CHAPTER SEVEN
IMOGEN PUT THE wicker basket down and sank onto the garden seat. Typically, it wasn’t a bare stone seat. Someone had placed cushions on all the outdoor seats, in case she or Thierry or some unexpected visitor chose to stop.
Everything at the château was like that—not just elegant and expensive but beautifully cared for. No detail was too small, no comfort overlooked, from the scented bath oils made from herbs grown at the château, to crisp white sheets that smelled of sunshine and lavender from the purpose-grown drying hedge. Even the discreetly efficient lift to the top floors was hidden behind ancient panelling so as not to interfere with the ambience.
Imogen closed her eyes, soaking up the late-afternoon sunshine, enjoying the sense of utter peace. There was no sound but the drowse of bees and in the distance a motor. A car maybe, or a tractor. She inhaled, drinking in the heady scent of roses, and felt herself relax.
She’d done the right thing.
Of course she had!
It didn’t matter that she felt like she’d forced Thierry into a corner so he’d been obliged to take responsibility for their child. She’d had no other option.
Nor did it matter that she was an outsider here. What mattered was doing right by her baby. If that meant spending her last months in France rather than her own country, so be it.
As if it was hard, living here at the château!
For days she’d rested, sleeping more than she could remember ever having done. Jeanne, the Girard’s formidable cook-housekeeper, seemed to have made it her mission to tempt Imogen’s appetite with one delicious treat after another. And when, with a knowing look, she’d seen Imogen turn pale at the pungent scent of fresh coffee, she’d begun providing herbal teas and delicate, light-as-air crackers that had helped settle Imogen’s stomach.
Her thoughts eddied as she drifted towards sleep. It was so easy to relax here. So very peaceful.
The crunch of footsteps woke her. And the murmur of voices. Thierry’s voice, a low, liquid blur of sound that flowed through her like luscious caramel pooling deep inside. Imogen kept her eyes closed just a little longer, reluctant to move. Listening to his voice was one of her greatest pleasures. Thierry could read weather forecasts or even tax law aloud and she’d melt into a puddle of pure bliss.
‘Imogen?’
She opened her eyes to find him standing before her. He looked every bit as delicious as he sounded. His clothes were plain, tailored trousers and a pale shirt undone at the throat, but there was nothing ordinary about the man wearing them. He looked the epitome of hard athleticism from his solid thighs to his straight shoulders and every hard inch between.
Imogen gave a little quiver of pleasure. Every time she saw him it happened, even now. He made her silly heart stutter.
‘I’d like you to meet my grandmother.’ He gestured to his side, and her gaze swung to the tiny, grey-haired lady she hadn’t even noticed before. A lady with a capital L, Imogen realised in the split second it took to register her immaculate hair and make-up, the sophisticated dark suit that screamed couture and the lustre of elegant pearls at her throat. She wore stockings despite the heat and gorgeous black patent shoes that Imogen wouldn’t dare wear on gravel for fear of scuffing them.
Imogen shot to her feet, managing to tip over the basket of roses beside her. Secateurs clattered to the ground.
Eyes as dark as Thierry’s, but much sharper, surveyed her from head to toe.
Imogen felt a flush rise to crest in her burning cheeks. She knew her shirt was rumpled, her jeans faded and one canvas shoe had got caked in mud when she’d ventured too near an ornamental pond. Faced with the other woman’s elegance, Imogen felt a complete frump. It was one thing to borrow her sister’s creations and play at dressing up in Paris. It was quite another to achieve that bone-deep level of stylish sophistication.
‘Bonjour, Madame Girard.’ Imogen paused, searching for the words she’d memorised: it’s very nice to meet you... ‘Je suis ravie de vous rencontrer.’ Unexpected nerves made her stumble over even that simple phrase. Quickly, she put out her hand, only to whip it back when she realised she still wore gardening gloves.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last too.’ The other woman’s English was crisp if heavily accented. She leaned in and kissed Imogen lightly on the cheeks in a gesture that held no discernible warmth. A light fragrance, perfectly balanced and no doubt worth a fortune, wafted around her. ‘We will speak in English, as it’s easier for you.’