The French Aristocrat's Baby. Christina HollisЧитать онлайн книгу.
sighed. In exactly ninety minutes’ time, a servant would be ready to step forward as Etienne descended the main staircase of his chateau. The man would insert a freshly picked carnation into his master’s buttonhole before opening the front door. It had been the same in his late father’s time, and for as far back as anyone could remember, so Etienne, albeit reluctantly, humoured his faithful staff. In one brief, heart-stopping moment a couple of years ago, he had imagined his own son and heir taking over, in his turn.
But that was before Etienne had learned the truth about a lot of things, including human nature. Now he focused only on his work, and his ruthless single-minded approach had resulted in endless successes. In fact, for a man with nothing to prove, Etienne was proving unstoppable. A shame that even this was beginning to pall. I need to find a new challenge, he thought. He had been brought up to slip smoothly into the role of Count of Malotte. Now he was actually in charge, the largely ceremonial role gave him too much time to brood. He wanted distraction. Perhaps this evening’s engagement might offer something different?
Gwen showered and dressed in a flash. Unable to face the pile of unopened letters on her dressing table, she stuffed them into a drawer. Lately, they contained nothing but bad news. Her new life was turning out to have some hard, horrible moments, but she was determined not to give up. Opening her wardrobe, she took out the dress she would change into before the guests arrived at Le Rossignol that evening. Gwen’s clients at her restaurant expected a total dining experience. That included exchanging small talk with a calm and assured chef-patron. It was the only part of her job Gwen wasn’t keen on, but it was turning out to be a very important source of new business. She had to persevere, and it was tough.
Gwen had always dreamed of becoming the chef in a top-class restaurant. She had managed it in record time by going into partnership with her best friend from catering college. Carys had supplied the glamour and business sense. Gwen had done the cooking, and kept her head down. Their system had worked perfectly, until her partner’s romantic adventures had thrown the business into chaos. Carys had vanished, leaving Gwen high and dry. Unable to find another partner, Gwen had been faced with a stark choice. She could sell up and go home. That would mean admitting to her parents that ‘The Le Rossignol affair’, as they called it, was a big mistake. Or she could mortgage herself to the hilt and make her new life work, alone. One path led back to the safety of the village shop where she had been born. The other route disappeared into an unknown future, but at least it was her own. She would be independent, without the need to rely on other people.
Gwen had found it no real choice at all. She had spent sleepless nights trying to talk herself out of the mad idea, but in the end her dream had won. Instead of selling up, she had bought the balance of the business. Her family was convinced she was throwing good money after bad. Gwen had a horrible feeling they were right, but would never have admitted that in a million years. Besides, if she managed to pull it off she would have the satisfaction of saying, I did it all myself. She had always known it would be hard but now, all alone in a foreign country, there were times when she ached for a shoulder to cry on. One frantically busy day dissolved into another. Time was passing her by so fast. She sighed. Her greatest pleasure came from cooking the food, but she spent more time nowadays pandering to the people who ate it.
Carrying her dress downstairs, she laid it reverently on the back seat of her car. One eye on the time, she hopped into the driving seat and got another nasty shock. When she switched on the ignition, the car’s petrol gauge barely moved out of the red zone. She groaned in horror. Not today, of all days! She didn’t have time to stop off at the garage. She looked up at the bright cloudless sky, then down the winding country road towards town. It was downhill all the way to Le Rossignol. Maybe it was hot enough for the engine to run on fumes and good luck until she got there.
Five hours later, Gwen poured herself into her stunning dress. It was the only formal gown she had, and it was perfect for an aristocratic party. Cut from midnight-blue velvet, it clung to her generous curves in all the right places. She watched herself in the full-length mirror she had hung in her office to check her appearance at moments like this. Her soft blonde hair coiled like liquid gold over her bare shoulders. The effect was stunning, but Gwen wasn’t impressed. All she saw was a girl from the Welsh valleys done up like a dog’s dinner in a totally impractical dress that would show every mark.
That was exactly what the snooty countess of Malotte expected to see. With a long-suffering smile, Gwen went out to give her public what they demanded.
The restaurant’s bar and lounge area was soon crowded. Girls hired for the evening moved among the glittering guests with trays of tempting titbits. Gwen’s eyes darted around the room, looking for her client, the countess. Then her attention was grabbed by something far more interesting. A new arrival stood in the restaurant’s entrance. Everything about him made her stop and stare. He surveyed the restaurant’s crowded lounge bar with the haughty look of a general inspecting foot soldiers. It was an imposing sight. The newcomer was one of the tallest there, and his austere good looks singled him out in other ways, too. Everyone—absolutely everyone—turned to watch as the mystery man walked in.
To Gwen’s astonishment he headed straight for her. Clusters of people standing around in the reception bar parted to let him through.
‘Bonsoir. You must be Gwyneth Williams.’
He dipped his head in greeting. The fact he knew her name surprised her, and that wasn’t all. She could feel him penetrating her polite disguise. His gaze seemed to recognise the social misfit within, and it made her nervous. She disguised her true feelings with a professional smile and stepped forward to greet him.
‘Bonsoir, monsieur. Yes, I’m chef-patron here. I’m usually shut away in the kitchens, but tonight is a special occasion.’
His dark eyes glittered like jet. ‘Indeed. I had no idea how special until a moment ago.’ Charm flowed from him as he caught her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘My name is Etienne Moreau. I’m a frequent visitor to this restaurant. I’m sorry we’ve never met before.’
Gwen was enchanted. Despite the dozens of people surrounding them, he had the ability to make her feel as though they were totally alone. After weeks of work and worry, it felt as though all her Christmases had arrived at once.
‘Thank you! Would you care for a drink, Monsieur Moreau?’
One of the waitresses moved forward, but Gwen waved her away. For the first time, socialising was giving her something to enjoy. She swung around to the other side of the bar, glad to have something to do. The sight of a man like Etienne Moreau with his soft dark hair and golden skin was enough to stun anyone into silence. The countess Sophie, who was throwing this reception, had dropped some heavy hints about her stepson’s dislike of idle chit-chat. She had warned Gwen to give him a wide berth. If there hadn’t been a big balance still outstanding on the party bill, Gwen would have delighted in ignoring the instruction. Now there was only the black marble bar between her and this gorgeous man. It didn’t feel like much in the way of protection when Etienne’s dark eyes could cut through the crowd like lasers. Gwen swallowed hard, reached for the ice bucket and gripped it tightly. No wonder the countess Sophie was so protective of her stepson. All the women within sight were drooling openly. The object of their desires barely acknowledged them. Gwen tried to behave in an equally offhand manner. She smiled pleasantly at her stellar guest. No one could complain if she was only serving the man. It was her job, after all.
‘Excuse me, monsieur, what would you like?’
Etienne Moreau had paused to question a nearby guest about a recent business deal. His attention instantly swung back to Gwen. He focused his gaze on her as though she was the very last thing he expected to find at a family party. With warm concentration, his pensive brown eyes took in every detail from her tumble of honey-blonde hair to the curves sculpted by her beautiful blue evening dress. After due deliberation, his inspection returned to her eyes. Then he smiled, and Gwen’s world stood still.
‘I’d like something you could not possibly offer me over a crowded bar.’
The gentle lilt of his accent should have been relaxing. It had quite the opposite effect on Gwen. The