Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress (7 page)

Abby opened her mouth to utter a scathing retort, yet no sound came. Luc’s admission rocked her. She wanted to believe it—believe that night hadn’t been a lie, believe in the fairy tale, even—but she couldn’t. Not when his hasty departure had told otherwise.

‘Still,’ she finally managed. ‘It was six months ago. We’ve both moved on, Luc. We have nothing now. So…’ She drew in a breath, needing courage to make the final cut. ‘Why don’t you leave me alone now? Go back to Paris, or the Languedoc, or wherever you came from.’

Luc gazed at her, his eyes dark with longing, the only sound the harsh tear of their own breathing. He reached out to touch the inside of her wrist with two fingers, as she’d touched him in the bar when she’d so blatantly offered herself. ‘I can’t.’

Abby closed her eyes; he was still touching her. Just the feel of his fingers, the sound of his voice—low, with that faint French lilt—made her defences weaken. Crumble.

‘Have dinner with me,’ Luc said. ‘Tonight.’

Abby’s heart gave a little jump; shock and something else, fear or hope, or perhaps both. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Probably not,’ Luc agreed with a crooked smile that made
Abby’s already jumpy heart do a half-turn. ‘But have dinner with me anyway.’

‘I said yes once before,’ Abby told him, ‘and I regretted it.’ She tried to slip her arm away from him but he held on, his fingers curling around her wrist, his thumb brushing that tender skin that made her whole body quiver with both expectation and remembrance.

‘Do you, Abby?’ he asked softly. ‘Do you regret it?’ His eyes met hers, searching, knowing, and Abby could not look away. She couldn’t lie, either.

‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘but I should. And, even if I don’t regret it, I don’t want to repeat it, either.’ That
was
a lie, she knew, or at least a half-truth. She pulled her arm away from him, succeeding this time, and found herself cradling the limb as if she were injured. She wasn’t, but the memory of his touch hurt her in another way.

‘Dinner,’ Luc told her, ‘that’s all.’ He waited, his gaze pleading with hers, yet still exuding a male confidence. Damn him; she was so close to saying yes. Because she wanted to see him again. She wanted to touch him again. To have him touch her…even if he slipped away once more, even if he didn’t say goodbye.

‘No, Luc.’ Abby didn’t know where she found the strength to refuse; it must have taken every ounce of her energy, for her body sagged with the effort of saying those two little words. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just…I can’t. I
can’t.
’ She couldn’t look at him as she slipped past him and through the door, and by the time she’d reached the gate she was running. Running away.

L
UC
stood in the doorway of Corner Cottage, watching as Abby hurried down the little brick path, clearly desperate to escape him. And why shouldn’t she? She should run as fast as she could, away from him. She’d learned her lesson six months ago; why hadn’t he?

He still wanted her.

He’d come to Cornwall with the best of intentions. At least, Luc acknowledged starkly, he’d convinced himself he had good intentions. He wanted to see her, explain why he’d left the way he had if such a thing could be explained. He wanted, as he’d admitted to Abby, to make sure she was all right.
Consider your conscience salved…
Luc winced as he remembered Abby’s words. He must have seemed an arrogant, self-centred bastard to come here simply to make himself feel better. She’d seen through him, seen the selfishness that he’d wilfully blinded himself to. He hadn’t come for her sake; he’d come for his own.

Why had he asked her out to dinner? He was meant to be leaving her alone, yet he’d pursued her with an urgent desire than was utterly selfish. He
still
couldn’t let her go.

Luc cursed aloud.

He couldn’t leave it at this. He wouldn’t leave Abby like this, whether she wanted him to or not. She deserved more,
more than he could ever give, but he could at least see her provided for. Make sure she was all right financially and physically, if not emotionally.

Even as he made these resolutions, Luc wondered if he was blinding himself once more, wilfully turning away from the truth: that he simply wanted, needed, to see her again, and this was merely his excuse.

