The Demon Lover by Victoria Holt Page A

he is reconciled to the Second Empire and supports Napoleon the Third … not with real enthusiasm but as the only possible alternative to republicanism.”
    “Is the Baron often at Court?”
    “Quite often. But I think he is happiest here in Normandy.”
    “Is he a very complicated man… difficult to understand?”
    He smiled at me.
    “And therefore a good subject for a painter. We will see if your father probes those hidden depths of character.”
    “He would probably need a large canvas to do that. The miniature is to go to his lady-love. It should therefore be romantic.”
    “You mean … flattering.”
    “It is possible to be romantic without flattery.”
    “I fancy the Baron might not be flattered to be called romantic. He prides himself on his astute approach to life.”
    “Romance is not necessarily a stranger to astuteness.”
    “Is it not? I thought in romance one saw everything through a rosy glow.”
    “That is how my father must make the Princesse see the Baron … through a rosy glow. I think it is time I returned to the house.”
    He sprang up and held out his hands. I gave him mine and he helped me up.
    He stood for a while holding my hands. It was only for a few seconds but it seemed longer. I thought how still everything was; the quiet water of the moat, the tall massive walls about us, and I felt myself tingling with excitement.
    I flushed a little and withdrew my hands.
    He said: “Perhaps this afternoon … if you are not busy …”
    “We shall not be busy until the Baron returns,” I said.
    “Do you ride?”
    “A great deal. I helped to exercise the Farringdon horses. The local big house I told you about … They pretended I was doing them a service when they were so obviously doing me one.”
    “That’s the way to do a service,” he said.
    “If it is given with a request for gratitude it is no service.”
    “You are right, of course. But why do you ask if I ride?”
    “Because if you say yes, you do, I suggest we ride this afternoon. I could show you the countryside which might interest you. Does that appeal?”
    “Very much.”
    “Have you a habit?”
    “I brought one with me … hoping … and not really believing in my hopes … that they might be realized so soon.”
    He touched my arm lightly.
    “I am glad you came,” he said earnestly.
    “It is very interesting … getting to know you.”
    Little quivers of excitement continued to come to me. I thought what a lovely morning it was here in the sunshine, close to the strong walls of the castle, the silver sparkle of the water and this interesting and most handsome young man looking at me with very thinly veiled admiration.
    Riding out through the beautiful country with Bertrand de Mortemer was an exciting experience. I loved to ride and was very interested to explore new terrain. I was about to embark on an adventure and I was adventurous by nature. I felt I was on the verge of discovering that life was exciting; it might be dangerous but perhaps I was of a nature to enjoy a spice of danger and therefore went to meet it instead of taking the cautious line and avoiding it.
    I could not really explain this exultation which I felt now. I could only say that I was enjoying this ride as I had never enjoyed a ride before.
    Of course it had its beginnings in this young man’s company. I was more drawn to him than I had ever been to anyone else on such short acquaintance. It was fascinating to talk to him and the little pitfalls of language into which now and then we fell amused us both.
    We talked and we laughed and the time flew by most pleasantly.
    I said to him: “We seem to have become friendly in a very short time.”
    “Time is always too short when good things happen,” he answered.
    “Life is too short. I tell myself that you have come here with your father who is to paint a picture and you will soon be gone. How am I to get to know you if I do not do so quickly? How long will it take to paint the