of the engine drowning out the hurried thud of Hope’s heartbeat as she tried not to give in to the desolation gripping her as the car swept along the drive and out of the convent gates.

‘I cannot drive you all the way to France wearing those garments,’ the Comte told her when they had gone several miles. ‘I have no wish to be arrested for attempting to kidnap a child.’

‘I expect my father has forgotten that I have grown,’ Hope offered unhappily, feeling that some explanation was needed. ‘I haven’t required any other clothes as …’

‘As your father has never permitted you to leave the convent,’ her companion finished for her. ‘Yes, I am aware of that.’ His attention momentarily diverted from the road to her, and Hope felt herself flushing again under his thoughtful scrutiny. ‘However, you have left it now, and your father’s past deficiencies will soon be remedied.’

Hope looked into the man’s face as he spoke, surprised to see the grim coldness in his eyes, tiny feathers of alarm curling along her spine, and a tension she couldn’t understand infiltrating the atmosphere in the car until every muscle in her body was taut in response to it.

After that her companion didn’t speak, and although there was a good deal she wanted to ask him, his silence prevented her from speaking, instinct telling her that he had no wish to engage in conversation, and she made use of the silence to study him covertly; the arrogant aquiline profile, the power of the lean fingers holding the steering wheel, sinewy and brown.

Would his skin be that dark mahogany all over? The intimacy of her thoughts shocked Hope into further flushes, hastily averting her eyes from the muscles of his thighs as the Comte changed gear and the fabric pulled tautly, reminding her of drawings she had seen, books she had studied in the convent library, knowing suddenly and overwhelmingly that the old masters had not, as she had childishly imagined, overemphasised the masculine frame, and that this man seated at her side could easily have modelled for them. And yet there was an elusive, alien look about him that suggested another culture, not entirely Latin—something about his face that tormented her memory.

Within half an hour they were in Seville. The city was not entirely unfamiliar to Hope as she had visited it with the school on several occasions, but the narrow street of fashionable shops where the Comte parked the car was somewhere she had not seen before. Her fingers fumbled with the seat-belt as she tried to release it, and this time when the Comte leaned impatiently across she withdrew so that he would not touch her, flinching beneath the sardonic mockery in his eyes as he released the belt and then turned to look at her, green eyes on a level with grey as he drawled softly, ‘So, even innocence has some awareness. Was it from the good nuns that you learned to shrink from anyone male, mon petit, or is it an instinct that goes far beyond any teaching?’

‘I …’ Torn between embarrassment and the angry feeling that he should not be talking to her in this fashion, mocking her naïvety with one breath and yet somehow, she sensed, deliberately making her aware of his maleness all the same, Hope reached for the door, shaky with relief when it opened and the Comte moved back to his own seat.

Several curious glances came their way as the Comte guided Hope along the pavement, and when she caught sight of herself in a shop window, she shrank from the image she presented in her too-tight uniform, her hair dragged back off her face.

The shop he took her to was small and yet somehow overpowering, so imbued with an atmosphere of money and elegance that Hope felt ill at ease.

The woman who emerged to serve them surveyed Hope with raised eyebrows, her demeanour only altering when she saw the Comte, changing from haughty disdain to almost fawning complaisance within the space of a few seconds.

The Comte spoke to her in Spanish, as flawless as his Italian, but when Hope heard the word for trousseau she frowned and opened her mouth, only to be silenced by the Comte who turned to her and said in French, ‘I am only fulfilling your father’s wishes, so please oblige me by keeping silent.’

Having given the saleswoman his instructions, the Comte turned to Hope and told her that he had business of his own to transact and that he would return for her in two hours. ‘Your hair needs attention,’ he added, studying it. ‘I shall ask Madame if she can recommend a good stylist.’

‘I have wanted to have it cut for ages,’ Hope offered, ‘but …’

‘Cut! Mon Dieu! Are you mad! To do so would be sacrilege,’ he told her unequivocally, adding softly, ‘Has no one told you, you little innocent, that on your wedding night your husband will want to see you covered in nothing other than this silver veil?’ He flicked her hair as he spoke, apparently unconcerned by the hot colour beating up under her pale skin.