‘You don’t look so good.’

Abby winced wryly. ‘I had trouble sleeping last night,’ she admitted as she came into the kitchen of Grace’s cottage.

‘Any particular reason why?’ Grace asked lightly. She moved around the airy space, opening the oven to check on a batch of cinnamon buns. Abby inhaled their sweet, yeasty fragrance.

‘Not really,’ she prevaricated. Actually, there was a very particular reason why: Luc. From the moment she’d left Corner Cottage at a sprint, he’d invaded her thoughts, her mind and, worse, her heart. Memories of their evening together tumbled through in a kaleidoscope of emotions; her body and mind recalled things she’d forgotten: the way he whispered against her skin so she could feel him smile. The way he’d looked at her, his eyes blazing and intent, as he touched her. The way she’d given herself so completely. She’d felt so wonderfully comfortable, secure and safe with this man.

Or so she’d thought.

In truth, she hadn’t been safe at all. She’d been shattered emotionally by the experience, hurt deep inside, her heart bruised. And they hadn’t even slept together! Perhaps that was what hurt most of all—what she’d been so ready and eager to give, he hadn’t even wanted.

Why? Why had he walked away before they’d even consummated their so-called relationship? She’d been easy pickings, something he hadn’t even wanted in the end. And Abby was too proud to ask him why not.

Even though she was glad she’d retired from music, even though she didn’t, couldn’t, regret her time with Luc, just as she’d said to him, she knew she should. She should certainly be desperate not to repeat the experience.

So why had she spent last night lying sleepless, restless in bed? Reliving, savouring, every memory of that abbreviated evening? Why had her body ached to experience it again?

‘It’s beef stew and fresh bread tonight for Corner Cottage,’ Grace announced cheerfully, pulling the tray of cinnamon buns out of the oven. ‘And he wants breakfast as well.’

‘Breakfast?’ Abby repeated blankly. Just that one innocuous word caused sensation to spin and swirl through her: the thought of lying in bed, tangled among the sheets, sharing bits of sticky bun and sipping coffee.
Breakfast.
A meal she’d never shared with Luc.

And never would.

‘Corner Cottage wants more meals?’ she asked sharply, and Grace gave her a funny look, her brows drawn together.

‘Of course he does. He ordered meals for the entire week, to be delivered every day.’

‘Right.’ A week of delivering meals to Luc. A week of seeing him again. Abby closed her eyes, unable to face the thought. If she saw him all week, she’d give in. She’d do whatever he wanted. She’d
ask
him…

‘Abby, are you all right?’

Abby snapped opened her eyes and forced herself to smile. ‘Yes, I’m all right.’ She felt as if she were speaking to the absent Luc as much as to Grace. ‘I’m perfectly fine,’ she said a bit too firmly. Grace raised her brows.

‘Am I missing something?’

‘No.’ Abby wasn’t ready to tell Grace how she knew Luc, or even that she knew Luc at all. She’d left that life, all of it, behind her: the piano playing, the fame, that one night. Everything. ‘I’m just tired. I’m sorry if I’m not making sense.’

‘Do you not want to go to Corner Cottage?’ Grace asked, and Abby found herself flushing, wishing she weren’t so utterly transparent.

‘No, of course not. I mean, of course I do—want to go.’ Abby realized she was rambling and closed her mouth, turning to a stack of empty boxes by the door. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ She reached for an empty box and began to pack it, continuing before Grace could answer that telling question. ‘I told you, I’m just tired. I’ll head there right away.’

‘There are a couple of other deliveries,’ Grace said, a shrewd note entering her voice, making Abby wonder if the older woman still saw through her. Probably. ‘Cadgwith and Mullion.’ She paused. ‘You can do those first.’

It took Abby most of the day to make her deliveries, leaving Corner Cottage to last. It was only as she pulled the old van up to the cottage on Carack’s high street that she realized she should have gone there first, got it over with, and then she could have used the excuse of having other deliveries to make a quick departure.

