Yet precious—so precious…
The old, familiar rending ache scraped at her. She had to wrest it away, make herself think of Guy as she had to think of him now.
Above all, a married man.
A married man whose wife—young, naïve, innocent—did not deserve to have her marriage, as difficult as it must be, blighted even more by worrying about whether her husband was going to take up with his former lover again. A wife who, though she might call a house in Belgravia only one of what were doubtless half a dozen palatial homes around the world, deserved the reassurance that only Alexa could give her.
Yet as Alexa walked up the wide steps of the multi-million pound house, stepping into the grand hallway beyond, she felt anew the gaping distance between the world she moved in and the world that Guy and his bride inhabited. She had been kept far apart from it.
He’s a world away from me—he always was.
Like a spear in her side, she felt the force of how pointless it had been to fall in love with such a man.
Reluctance at being here filled her. But this had to be done. Head held high, she followed the member of staff who had admitted her as he proceeded up a graceful sweep of stairs to the first floor. She was ushered into a vast drawing room.
She stopped short, her eyes going instantly to the walls. It was the paintings that drew her first, not the opulence of the Louis Quinze decor. She heard her breath catch as she took in enough priceless artworks to fill a small museum. Fragonard, Watteau, Boucher, Claude, Poussin—
Instinctively, without realising she was doing so, she walked up to the one closest to her and gazed at it. A riot of Rococo art, a fête galante, with girls in clouds of silks and satins, and young men as lavishly adorned. A fantasy of the Ancien Régime that took her breath away with the exquisite delicacy of its brushstrokes to catch the richness of the fabrics, the hues of the fruits and flowers.
A voice spoke behind her.
‘Rococo is no longer fashionable, but I confess I have a particular fondness for it. It embodies all that is most charmant in art.’
The voice that spoke had the crystal quality of the upper classes, but with a distinct French accent. It was not the voice of the young girl that Alexa had encountered in the powder room at the charity gala. She swivelled round.
A woman who must have been in late middle age, but who had the figure of a woman no more than thirty, chicly dressed, was standing before a huge marble fireplace, on an Aubusson rug, between two silk-upholstered facing sofas. Her dress was a couture design, Alexa could see instantly, and several ropes of pearls were wound around her neck. Her hair was tinted, immaculately styled, and her maquillage was perfect.
And her eyes were green. As green as emeralds.
Alexa started.
‘Yes,’ said the woman, acknowledging why Alexa had reacted. ‘My son has inherited his eye colour from me.’
Her son—?
Alexa swallowed. Madame de Rochemont…
She had assumed—of course she had assumed—that it could only be Guy’s wife.
The woman who was not Guy’s wife—who was his mother, could only be his mother—walked forward several steps, holding out her hand. Alexa found herself walking forward as well, to take it briefly.
‘Won’t you sit down, Mademoiselle Harcourt?’
With a posture that was regally elegant, Madame de Rochemont indicated one of the pair of silk covered sofas. As Alexa lowered herself down, her head in a whirl, Guy’s mother took her place opposite her. Her green eyes flicked briefly over Alexa’s habitually groomed appearance, as if she were assessing her.
Alexa’s thoughts were reeling. What on earth was going on? Why was she here? Why on earth had Guy’s mother wanted to see her?
‘Thank you so much for coming, Mademoiselle Harcourt. I have wanted to meet you for some time.’
Alexa could only stare, nonplussed. All her expectations had been overset, and she could make no sense of what was happening. Then, a moment later, enlightenment dawned.
‘I wanted to thank you in person,’ Madame de Rochemont said, ‘for the portrait you made of Guy. He presented it to me for my birthday last month. I am very pleased with it.’
‘I…I’m so glad,’ Alexa managed to get out.
‘And I am also,’ said Guy’s mother, and now there was a different note in her voice which Alexa could not place, ‘very grateful for it.’
Alexa gazed at her. For a long moment, Madame de Rochement simply looked back at her. Alexa had the strangest feeling she was being placed in a balance and weighed. Then, abruptly, the moment ended.