Sara Craven - The Garden Of Dreams

Although, as she reminded herself with slightly rueful amusement, the new book had been the means of her meeting Paul in the first place.

Maggie was currently engaged on researching background for a novel about the French Revolution and Lissa had been sent to the French Embassy to collect a promised list of reference books and biographies of the period from an eminent French historian, with whom Maggie had been in correspondence, and who was staying in London for a few days.

Her note of introduction had been handed in the first instance to Paul, whose job it had been to conduct her through a bewildering array of corridors to the suite being occupied by the historian. By some strange coincidence, and somewhat to Lissa’s relief, he was still waiting when she emerged, and not only conducted her back to the foyer, but insisted on driving her back to Maggie’s flat in his low-slung and very expensive sports car.

Maggie had received him amiably, offered him her special sherry, and allowed him to stay for lunch, presiding over the meal with the benign air of an inveterate matchmaker. That was one of the drawbacks of working for your own godmother, Lissa reflected. Maggie was too apt very often to take rather a personal interest in one’s off-duty moments, but Lissa knew that it was precisely this fact that gave her parents, hundreds of miles away in Devon, such a sense of reassurance.

Maggie was quick to see romance even in the most unlikely situations, which perhaps explained the extreme popularity of her books, and it was obvious that Paul had her approval as a suitor for Lissa.

‘I daren’t tell her that he’s proposed to me.’ Lissa thought, ‘or she’ll write off to Mother and Dad and the wedding will be planned before I know it.’

Madame de Gue. She said the name slowly, trying to relate it to herself, and giggled. It sounded alien and unreal.

And if she did marry Paul, where would they live? In France? Lissa’s French was fairly fluent, especially with some recent coaching from Paul, but it was still on a pretty schoolgirl level, as she was the first to admit. Paul himself spoke almost perfect English, but he would have relatives, no doubt, who might not be bi-lingual.

She got out of the bath and began to dry herself. ‘If I really loved him,’ she thought, ‘I wonder if I would be having all these doubts. I’d know that loving him was enough, and would get us across all the bridges as we came to them.’

Physically he stirred her as no other man she had ever met had done, but she was uncertain whether this was due to genuine feeling, or was merely the reaction of a fairly inexperienced girl to what she suspected was a very experienced young man. Lissa grimaced. Again, it all seemed like a game to Paul, she thought, and she wondered if she had given in to his desires, whether he would still want to marry her now.

It was not a particularly pleasant thought, and she pushed it away resolutely. Give Paul his due, he had always insisted that her instinctive recoil from his passion delighted him.

The permissive society, he had made it clear, while enjoyable, did not extend to the woman he wanted to make his wife. Although Lissa had no desire to become part of the permissive society, this typically masculine attitude had annoyed her.

‘That’s a mediaeval way of looking at it,’ she had protested to him once.

He laughed. ‘But it is true, chérie , and all men feel it in their hearts, even if it is no longer fashionable to say so aloud. The girls they marry must be for them alone. And I assure you that my attitude is positively enlightened compared with—let us say—my brother.’

Lissa stared at him. ‘So, if I had slept with another man, you wouldn’t want me?’

‘I did not say that, my beautiful Lissa, but I would naturally feel—differently.’

Lissa had always felt a spirit of rebellion rise within her at this attitude. She was no women’s libber.

‘But he must learn that he doesn’t own me,’ she told herself.

She fastened the belt of her housecoat and padded into the bedroom. Her skin was naturally pale, but flawless, and she applied only light make-up, using eyeshadow to flatter the slightly tip-tilted grey-green eyes that were her loveliest feature. She brushed her long, almost silver-blonde hair until it shone, before winding it deftly into a smooth elegant coil at the back of her head, with just two curling tendrils allowed to escape and frame her face. The chiffon dress, a floating cloud of misty blues, greens and violet hung from the wardrobe door. It was a dress she particularly liked and Jenny called it her ‘sea nymph’ look. Some nymph, Lissa thought, slipping her feet into high-heeled silver shoes. She hoped that Paul would approve. It was the first time she had ever worn it for him, but she had got the impression that the party tonight was an important one and she was determined to look her best. She was used by now to the photographers with their flash-lamps who attended these affairs, and had frequently been the subject of their attentions, although she had never seen any pictures of herself actually featured anywhere. She guessed they would mainly be of interest to French magazines.

When she was ready, she sprayed on some of her favourite scent, and stood back and looked at herself in the long mirror that she and Jenny had found in an old junk shop, and cleaned and polished up.

Her skin gleamed against the deep V of the neckline and the full skirts floated out like cobweb as she turned.

Jenny appeared in the doorway, holding the box with the brooch.

‘Gorgeous,’ she said appreciatively. ‘And this brooch would just be the finishing touch, you know.’ She held it against herself. ‘Look what it does for this old black jumper. And just think what it would do for the chiffon! Try it on at least, there’s no harm in that.’

‘I suppose not.’ Lissa took the brooch and pinned it at her neckline. Gleaming there, it seemed to reflect back every sensuous colour in the gown, and she stared at it longingly.

