husband, it’s extremely difficult.’
‘She must still love you.’
‘How can she? I’ve been a total shit.’
‘There’s no accounting for taste, darling.’ Yolande stared at the photograph a while longer. ‘So your mother has no idea she has a granddaughter?’
‘No. And don’t tell her – please. It would only make matters worse. You can tell Corinne if you think it will help her to understand. But no one else.’
‘OK.’ She handed back the photograph. ‘Please come home. Surely you could now?’
He stood up abruptly. ‘Perhaps.’
Then he helped her to her feet, put an arm around her waist, and steered her off towards the other guests, wearing one of his best party expressions. ‘Now come on and introduce me to everyone I don’t know. Is that your new boyfriend over there?’
‘Yes.’
Philippe gave Patrick a long appraising look. ‘Having trouble with your eyesight these days, my darling? How the hell could you have dumped my brother for him?’
Chapter Six
It was only a few blocks from the Metropolitan Museum of Art to the Beideckers’ building, but too far for high heels. Patrick and Yolande emerged into the brisk evening air and got into a cab. They were dining later with her parents, and he wanted some questions answered while they were alone.
‘You weren’t engaged to that baron, were you?’
‘Of course not – to his younger brother.’
Yolande was gratified that he seemed jealous. So he did love her, after all. She had been tormented by doubts since their arrival in New York. The run-up to his audition for Vic Bernitz had almost driven her mad, and in the four days since he had been moody and offhand. The temperamental switch reminded her of that evening in Paris when they had first met Althea Pedersen – when she had realised that his career was by far the most important thing in his life.
‘Do they look alike?’ Patrick asked.
‘Yes. But they’re totally different in character. Philippe’s a dreadful flirt.’
‘So I noticed.’
‘You weren’t at all interested in Yves when I was still engaged to him.’
‘I thought he was just a boring aristo. But if he looks as sexy as his brother …’ He paused. ‘I can’t understand why you jilted him for me.’
Yolande grimaced. ‘Looks aren’t everything, you know.’
‘You never slept with him?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you want to?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘So he didn’t want to sleep with you?’
‘Look, I don’t know, really. We just never did.’
It was too embarrassing to admit that Yves hadn’t found her attractive enough to want to make love to her and had never tried once to get her into bed, even after they got engaged. And she had wanted him to, desperately.
‘Must be gay,’ said Patrick. Or blind. Or both . He couldn’t understand it; he seemed to have a permanent erection whenever he was with Yolande.
She pondered for a second. ‘I don’t think so. It would be against his religion.’
‘What’s religion got to do with it?’
‘Yves is a committed Catholic. Just because he didn’t sleep with me, it doesn’t mean that he’s gay. He’s very – … very – …’ She struggled to find the right word. ‘Very proper .’
Couldn’t get it up , was Patrick’s conclusion. ‘I see,’ he said.
She could tell that he didn’t even begin to see. How could he, not having visited Rochemort and soaked in its atmosphere of romantic chivalry and centuries of strong moral fibre?
But Patrick’s mind was on more immediate concerns. He scowled as he recalled Philippe’s arm around Yolande’s waist, the lordly way he had kissed her lips when he said goodbye, his dazzling and sophisticated performance. Patrick recognised the act for what it was – a bravura display from a man who looked extremely able to claim his droit de seigneur . Somehow he had been insulted even by Philippe’s mocking blue eyes. They had excluded him, raising a barrier between him and Yolande. He
‘She must still love you.’
‘How can she? I’ve been a total shit.’
‘There’s no accounting for taste, darling.’ Yolande stared at the photograph a while longer. ‘So your mother has no idea she has a granddaughter?’
‘No. And don’t tell her – please. It would only make matters worse. You can tell Corinne if you think it will help her to understand. But no one else.’
‘OK.’ She handed back the photograph. ‘Please come home. Surely you could now?’
He stood up abruptly. ‘Perhaps.’
Then he helped her to her feet, put an arm around her waist, and steered her off towards the other guests, wearing one of his best party expressions. ‘Now come on and introduce me to everyone I don’t know. Is that your new boyfriend over there?’
‘Yes.’
Philippe gave Patrick a long appraising look. ‘Having trouble with your eyesight these days, my darling? How the hell could you have dumped my brother for him?’
Chapter Six
It was only a few blocks from the Metropolitan Museum of Art to the Beideckers’ building, but too far for high heels. Patrick and Yolande emerged into the brisk evening air and got into a cab. They were dining later with her parents, and he wanted some questions answered while they were alone.
‘You weren’t engaged to that baron, were you?’
‘Of course not – to his younger brother.’
Yolande was gratified that he seemed jealous. So he did love her, after all. She had been tormented by doubts since their arrival in New York. The run-up to his audition for Vic Bernitz had almost driven her mad, and in the four days since he had been moody and offhand. The temperamental switch reminded her of that evening in Paris when they had first met Althea Pedersen – when she had realised that his career was by far the most important thing in his life.
‘Do they look alike?’ Patrick asked.
‘Yes. But they’re totally different in character. Philippe’s a dreadful flirt.’
‘So I noticed.’
‘You weren’t at all interested in Yves when I was still engaged to him.’
‘I thought he was just a boring aristo. But if he looks as sexy as his brother …’ He paused. ‘I can’t understand why you jilted him for me.’
Yolande grimaced. ‘Looks aren’t everything, you know.’
‘You never slept with him?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you want to?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘So he didn’t want to sleep with you?’
‘Look, I don’t know, really. We just never did.’
It was too embarrassing to admit that Yves hadn’t found her attractive enough to want to make love to her and had never tried once to get her into bed, even after they got engaged. And she had wanted him to, desperately.
‘Must be gay,’ said Patrick. Or blind. Or both . He couldn’t understand it; he seemed to have a permanent erection whenever he was with Yolande.
She pondered for a second. ‘I don’t think so. It would be against his religion.’
‘What’s religion got to do with it?’
‘Yves is a committed Catholic. Just because he didn’t sleep with me, it doesn’t mean that he’s gay. He’s very – … very – …’ She struggled to find the right word. ‘Very proper .’
Couldn’t get it up , was Patrick’s conclusion. ‘I see,’ he said.
She could tell that he didn’t even begin to see. How could he, not having visited Rochemort and soaked in its atmosphere of romantic chivalry and centuries of strong moral fibre?
But Patrick’s mind was on more immediate concerns. He scowled as he recalled Philippe’s arm around Yolande’s waist, the lordly way he had kissed her lips when he said goodbye, his dazzling and sophisticated performance. Patrick recognised the act for what it was – a bravura display from a man who looked extremely able to claim his droit de seigneur . Somehow he had been insulted even by Philippe’s mocking blue eyes. They had excluded him, raising a barrier between him and Yolande. He
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