“No.” Fleur’s flat denial earned Skye’s immediate approval. She liked how decisive the other woman was, and how quick to defend Matthieu. She was right: Matthieu didn’t need anyone defending him, but it spoke volumes about the other woman’s character that she did so anyway.
“You are naïve.”
“No, I’m just not as cynical as you. True, we don’t know Skye at all really, but we know Matt, and I trust his judgement. Plus, I’ve seen them together. Only for a little while this afternoon, admittedly, but their connection was abundantly clear. They make each other happy. Isn’t that what we want for him, maman?”
Silence fell after that last statement and Skye, hot to the tips of her hair, felt guilt creep through her for having listened to as much as she had. There was no way to retrieve the sweater without cutting through the dining room, and she knew she wasn’t composed enough to do that without showing her guilt, so she took a few steps backwards then spun and walked away quickly.
* * *
“Is this for real?”
Matthieu closed the door quietly, watching as his grandmother crossed the room, lifting the lid off her intricate crystal decanter and pouring two generous measures of scotch.
“What, grand-mère?”
She eyed him levelly. “Your engagement.”
Matthieu regarded her thoughtfully, then took several long steps and lifted one of the glasses. “You demanded I return here engaged, or not at all. I have met the terms of your ultimatum.”
“But how far are you willing to go?”
Matthieu let the scotch touch his lips then threw back a large sip. “Meaning?”
“When will the wedding be?”
Matthieu’s lips curled into a cynical smile. He should have expected this, but he hadn’t. “It’s been a long day,” he said quietly. “This isn’t the time to have this conversation.”
“Damn it, Matthieu, you don’t get it. I wanted you to return engaged, yes, but not if it’s all a big joke to you. I need you to marry, and have children. Do you plan to do that with this girl?”
Matthieu’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t expected the direct question. His grandmother was usually far more nuanced than this.
He took another measure of scotch, then prowled towards the large windows. The ocean in the distance was just inky blackness with a hint of silver thrown by the moon’s light. “So far as I’m aware, what I do with my private life is my decision. I’ve met the terms you stipulated. Do you plan to change our agreement?”
He never spoke to his grandmother with disrespect but his temper was at breaking point. He’d been in love once. He’d planned to marry and have children, but it had all fallen apart, and with it, those dreams had died a permanent death. He was never going to marry. He didn’t even want to get into a relationship with another woman. This was as good as it was going to get for Anais.
“Damn it, Matthieu. Sometimes, you are so like your mother I could scream.”
Matthieu was very still. His grandmother never referred to his mother, and if she did, it was obliquely, and almost always with the respect that the woman who birthed him deserved. Tonight, her hatred was on display, and it only served to harden something within his heart.
“Good. I’m glad. She was an incredible woman and I hope I honour her every day.” He finished his scotch and carried the glass back to the desk, placing it on the edge with precision, the slow, deliberate gesture giving him time to gather his thoughts.
Anais didn’t apologise for her statement. “You cannot break off another engagement.”
He ground his teeth together, studying his grandmother for several beats before trusting himself to respond. “You asked me to return with a fiancé, and I have done so. Enjoy the victory, grand-mère. Let it be enough for now.”
Anais’s eyes swept shut, and for a moment, she looked every single one of her seventy three years. He wanted to draw her into his arms and comfort her, but that wasn’t something Anais would welcome. She was hard as nails, and even more so in the face of tragedy. If her hard outer shell cracked, she would be mortified.
“I meant for you to become engaged, in the real sense of the word, to any number of the women who would be desperate to marry you.”
He didn’t respond.
“Matthieu?”
He waited at the door, a hand on the knob, his heart tight in his chest.
“Do not play with that girl. She is…not like you or me.”
“Nor was my mother,” he reminded her sharply.