‘Oh, Lissa, you must wear it. It looks wonderful,’ Jenny pleaded.

Lissa nodded ruefully, but as her hands went up to unfasten it, the door bell rang.

‘That’ll be Paul.’ Lissa swirled across the tiny bedroom and across the living room to the door and flung it open. She dropped in a mock curtsy. ‘Bonsoir, monsieur.’

‘Bonsoir, mademoiselle.’

The right answer. The wrong voice. Lissa looked up for the first time and found herself confronting a complete stranger. He was tall and very dark. His hair was black and his thin face was tanned. The expression in his low-lidded eyes as he stood looking down at Lissa was unreadable, but a faint smile played without warmth about his firm mouth.

There was something vaguely objectionable in the way he was looking her over, and Lissa lifted her chin and stared back.

‘You must forgive me, monsieur. As must have been obvious, I was expecting someone else.’

‘That is why I am here.’ He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. It bore her name and she tore it open with a feeling of anxiety. Inside was a typewritten note from Paul.

‘Lissa, chérie , forgive me, but I cannot make it to the party tonight. Something totally unexpected has cropped up, and I am obliged to change my plans. I will see you tomorrow instead and make up for it, I swear. Your loving Paul.’

‘I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’ The stranger’s voice did not sound particularly regretful. ‘Paul was unable to come himself to explain, and of course you have no telephone, so I was happy to oblige him.’

‘Thank you, monsieur. ’ In spite of her bitter disappointment Lissa did not forget her manners. ‘Won’t you come in for a moment? I am Lissa Fairfax as you have already guessed, and this is my flatmate Jenny Caldwell.’

He stepped into the living room, and stood looking at the small room with its clutter of easy-chairs, and the small sofa before the gas fire. His expression gave nothing away, but Lissa could guess that he was not impressed.

‘You have not told us your name, monsieur ,’ she reminded him a little tartly, and he turned, giving her another of those sweeping looks from head to foot that she was beginning to find so disconcerting.

‘I am Raoul Denis, at your service, mademoiselle. ’ His dark eyes considered her again. ‘Now that I have seen you I can understand why Paul should be so désolé at having to sacrifice his evening with you.’ He paused. ‘I have a proposition for you, mademoiselle. I too have suffered the same fate this evening. My partner has been suddenly overtaken by illness, and I have a cocktail party to attend, with the theatre afterwards. As we have both been left in the lurch, shall we take advantage of the situation and spend the evening together?’

Lissa stared at him. ‘But I don’t know you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Paul has never mentioned a Raoul Denis to me. Are you close friends?’

He shrugged. ‘Let us say we have been acquaintances for a very long time—and he did trust me to come here and deliver this note. And it would be a tragedy to waste that gown and all that radiance at home, when all the world is waiting. And you need have no fears. Paul would not be jealous of me.’

‘For your information, monsieur , Paul has no real right to be jealous of anyone,’ Lissa said a little coldly.

She looked at Raoul Denis in some perplexity. It was true. She was all dressed up, with nowhere to go, and his alternative suggestion was appealing.

At last she spoke. ‘Very well, monsieur. I shall be happy to be your companion. If you will just allow me to fetch my wrap.’

She walked back into the bedroom, and closed the door. Jenny was sitting on one of the beds, staring at her.

‘You have all the luck!’ she exclaimed. ‘If that had been Roger, I would have been condemned to an evening’s television.’

‘I don’t know.’ Lissa took her black velvet coat out of the wardrobe, and checked over the contents of her silver kid purse. ‘He seems polite enough, and if he knows Paul, I suppose that must make him respectable. But I can’t understand his invitation.’

‘Why not?’ Jenny was intrigued. ‘He’s an absolute dish.’

‘Yes,’ Lissa said slowly, ‘I suppose he is. But all the time he was talking to me, though he was civil enough, I felt there was something there. That he didn’t really like me. That there was something—just slightly wrong about the whole thing.’

‘I think you have too vivid an imagination,’ Jenny said decisively. ‘I think it’s a most sensible solution. You’re both on your own. Why not take advantage of each other’s company? If you don’t like him, you don’t have to talk to him all the time. You’re going to the theatre, remember.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’m just being a fool.’ Lissa put on her coat and gasped, ‘I’d forgotten—the heirloom! What am I going to do with it this evening? Where can I hide it?’ She gazed round the room, a little desperately. ‘There’s nowhere really safe.’

‘Well, it hardly seems worth building a strongroom just for my Indian necklace and your copper bracelet that Aunt Rosemary-sent to ward off rheumatism,’ said Jenny. ‘If you’re worried about it, leave it where it is. It looks good there. I think Monsieur Thing thinks so too. I noticed him giving it a keen glance as he came in.’

‘It seems wrong to wear it, when I meant to give it back tonight.’

‘Well, at least you’ll have the comfort of knowing exactly where it is,’ argued Jenny. ‘And Paul will never know.’