”
Mallory would have preferred a tray here in her room, but awareness of how much she owed Cutter made her reluctant to appear rude. Or too demanding of his time, she thought belatedly.
“Please don’t let me alter any arrangements you’ve made for this evening,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be fine here. More than fine,” she amended, making another sweep of the elegant bedchamber.
“All I had planned for this evening was to catch up on some paperwork. I’ll see you downstairs in thirty minutes.”
He disappeared with Gilbért, leaving Mallory to shrug out of her blazer and head for the bathroom. To her delight, an enameled casket offered a selection of shampoos, scented soaps, body lotions, bath gels and tooth powders. The thoughtful hostess had even provided her guests toothbrushes in hygienically sealed containers. A twenty-first-century hair dryer and lighted mirror shared space on the dressing table with a silver-backed brush, comb and hand mirror that might once have belonged to Marie Antoinette.
Mallory ached to sink into the tub but settled for a quick shower. Wrapping herself in one of the fluffy robes hanging in the closet, she slathered on lotion delicately scented with lilies of the valley. The creamy lotion moistened her skin and permeated the bath with flowery perfume.
Once back in the bedroom, she cringed at the prospect of pulling on the same clothes she’d worn for more than twenty hours. Madame Picard’s arrival obviated that necessity.
“ Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. Monsieur Smith says you have lost your suitcase to the tides at Mont St. Michel. They are so treacherous, these tides.” Tsk-tsking, she shook her head and held out an arm draped with garments. “Madame keeps a spare wardrobe here at the château. These items, I think, will fit you.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t.”
“But you must. Madame d’Marchand would be most displeased if Gilbért and I did not see to the comfort of her guests.”
Overcoming Mallory’s protests, she laid the garments on the bed. The gown and matching negligee were lavender silk, lavishly trimmed with blond lace. The briefs and demi-bra were also silk.
For outerwear, Madame Picard provided a gorgeously patterned blouse by Hermès and nutmeg-colored slacks in fine Italian merino wool. She’d even thought to bring a pair of net anklets still in their plastic wrapper.
“Madame sells these in her boutiques,” she advised Mallory. “You will wish to wear them with these, yes?”
From her pocket she produced a pair of slip-on mules in a leopard print splashed with bright red geraniums. The shiny metallic heels were the same eye-popping red and shaped like hourglasses. When Mallory glimpsed the label inside the mules, the light came on with blinding brilliance.
“Omigod! Is your Madame d’Marchand the shoe designer, Yvette d’Marchand?”
“Oui.” Pride beamed across the housekeeper’s face. “You have visited her boutique in Paris? Or in New York, on Fifth Avenue?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Like Mallory could afford a pair of shoes by Yvette d’Marchand! Movie stars and presidents’ wives engaged in fierce bidding wars over her one-of-a-kind designs.
“Perhaps you can arrange a visit before you leave Paris,” the housekeeper suggested, depositing the shoes beside the garments. “The petite dining salon is in the conservatory. Monsieur Smith awaits you there. It is just beyond the main dining salon.”
“Thanks.”
Mallory debated for all of thirty seconds before sloughing off the robe and sliding into the decadent briefs. The matching bra was too large, so she left it off and just went with a silky camisole. The shoes needed a little tissue at the toes, but otherwise fit beautifully.
Amazing how a shower and a pair of designer shoes could revive a girl!
Weary but rejuvenated, Mallory descended the stairs and followed Madame Picard’s directions through the main dining salon. Four magnificent Limoges chandeliers graced the
Mallory would have preferred a tray here in her room, but awareness of how much she owed Cutter made her reluctant to appear rude. Or too demanding of his time, she thought belatedly.
“Please don’t let me alter any arrangements you’ve made for this evening,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be fine here. More than fine,” she amended, making another sweep of the elegant bedchamber.
“All I had planned for this evening was to catch up on some paperwork. I’ll see you downstairs in thirty minutes.”
He disappeared with Gilbért, leaving Mallory to shrug out of her blazer and head for the bathroom. To her delight, an enameled casket offered a selection of shampoos, scented soaps, body lotions, bath gels and tooth powders. The thoughtful hostess had even provided her guests toothbrushes in hygienically sealed containers. A twenty-first-century hair dryer and lighted mirror shared space on the dressing table with a silver-backed brush, comb and hand mirror that might once have belonged to Marie Antoinette.
Mallory ached to sink into the tub but settled for a quick shower. Wrapping herself in one of the fluffy robes hanging in the closet, she slathered on lotion delicately scented with lilies of the valley. The creamy lotion moistened her skin and permeated the bath with flowery perfume.
Once back in the bedroom, she cringed at the prospect of pulling on the same clothes she’d worn for more than twenty hours. Madame Picard’s arrival obviated that necessity.
“ Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. Monsieur Smith says you have lost your suitcase to the tides at Mont St. Michel. They are so treacherous, these tides.” Tsk-tsking, she shook her head and held out an arm draped with garments. “Madame keeps a spare wardrobe here at the château. These items, I think, will fit you.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t.”
“But you must. Madame d’Marchand would be most displeased if Gilbért and I did not see to the comfort of her guests.”
Overcoming Mallory’s protests, she laid the garments on the bed. The gown and matching negligee were lavender silk, lavishly trimmed with blond lace. The briefs and demi-bra were also silk.
For outerwear, Madame Picard provided a gorgeously patterned blouse by Hermès and nutmeg-colored slacks in fine Italian merino wool. She’d even thought to bring a pair of net anklets still in their plastic wrapper.
“Madame sells these in her boutiques,” she advised Mallory. “You will wish to wear them with these, yes?”
From her pocket she produced a pair of slip-on mules in a leopard print splashed with bright red geraniums. The shiny metallic heels were the same eye-popping red and shaped like hourglasses. When Mallory glimpsed the label inside the mules, the light came on with blinding brilliance.
“Omigod! Is your Madame d’Marchand the shoe designer, Yvette d’Marchand?”
“Oui.” Pride beamed across the housekeeper’s face. “You have visited her boutique in Paris? Or in New York, on Fifth Avenue?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Like Mallory could afford a pair of shoes by Yvette d’Marchand! Movie stars and presidents’ wives engaged in fierce bidding wars over her one-of-a-kind designs.
“Perhaps you can arrange a visit before you leave Paris,” the housekeeper suggested, depositing the shoes beside the garments. “The petite dining salon is in the conservatory. Monsieur Smith awaits you there. It is just beyond the main dining salon.”
“Thanks.”
Mallory debated for all of thirty seconds before sloughing off the robe and sliding into the decadent briefs. The matching bra was too large, so she left it off and just went with a silky camisole. The shoes needed a little tissue at the toes, but otherwise fit beautifully.
Amazing how a shower and a pair of designer shoes could revive a girl!
Weary but rejuvenated, Mallory descended the stairs and followed Madame Picard’s directions through the main dining salon. Four magnificent Limoges chandeliers graced the
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