Her wedding night! Hope was still turning the words over in her mind when he left the shop. Strangely enough she had not thought much about marriage. She would like to have children and them she could visualise quite easily, plump and dark—but a husband? She shivered suddenly. Why had her father sent this disturbing stranger to collect her? Why hadn’t he come himself?

Two hours later she was staring round-eyed at the pile of garments Madame had put on one side; separates in cool, soft silk in misty pastel lilacs and greys to tone with her eyes; dresses; underwear in the finest crěpe de Chine, embroidered in silver and grey with butterflies, so fine and sheer that Hope blushed to see herself in it, imagining the disapproval of the nuns.

Madame’s grimace over her plain, serviceable underwear and shabby uniform had forstalled Hope’s intentions of dressing again in her own clothes. Something inside her shrank from wearing clothes provided by anyone other than her father—especially another man—but common sense told her that eventually Sir Henry would undoubtedly meet the bill, and so Hope allowed herself to be persuaded into the whispers of silk, so smooth against her skin, so shockingly and sensuously clinging to her body, her breasts curving softly above the brevity of a bra so delicate it seemed more seductive than nothing at all.

Hope was tempted to protest against the brief suspender belt and silk stockings proffered calmly by Madame, but the thought of having her recalcitrance reported and no doubt mocked by the man who her father seemed to have appointed as her temporary guardian, caused the protests to die unspoken.

Without consulting her, once the girl had donned the underwear, Madame handed Hope a three-piece in pale grey silk with undertones of lilac, the skirt hem and jacket reveres in contrasting off white. A brief camisole top buttoned up the back with a multitude of small buttons, and the straight skirt emphasised Hope’s narrow hips and long, slender legs. Carefully putting on the jacket, she surveyed herself in the mirror, stunned by the reflection staring wide-eyed back at her.

Of the Hope she knew, all she recognised was the small triangular face. Gone were the awkward coltish limbs, the girl’s body; the reflection staring back at her showed her a tall slim creature, far too elegant to bear any relation to the person she knew herself to be, her eyes a smoky lilac, reflecting the undertones of the grey silk.

Madame, however, was not as awed by the transformation as Hope herself. ‘And now,’ she said ominously, ‘the hair and the face. There is a salon several doors down. My assistant will take you there. I shall tell her to wait for you and return with you when Rafael has finished!’

Rafael and his staff were every bit as alarming as Hope had dreaded, although a little to her surprise he echoed the Comte’s decree that to cut her hair would be a crime.

‘It is untidy at the ends, si,’ he agreed, examining it closely, ‘but wait until they are trimmed and your hair has been conditioned. Tying it back as you do is not good for the texture,’ he disapproved, frowning over the thick barrette Hope used to secure her hair out of the way, ‘and your skin! Do you never use moisturiser?’ he demanded with further disapproval.

Hope felt disinclined to tell him that the nuns favoured soap and water and that the girls were not allowed to use make-up at the convent, although many of the girls did experiment in secret with cosmetics purchased when they were at home on holiday.

Her hair was shampooed and conditioned and then trimmed before Rafael pronounced himself satisfied and handed Hope over to the ministrations of a pretty dark-haired girl, her still-wet hair wrapped in a towel.

The girl introduced herself as Ana, and although Hope sensed her curiosity when her client admitted to having no knowledge at all about applying cosmetics, she did not ask any questions, simply showing Hope patiently and carefully how she could make the best of her features, telling her that she was lucky in her bone-structure which would outlive mere youthful prettiness, and adding that Hope’s eyes were especially beautiful.

Having feared from the length of time Ana took over cleansing and then painting her skin, that she would end up looking like a china doll, Hope was astonished when Ana finally swung her round in her chair to face the mirror. A subtle rose glow shone against her cheekbones, highlighting their shape, her eyes mysteriously darker and larger than she remembered, her mouth tremulous and curving warmly pink against the paleness of her skin.

While Hope came to terms with her new image, Ana wrote out a chart showing what colours and cosmetics she had used, which she passed to Hope along with an ornate box filled with cosmetics, all of which Ana assured her she would need to use.

Then it was back to Rafael for her hair to be blown dry, Hope openly astonished by the shining waves he coaxed from what she had always been convinced was perfectly straight hair, now subtly shaped to frame her face and cascade over her shoulders.