Or did she not want a reason to leave, but rather one to stay? Wincing at the revealing nature of that question, Abby slipped out of the van and grabbed the box of meals from the back.

She walked around to the back garden, balancing the heavy box on one hip as she reached for the kitchen door’s tarnished brass-knocker, her heart already beginning a slow, relentless drumming. She let the knocker fall once, twice, before waiting. Her skin was clammy, her heart beating so loud and fast now she could feel it reverberating through her entire body.

No one answered the knock. No one came. And, Abby realized with a flash of irritated self-awareness, she was disappointed. She set the box on the ground and reached for her own key; Grace always had spare sets to all the cottages she served.

Abby turned the lock, hoisted the box once more and stepped inside. She couldn’t stop herself from looking around, noticing the little things: the single cup and plate left to dry on the drainer by the sink, the heavy woollen socks and muddy hiking-boots drying by the fire, which had dwindled to a few embers in the grate. She peeked in the fridge; besides the leftover lasagne and salad, there was a packet of coffee and a pint of milk.

Quickly she unloaded the meals, her gaze still sliding around the cottage, noticing other things, things telling her about the man she’d never had the chance to know as well as she’d wanted to. A paperback book and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles lay on the side table by the sofa. He wore glasses? she thought, almost incredulously. Just another thing she hadn’t known.

She knew, absolutely knew, she shouldn’t go upstairs. She’d delivered the meals, for heaven’s sake, there was no reason to go upstairs. No reason at all.

Yet still she found herself tiptoeing up the narrow, twisting steps, her breath caught in her chest. She was spying. Snooping; there could be no other word for it. She should turn back, scuttle out of the back door and drive back to Grace’s cottage, relieved she’d managed to avoid Luc today.

She kept climbing.

A peek in the bathroom showed a slightly damp towel neatly folded on the side of the bath, a straight-edge razor and an old-fashioned cake of shaving soap by the sink. She picked up the soap and sniffed it, memory flooding through her at its recognizable woodsy tang. She dropped it as if burned, and wiped her hand on her jeans.

‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ she whispered almost frantically, and then turned to peek in the bedroom.

Considering how neat the other rooms were, Abby thought, the bed should have been made, the cream-coloured duvet
pulled tight. It wasn’t. The bed was deliciously, luxuriously rumpled, and as Abby crept closer she saw the imprint of Luc’s head on the pillow. She couldn’t keep herself from coming even closer, bending over and breathing in the scent of him on the sheets.

‘Abby?’

Abby jumped nearly a foot in the air. She whirled around, her hand clutched to her chest. ‘Oh! You—you scared me!’

‘Is everything all right?’ Luc stood in the doorway, one eyebrow arched, and colour flooded Abby’s face. Had what she’d been doing been so appallingly obvious? She’d been smelling his sheets, for heaven’s sake. She closed her eyes for a second’s respite from the sheer awfulness of the situation, then opened them and forced herself to smile breezily.

‘Everything’s fine. I was just—checking on things. All part of the service.’

‘That’s really very…thorough of you,’ Luc remarked, and Abby had a terrible feeling she hadn’t fooled him at all.

‘Yes, well. It’s important to be thorough,’ she finished lamely. ‘So, since everything looks ship-shape, I’ll just be going.’ She started to inch towards the doorway, conscious that Luc was filling that space. He didn’t move.

Abby stood in front of him, her throat and mouth dry, her heart thundering right out of her chest. She swallowed, tried smiling again. ‘Luc…?’

He looked down at her, his eyes darkening to the colour of the sea, his mouth tightening. ‘I need to give you something.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Abby said quickly. She didn’t even know what Luc was talking about, but she knew she had to get out of here before she did something even more stupid—like touching him. Like asking him to touch her. Already her hand lifted of its own accord, trembling with the need to lay it on his chest and feel the hard muscle underneath.

