But he wasn’t Guy de Rochemont.
No one is! No one possibly could be!
Alexa laid into her own futile objection ruthlessly. No one was ever going to be Guy, and Guy was beyond her now—beyond her for ever. Her future lay without him, and nothing on earth could change that.
I have to get over him! I have to!
The pain still scraped away at her heart, familiar and futile. So damn, damn futile…
And Immie was right. Until she made a determined effort to remake the rest of her life she would inevitably go on ‘moping’, as her friend so cruelly described her decision to withdraw from the social world, turn in on herself, try and tough it out.
I have to get over him—I have no alternative.
A deep breath filled her lungs, and she lifted her chin. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll give Richard a go.’
Immie shut her eyes. ‘At last. Thank God,’ she said fervently. Then, less audibly but yet more fervently, she muttered, ‘And maybe that bastard who treated you like dirt will finally get the hell out of your head! And stay out!’
Guy was meet
ing and greeting. As the customary social phrases flowed smoothly from his lips, so familiar to him that he could say them on automatic, his conscious mind was busy. Busy exerting what had become bleakly familiar to him over the last four months—iron self-control over his emotions.
Self-control had been an essential weapon in his personal armoury just about all his life, he recognised. It was what enabled him to function, and always had. It was as necessary as breathing. It enabled him to run the behemoth of Rochemont-Lorenz, bear the mantle that was his by inheritance, and cope with all the endless demands made on him—not only of ensuring that Rochemont-Lorenz would continue to survive and prosper in this uncertain new century but also far more tedious to endure, of being endlessly on call to just about every member of the entire damn clan.
So many relatives! So many gatherings of relatives! Dieu, he could have filled his days simply circulating around Europe, and further afield, on a non-stop diet of family social occasions from birthdays to weddings to christenings to funerals. His attendance was expected, his presence courted, and offence taken if he made too many repeated omissions. Ambitions were raised if he decided that relatives active in the myriad companies and enterprises within Rochmont-Lorenz were worth promoting, chagrin taken by those he did not consider sufficiently able.
Not to mention tracking and mitigating the endless politicking and jostling between the different branches—internecine rivalries and alliances alike. Not everyone had been of the opinion that a man in his early twenties—even though he was the son of the oldest branch of the family—should take over the helm from his father at so young an age. There had been plenty of older cousins who had challenged his succession. But Guy’s dedication to his role, his cool head and formidable financial acumen, had proved him his father’s son both in ability and determination, and now his place at the head of the dynasty was assured—taken for granted, even.
The bleakness in his face was visible momentarily. Just as it was taken for granted that he would continue to guard the fortunes of Rochemont-Lorenz, whatever that required.
Right to the very point of marrying for that purpose.
His eyes glanced sideways.
Louisa was standing beside him—conspicuously so—standing very still as the mill of people in the ballroom ebbed and flowed, and the cluster that Guy was meeting and greeting came and went. She looked ill at ease, saying little, and although Guy made allowances for her youth and inexperience at such formal gatherings, and had sought to reassure her that he would give her all the support he could, that did not mean she would not have to learn how to handle them with the assurance that would be necessary as his wife.
It did not help that she was clearly of marked interest to anyone who knew him, for this was her first appearance in London as his fiancée, and for once her parents were not here. Guy had finally succeeded in shaking them off for his visit here, and Louisa was staying with the family of an old college friend for a weekend in England. Guy would have preferred her not to be here at all—not to be putting her through what was clearly an ordeal for her—but on the other hand she had to get used to the life she would be leading once she was married to him: the endless round of socialising and hostessing. That would best be done without her parents endlessly hovering over her—and over him.
The bleakness flared in his eyes again, mingled with the other emotion that was his constant companion—an emotion that required every ounce of will to control. An emotion that being in London had brought dangerously to the fore. He hadn’t been here in four months, and he was glad of it. It only reminded him of what he’d had to do without. Into his mind’s eye flicked the image of the eagle soaring, free and unfettered, over the lofty Alpine peaks as he’d headed into the confines of the tunnel. Resentment bit into him at what he was no longer free to do. And what he had to do instead.
At his side, Louisa hesitantly echoed his greeting of whoever it was whose hand he’d just shaken. His glance went sideways again. His mouth tightened. Annelise might not be here in person, but she was here in spirit, given the choice of gown for her daughter tonight. The dress was far too overpowering, stiff and grandiose. Presumably Annelise had been intending to make Louisa look older, more sophisticated. Instead it just emphasised her youth—and her evident awkwardness.
She’d looked a whole lot better in the jeans she’d worn that first evening—casual teenage wear, Guy thought. Since then, whenever he’d set eyes on her, she’d always been wearing outfits obviously chosen by her mother, and never to her advantage. He’d made no comment, not wanting to make her even more unsure of herself, but had made a mental note to ensure that as soon as they were married he would put her in the hands of someone who knew how to dress her properly, to bring out the best in her.
Memory stung like an unwelcome wasp.
His murmured accolade—superbe…
The image was vivid in his mind.
A slender column of burnt sienna raw silk, sleeveless and high-necked, exposing graceful arms and accentuating the subtle curves of breast and hip…
His mouth tightened even more. Why was he remembering Alexa when she was gone from his life now? His future lay with Louisa and he must remember that, must banish distracting memories of his lost freedom.
At his side, Louisa’s gaze suddenly flickered up to his, and he saw anxiety flare briefly. He curved a smile to his mouth to reassure her, and hoped he’d succeeded. As he’d said to his mother, none of this was her fault. A frown drew his eyebrows together. Despite the punishing demands of starting to sort out Lorenz Investment on top of all his other concerns, he’d made an effort to spend what time he could with Louisa, seeking to get to know her and, above all, establish that she was prepared to enter into such a marriage with him.
Like his parents, hers, too, had married for the sake of Rochemont-Lorenz, and he was as reassured as he could be in the circumstances that Louisa was willing to marry him, and that she understood that for now his first concern must be saving her father’s bank. Once that was secure he would give Louisa the attention she deserved, get to know her better and draw her out of her shyness and reticence.
A young, adoring bride. His eyes frowned. Was that what he wanted? Even as the thought came, he knew the answer.