The French Count's Pregnant Bride. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
hasn’t done me a lot of good, in the past.”
He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “Then let us drink to the future. À votre santé.”
“À votre santé aussi, Monsieur le Comte.”
Continuing in French, he said, “To my friends, I am Anton.”
“I hardly think I qualify as a friend on such short acquaintance.”
The candle flame illuminated the classic oval of her face, the dimples beside her cupid’s bow mouth and the delicate winged brows showcasing her eyes which, he saw now, were the same deep, intense blue as a Provencal sky in high summer. Her shoulder-length hair, worn simply, shone with the luster of a newly polished, old gold coin.
Was she beautiful?
Not in the conventional sense, no, he decided. Hers was a more subtle appeal, one he found quite irresistible. “Sometimes,” he said earnestly, “friendship, like love, can strike instantly, as I believe it has between you and me.”
“How can that be? You don’t even know my name.”
Returning her smile, he said, “You think I haven’t noticed? I’ve been trying to learn it from the moment I saw you, but you’ve evaded me at every turn.”
“It’s no secret. I’m Diana. Diana…Reeves.”
He noticed her slight hesitation, but decided not to push the point. She was skittish enough as it was. Instead, taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Diana Reeves. What did you have for dinner, last night?”
“Beef stew with potato dumplings.”
“Then we’ll order something different, tonight.”
“I don’t recall saying I’d have dinner with you. Not that that seems to mean much,” she added ruefully. “I didn’t agree to have a drink with you, either, but I’m doing it anyway. Do you always get your own way?”
“If I want something badly enough, I do. It’s one of the perks of being a Count.”
She regarded him soberly. “You’re being very charming, Anton, and I’m sure most women would be flattered by your attention, but I think it’s only fair to tell you that I’m not very good at flirting.”
“I know,” he said. “It’s one of the qualities about you that I find most attractive.”
“My ex-husband said I took things far too seriously and didn’t know how to have fun.”
“I thought we already established that your ex-husband is a fool.”
Her dimples deepened as another smile lit up her face. “You’re right, we did.”
“Then forget about him and concentrate on us and friendship at first sight. When did you arrive in France?”
“Just yesterday.”
“And you came straight here, to Bellevue-sur-Lac?”
At his question, tension emanated from her, so fierce that he half expected to see blue sparks crackling from the ends of her hair. “As a matter of fact, I did. What’s wrong with that?”
Why so defensive, all of a sudden? he wondered, his suspicions on high alert again. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong, Diana,” he replied mildly.
Color swept into her cheeks. “Well, you sounded as if you did.”
“Perhaps you interpreted surprise as disapproval.”
“Why should you be surprised?”
He shrugged. “Bellevue-sur-Lac is barely a dot on the map of Provence, and has little to offer a tourist, yet you chose it over the many other, more interesting villages in the region.”
Avoiding his glance, she said, “You might not think it interesting, but I find it thoroughly delightful.”
“And on behalf of everyone living here, I thank you. But how did you discover it?”
She took a moment to consider her answer. “By chance,” she said finally. “I’d fallen into a rut after my marriage ended, and decided I was ready for a little adventure. I knew I wanted to visit the south of France, so I stuck a pin on the map, promised myself I’d explore the spot I found, no matter what, and here I am. I consider myself lucky that I ended up in a place that offers food and lodging, and not on top of a mountain with nothing but the stars for company.”
“Yet you’re wasting the opportunity to see the best Provence has to offer. Why else do you think we make no real effort to accommodate tourists here?”
“I’m not exactly your average tourist. I don’t care about seeing the sights. I just want a place where I can find a little peace.”
A plausible enough story on the surface, and one he might have accepted were it not that she still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Not nearly as lucky as I consider myself, that you chose here,” he returned smoothly. “Fate brought us together, no question about it, which means we definitely must dine together. I highly recommend Henri’s bouillabaisse.”
But she’d already gathered up her straw handbag and was preparing to leave. “Some other time, perhaps, but not tonight, thank you. After my earlier faux-pas, I’m afraid Henri might poison me. I even wonder if he’ll still allow me to stay here.”
A pity he couldn’t keep her a little longer and discover the reason for her sudden uneasiness, Anton thought, but he had a whole month in which to uncover her secrets, and could afford to bide his time. “I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that,” he said, coming around the table to pull out her chair. “Henri Molyneux is one of the most equable fellows you’ll ever meet.”
In her eagerness to escape him, she must have risen too quickly because she staggered, and if he hadn’t steadied her with a hand at her shoulder, he thought she might have fallen. As it was, her bag slipped from her grasp and fell on the table, knocking over her wineglass and sending it rolling to the dusty paving stones where it shattered.
Concerned, he said, “Diana? Are you okay?”
“No,” she muttered distractedly, as breathless as if she’d run five kilometers in under five minutes. “I spilled my wine and broke the glass.”
“Alors, don’t worry about that. It happens all the time. See, Henri’s already coming to clean it up.”
“No,” she insisted. “It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
Pressing her down onto the chair again, he said firmly, “You’ll do no such thing. You’re shaking, and white as a sheet. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” she cried. Then, as if she realized she was behaving oddly, she made a concerted effort to pull herself together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just that I haven’t eaten all day, and two glasses of wine on an empty stomach…”
“That settles it, then. We’re having dinner.” He nodded to Henri who, having shoveled up the broken glass, was wiping down the table. “How’s the bouillabaisse coming along, my friend?”
“Not ready for another fifteen minutes, I regret to say,” he replied, and cast an anxious glance at Diana. “You did not cut yourself, madame? You are not hurt?”
Diana stared at him wordlessly, her eyes huge. Two bright spots of color bloomed in her cheeks, making the rest of her face that much paler by comparison. Although the evening was pleasantly warm, she shivered as if it was winter and the mistral blew.
Baffled, Henri swung his glance to Anton. “Perhaps a little cognac might help?”
Equally mystified, Anton shook his head. There was more going on here than a missed meal. He was no doctor, but he recognized shock when he saw it. What he couldn’t determine was its cause. In fact, nothing about