He still stood in the doorway, and to get past him she would have to touch him, brush against him; the thought made her frantic with both longing and despair. ‘Please, Luc,’ she whispered, hating how broken her voice sounded. ‘Please move.’

He hesitated, and Abby saw his own hand was raised. Did he want to touch her? Was he going to? She waited, wanting him to move, wanting him to touch her. Finally, after an endless moment, he dropped his hand and moved out of the way. She scurried past him down the stairs.

Luc followed quickly on her heels. Abby’s hand was on the latch of the kitchen door when he spoke.

‘Don’t go.’

‘I have other things to do,’ she began desperately, and from behind her shoulder she saw him take something from his pocket.

‘I told you, I have something for you.’

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned around. ‘All right. What is it?’ Luc handed her a slip of paper, and Abby had no idea what it could be until she looked down and blinked. Twice. She held a cheque for a million pounds. She swallowed, feeling sick, and shook her head. ‘What is this?’

‘I want to see you provided for.’

‘A million pounds?’ She looked up, blinking back the sting of sudden tears. ‘Is that how much it costs to clear your conscience?’

A muscle beat in Luc’s neck, his eyes narrowing. ‘Consider it a gift.’

Slowly, her fingers trembling, Abby tore the cheque in two. Then she tore it again, and again, until there were a dozen bits of paper fluttering to the floor. ‘I don’t want your money, Luc,’ she said quietly. Her throat ached. ‘I wanted
you.
You clearly didn’t want me, and a million pounds isn’t going to make much difference.’

Luc was silent for a long moment, his eyes dark and hard on hers, the skin around his mouth pale and taut. ‘Six months ago I was in a difficult place,’ he finally said, his eyes never leaving hers, even though Abby felt as if he’d carved a distance between them, a yawning chasm of misunderstanding and unspoken words and feelings. He drew in a tight, short breath. ‘I was married.’

Abby felt her mouth fall open, shock drenching her in a sickening, icy wave.
‘Married?’

Luc swore softly. ‘Not
then.
My wife—Suzanne—died six months before we met.’ He spoke almost impassively, but Abby saw and sensed an ocean of pain swamping him, rising in his eyes. He averted his head, tension emanating from every line of his body, from the taut curve of his jaw to his hunched shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and knew it was inadequate. Her mind was spinning, already processing the ramifications of Luc’s revelation. Was that why he had left? she wondered dully. Because he’d been
grieving?
She swallowed past the lump in her throat to say, ‘You must have loved her very much.’

Luc didn’t respond, and Abby wondered if he’d heard her. Clearly he expected this to explain everything, and Abby supposed it did. She couldn’t have acted as a replacement for a beloved wife; she’d merely been a brief way to assuage his grief, and in the end she supposed that was why he’d left before they’d made love—he hadn’t been able to betray his wife, even in death.

‘I left because I knew I couldn’t—can’t—offer you what you deserve. Need.’ He swallowed, the movement jerky, convulsive. ‘I don’t have that to give, Abby.’

Her throat was tight, her eyes stinging. She nodded once.

Luc stared at the ripped bits of the cheque littering the floor. ‘Why don’t you take it, Abby?’ he said quietly. ‘Does it even matter why I’m giving it to you? You need it.’

‘Actually, I don’t. And it does matter, Luc. Money makes what happened between us sordid. Dirty.’ She closed her eyes, forcing herself to continue. ‘I thought—’ She took a breath; it hurt her lungs. ‘I thought we had something that night. I thought it was a
beginning—but
it was just a way for you to lose yourself for a few hours, wasn’t it? Even if we had made love, you would have walked away in the morning.’ Luc didn’t answer, and Abby knew she was right. It shouldn’t surprise her, she thought. It shouldn’t hurt. Yet it did. She shook her head slowly, turning back to the door. ‘Goodbye.’ The single word was dragged from her and her fingers curled around the cool metal of the door-latch.