Free A Place of Storms by Sara Craven Page B

she had left the room, he had gone to the sideboard and taken out a bottle of whisky and a glass, as if he intended to make a night of it, she thought, her lips curling slightly. Now, if ever, was her chance.
    Feeling rather ridiculous, she slipped off her shoes and trod cautiously along the passage in her stockinged feet. She twisted the handle gently, praying that the door would not be locked, and knew a swift flood of relief as it yielded under her pressure. She squeezed through the narrow opening and looked around her.
    It was not the large room she had envisaged, or perhaps it just seemed smaller because the bed which dominated it was so vast. It was an immense four-poster with a canopy and dark red and gold curtains neatly looped back. She looked at it uneasily, wondering how many past generations had been born or had died in that bed. The single pillow it carried seemed forlorn somehow, but she crushed the thought down hastily.
    Altogether it was a very masculine room, the furniture dark and unadorned, and uncompromisingly arranged around the walls. A faint aroma of the cigarettes he smoked still hung in the air, and the riding breeches and jacket he had worn earlier in the day were flung carelessly across a chair. Andrea eyed them disapprovingly, wondering if she dared hang them in the wardrobe where they belonged, and eventually deciding she did not. The most hopeful piece of furniture seemed to be the dressing table which was lavishly supplied with drawers. She walked over and sank down on to the dressing stool, then biting her lip, she opened the first drawer. But her hopes sank with each succeeding drawer she opened. All they contained was clothes—until she came to the shallow central drawer at the top. If this contained clothes, they must be very valuable ones, for the drawer was locked. Frustrated, she tugged at the handle, wondering if there was any way she could force it open, and then, suddenly and chillingly, she knew she was being watched.
    She looked up into the mirror and her eyes met Blaise Levallier's. He was leaning casually in the open doorway, watching her across the room. Her heart came up into her throat. She let her hands drop into her lap and sat there, feeling utterly humiliated and more than a little afraid.
    'I have to disappoint you,
mademoiselle
.' He did not even sound particularly surprised. 'All my personal papers are lodged with my lawyer in Clermont-Ferrand. I assume that is what you are looking for—your cousin's letter.'
    For one incredulous moment she thought her ears were playing tricks. Then she saw the derisive smile playing round his mouth, and realisation burst over her.
    'You know!' she whispered. 'But how?'
    He strolled forward. 'I have known from the very first. Did you really think I would make enquiries into your cousin's background and not take the trouble to find out her appearance? You could not be more different.'
    'But you never gave the slightest sign…'
    He shrugged. 'It amused me to find out how far you were prepared to go with your little masquerade, and exactly what you hoped to achieve by it.' He looked at her dryly. 'You should not have capitulated so readily tonight,
ma mie
. My suspicions were aroused at once.'
    She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. 'I'll leave at once,' she told him unevenly. 'Would you be kind enough to allow Gaston to drive me to Clermont-Ferrand?'
    His eyebrows rose. 'At this time of night? All the shops will be shut.'
    She looked at him uncomprehendingly. 'Shops?'
    'You cannot have forgotten so soon,' he said. 'We are to be married the day after tomorrow.'
    She sprang to her feet with a little cry. 'You're mad!'
    'I am perfectly sane. Nothing has changed. I still need a wife. Your cousin Clare has decided not to fulfil her obligation to me, so I will take you instead, Andr é e—that is your name, is it not?'
    'Well, I won't be taken,' she said wildly.
    'I think you will,' he said calmly. 'My enquiries about Clare also revealed