She led the way out of the room. Outside, one of her members of staff was waiting, and Guy’s mother spoke to him in rapid French. Then she held out her hand to Alexa.
‘Thank you.’
Reluctantly, Alexa shook the outstretched hand. ‘Madame,’ she said formally. Then, clutching her bag more tightly than was necessary, she followed the member of staff back down the curving marble staircase. Her mind felt quite, quite numb.
CHAPTER NINE
ALEXA was still feeling numb as she took her seat on the private de Rochemont jet. It was familiar to her. She must have travelled on it half a dozen times, perhaps, during the months with Guy. The extravagance of it had shocked her, but he had been blunt about it.
‘It saves time,’ he had said to her.
And time was what he’d had least of. At any rate for her. So she had gone along with it, this outrageous extravagance, burning who knew how many carbon units, paying half a dozen salaries for the personnel required for a flight, simply to get herself, the woman Guy de Rochemont currently wanted to have sex with, to him at the time he wanted her.
I put up with it. I went along with it. I colluded with it.
Condemnation of her own behaviour bit at her.
I was as complicit as he was. Because I wanted to be. I wanted him on the terms he offered—because they were the only terms on offer. I told myself it was all right. It worked for both of us. That that justified it.
But it didn’t.
I should have had the strength, then, to say no to those terms. To say no to him.
But she hadn’t. She had gone along with it, made no demur, no question. Accepted it all.
Well, she had paid for it in the end, though. Paid for it even sooner than the end. Paid for it the moment she’d realised, with dawning dismay, that she had started to fall in love with Guy de Rochemont. And from that moment onwards he had held her to ransom. Held her heart to ransom. And her self-respect.
Well, she had her self-respect back again now. She had said no to being the mistress of an adulterous bridegroom, and she would make that clear to Guy’s bride—as it seemed he now wanted her to do. Alexa should be glad that he cared, glad that he was finally showing consideration to the poor girl he’d married. Perhaps their marriage stood a chance now.
She must be glad of that.
What else could she be?
As the plane winged its brief way across the Channel, she made herself say that over and over. Ignoring the fingernails that were trying to scratch at her heart.
Let me get through this. Let me get through this and come away again. Back to the life I am going to lead now. The only life left to me.
A voice spoke at her side, making her turn her head.
‘Miss Harcourt? The captain’s compliments. We are starting our descent, and should be landing on schedule.’
The stewardess smiled politely at Alexa, and Alexa murmured something appropriate. Inside, her stomach started to knot. She took a breath, and then another. She could get through this. She would get through this. She must.
It was a mantra she repeated as the plane landed at a small private airfield west of Paris, and repeated again as she was escorted to a waiting limousine. It whisked her quickly and efficiently away, down a brief stretch of major roadway, to turn off after some miles onto a smaller country road. The weather was glorious, a perfect late afternoon in early summer, with the sun dipping low, turning the world to ripeness all around her. As the car slowed and turned down another narrow road, then drew up briefly to pass through ornate iron gates set in a
two-metre high perimeter wall, she felt the knot tighten. She looked about her as the car moved along the smooth, long drive, curving through ornamental woodlands until it was clear of them to make visible a sight that made Alexa’s breath catch.
Château Rochemont, a Loire château, was like something out of a fairy tale—palest grey stone and pointed towers, surrounded by vast, ornate parkland. As the car drew up at the front entrance and Alexa was ushered out, she glanced around as if she must surely see sauntering lords and ladies of the court, dressed for the very fête she had seen in the painting in Madame de Rochemont’s London drawing room a bare two hours ago.
It’s a different world—unutterably, incomparably different!
And it was the world Guy lived in. The one he’d visited her from, dipping into her modest bourgeois life to collect what he wanted from her, then leaving again to come back here. His home. Where he lived.
With his bride. His wife.
Her face closed. That was all she must remember—all that she must hold in her head. Nothing more than that.
She was ushered indoors—expected, that much was obvious. The huge entrance hall, with mirrors and gilt and chandeliers and a vast double staircase, took her breath away, but she showed no visible reaction. Her expression stayed closed. Composed.