A Moment in Paris by Rose Burghley Page A

sensation like acute revulsion—she felt sick inside. That he could make love to her, and then talk about Celeste bearing him a child!
    He spoke with immense seriousness, his eyes never leaving her face.
    ‘If you were not English, my heart, our situation might resolve itself. But as it is ...’
    ‘As it is I ought to go home to England ... or at least, back to Paris.’ She moved a step towards the barn door. ‘That’s what I must do...’
    But his attitude changed yet again, and he caught her fiercely by the arm.
    ‘If you do that I won’t be able to bear it!’ His fingers pressed into her hard. ‘Diana, you must never talk about going back to England, and you will not return to Paris until I—we all go!’ There was a slight, pleading break in his voice. ‘If I have offended you I beg you to forgive me, but don’t talk about leaving me. There is so much that I want to do for you ... I must do for you and that small brother of yours!’
    But she said as if she was suddenly infinitely weary and still battling with acute distaste: ‘You mustn’t think that we are your concern, Philippe, because we’re not! I can do all that is necessary for Jeremy, and I’ve become very used to looking after myself. I don’t want anyone to interfere in my life!’ She avoided his eyes, because she knew their wounded expression would wound her too, and snatched away her wrist. ‘And now if we’re not to have everyone wondering where we are, we’d better go back. And I’m thinking of Lady Bembridge as much as Celeste.’
    He followed her out once more into the sweet coolness of the morning, and unhitched the horses from the corner of the barn. As he helped her into her saddle she still avoided looking at him, because she was so acutely conscious of his touch and his nearness that she had to bite her lower lip hard, as if she was preventing it from trembling.
    Philippe looked up into her face as he put the reins into her hands, and he said three words:
    ‘I love you!’
    And then he swung himself astride his own mount, and somewhat grimly led the way back to the chateau.
    Celeste was not only up but looking out for them when they got back to the chateau. Lady Bembridge had not yet made her appearance, but—ironically, as it now struck Diana, after the revelations of the morning—Celeste was carefully dressed in soft blue wool, and she somewhat naively confessed that she was planning to be very active in future, and get the better of her laziness.
    ‘You said that you wanted me to work hard ...’ She peeped at Philippe under her long eyelashes, and the eagerness in her voice made Diana feel acutely uncomfortable. ‘You said that you wanted us both to work hard,’ with a glance at Diana, ‘so I thought we’d kinda get started ...’
    For the rest of the day they duly studied elocution and etiquette, but Diana’s heart wasn’t in it.
    She made an excuse quite early to go to bed, and Philippe preceded her to the door and held it open for her. The night before she had climbed the stairs in a state of misery because he seemed to have no time for her at all. Tonight, after one quick look up into his eyes that provided her with the exquisite sensation that she was actually caressed by him, she climbed them in such a state of mental perturbation and chaotic feeling that she reached her room long before she was aware of it, and knew that she would lie awake for hours and think of nothing but him.
    She had been provided with a delightful tower room—in fact, a luxury suite, with her own private bathroom—that overlooked the courtyard, and had a splendid view of the mountains in daylight. Tonight the atmosphere beyond the windows was as clear as crystal, and as cold as a knife blade, with moonlight lying in serene beauty on the surrounding snowy peaks.
    But that didn’t prevent footsteps sounding in the courtyard after she had stood in the wide window of her sitting-room for less than a quarter of an hour, and those