Count Toussaint’s Pregnant Mistress by Kate Hewitt Page B

and only twelve years old.
    ‘I have news.’
    Luc took a sip of his espresso. ‘Oh?’ he asked, his voice neutral.
    ‘Yes.’ Denis paused. ‘There has been an offer on Chateau Mirabeau.’
    Luc stilled, his fingers curled around his tiny cup of coffee. ‘An offer?’ he repeated in the same neutral tone. ‘I did not realize it was for sale.’
    ‘Of course it is not, but it has been shut up like a box for six months; people begin to wonder.’
    ‘Let them wonder.’ Luc’s voice was flat, ominously so, but Denis was not deterred.
    ‘It is quite a good offer, Luc. Of course you don’t need the money, but considering—’
    ‘Considering?’ Luc repeated. ‘Considering what?’
    Denis paused for only a moment, his head cocked to one side. There was something too close to pity in his eyes, Luc thought. ‘Considering,’ he replied evenly, ‘that you no longer live there, and have expressed no interest in living there in the future.’ He leaned forward, his expression turning compassionate—too compassionate; Luc found he could not bear it. He surely did not deserve it. He didn’t want sympathy, or even understanding.
    It would have been easier if Denis had condemned him, blamed him as no one ever had for Suzanne’s death, even though his own mind and heart were weighed down with guilt. If I’d paid attention…If I’d loved her…If I’d realized how desperate and unhappy I’d made her…
    Perhaps she would still be alive.
    ‘Luc, it is a good offer. And the chateau, with its memories…’ He trailed off, but Luc could have filled in what he hadn’t said.
    He knew all about memories: Chateau Mirabeau, with its stone terraces and vineyards, its fountains and aquaducts, its secrets, sorrows and scars. Chateau Mirabeau, where Suzanne had lived so unhappily and died so suddenly.
    ‘I can’t sell it,’ Luc said, his voice uncompromising. ‘It has been in our family for four hundred years. My father—’ He stopped abruptly, his throat tight, and simply shook his head.
    ‘I know your father would not have wished such a thing to come to pass,’ Denis said gently. ‘But neither could he have ever imagined such circumstances as these. Selling thechateau might help, Luc, and I don’t mean just your bank account. You need to—’
    ‘It’s not your job to tell me what I need,’ Luc cut him off coldly. ‘Save for matters concerning my bank accounts.’ He knew he sounded curt, but he didn’t apologize. He didn’t want advice; he didn’t even want kindness. He looked away, and jerked slightly when Denis laid a hand over his arm, removing it after a brief moment and shrugging philosophically. ‘As you wish. Thirty-five million pounds might change your mind, however.’
    ‘Thirty-five million?’ Luc arched an eyebrow, equanimity restored, or at least appearing to be. ‘That’s all?’
    Denis gave a little chuckle. ‘I told you, you don’t need it. But still, in these times, thirty-five million pounds is thirtyfive million pounds.’
    ‘No.’
    Denis shrugged again. ‘As I said before, as you wish.’ He took a folder out of his attaché case and began to discuss Luc’s other assets in the Languedoc, but Luc found his mind wandering. Once a conversation such as this would have been meat and drink to him: ways to preserve his family’s heritage, increase its revenue, restore its name. He still worked hard to keep Toussaint Holdings profitable, but he didn’t let himself think about it. He concentrated on numbers, figures, bank balances and ledgers, and refused to think about what lay behind them: the dusty vineyards, the ancient walls, the twisted olive groves and orange trees, the house and land that he’d loved too much.
    As Denis spoke he found his glance slipping back to the paper, to the grainy photograph of ‘Piano Prodigy Abigail Summers’.
    Abby.
    Again he felt guilt roil through him. Six months ago she’d been at the pinnacle of her career, or close to it. She’d hadeverything