Ten minutes later, standing in Madame’s shop, her new clothes stored in the shiny black boxes with gold lettering on them, Hope felt her nervousness increase, her fingers itching to touch the silken fineness of her hair. But the habits instilled at the convent went too deep to permit her to fidget or in any way betray her inner anxiety. Outwardly she looked so calm and composed that Madame, who had been apt to dismiss her as a naïve, rather stupid child, revised her opinion. Telling herself that she recognised a well-brought-up young girl when she saw one, she unbent enough to assure Hope that the Comte would not keep her waiting very long.

Almost before she had finished speaking the door opened and the Comte paused, framed there, nowhere near as out of place in the essentially female surroundings as Hope would have imagined. No doubt he was perfectly accustomed to buying his women-friends clothes, Hope thought distastefully. Although in many ways naïve, she was by no means unaware of the relationships entered into by men like the Comte; rich worldly men who could afford to pay for their pleasure and then discard their playthings when they grew bored, with scant regard for any pain they might cause.

The Reverend Mother would have been shocked had she known of the dislike for the Comte which had already taken deep root in her heart, Hope acknowledged, unaware of the picture she made as she waited, unmoving and hesitant, a pale silver girl whose fragility made the man watching her feel that she might break between his hands if he attempted to touch her.

She would serve his purpose even better than he supposed. Sir Henry was a very clever man. With such tempting bait, no wonder he was so sure of persuading Alain Montrachet to take it. An innocent bride for the white hope of the house of Montrachet; a bride to bear the sons who would one day inherit the Montrachet name; a child untouched by man or the corruption of what he had made of his world—a beautiful innocent.

He looked at her, knowing all that he planned for her, untouched by compassion or second thoughts, and Hope, watching him, suddenly realised where she had seen such a face before; an illustration of the young men of Tsar Alexander’s Imperial Guard at the time of the Napoleonic Wars. Among them had been men with just such bone-structures, proudly arrogant, haughtily disdainful, dangerously wild for all their veneer of sophistication.

‘Well, Hope, if you’re ready?’ His tone was so calm and mundane that Hope thought for a moment that someone else spoke, but no, the Comte was holding the door open politely for her, and outside the snarling Ferrari awaited them, while Madame smiled obsequiously as they made their goodbyes.

On the pavement, Hope hesitated. The Comte opened the car door for her, letting her get settled as he put her boxes in the boot, and then went round to his own door. When he was inside, and she had safely managed to secure her seat-belt, she blurted out impulsively, ‘Do you … do you have Russian blood in you, Comte?’

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. Her comment was impolite. The nuns had taught her never to ask personal questions, but somehow the question asked itself.

‘Some,’ he agreed, watching her, making her wonder what thoughts went on behind those green eyes. ‘Why do you ask?’

Haltingly, she told him about the illustrations. ‘So … you are learning Russian? You obviously have a talent for languages. My mother was Russian,’ he explained. ‘Her parents left Russia during the Revolution. Fortunately they were among the lucky ones. My grandfather had investments in Paris and they were able to live comfortably, if not in the same style they had known in St Petersburg; and certainly well enough for my mother to be considered a more than adequate match for my father, and the Serivace title.

‘The Serivace name is an old one,’ he further explained when he saw that she was frowning. ‘It goes back to before the French Revolution, but then I suppose the good sisters have taught you that pride is a sin, as indeed is vanity,’ he added half mockingly, making Hope wonder if he had guessed how bemused she was by her altered appearance and was simply changing the subject.

‘You would be well advised to try and get some sleep, mon petit,’ he added. ‘We have a long drive ahead of us. I do not want to stop until we reach Serivace.’

‘Serivace?’

‘My estate.’ He glanced at her, and then smiled. ‘It is very beautiful. You will like it.’ But he made no mention of her father and when she could expect to be reunited with him, and all at once Hope sensed that to ask this man any questions he did not want to answer would be a foolish and pointless exercise.

‘All in good time, mon petit,’ she heard him murmur as she obediently tried to relax and closed her eyes, giving the disconcerting impression that he had seen into her mind and read the thoughts imprinted there as clearly as though her forehead were a sheet of glass.