Chapter One
France
Late autumn, 1821
The country house party had been a mistake, Zoë Benoît thought as she said her good nights and went in search of her bedchamber.
She had accepted the invitation, thinking there would be picnics, day trips, rides in the country and so on. It was, after all, what she understood people did at house parties.
Not this group. The guests were predominantly elderly people, and all they seemed to do was to sit and gossip, play cards, eat and snooze. So far the only exercise the ladies had taken was to stroll in the gardens or down to the lake, where they watched the gentlemen fishing—which was all they did, apart from eat, drink, play cards and shoot. It was most frustrating.
As for the handful of younger members of the party, she had very little in common with them. The girls were pleasant enough, but all they talked of was fashion—which was interesting enough—and gossip about people she didn’t know.
And the three young gentlemen? They were cronies ofMonsieur Etienne, the son and heir—and the less said about him the better.
The only reason she’d accepted the invitation was that she was sure she’d finally have the opportunity to visit her mother’s former home, which was about twenty miles away, or perhaps twenty kilometres—the new French system of measuring everything in decimals was confusing; people chopped and changed from one system to the other. But it was not too far away, she was sure.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her. Blast. She knew who it would be. She quickened her pace.
Behind her, Etienne, the spoiled, indulged, and deeply irritating heir of Baron Treffier, quickened his pace. She could hear him puffing.
Zoë’s temper was at breaking point. Five days she’d been at the Treffiers’ country house party, and Etienne had spent four and a half of them in hot and unwelcome pursuit of her. And not for the purpose of marriage, either—he was already betrothed to the unfortunate young woman who’d sat through the house party pretending she hadn’t noticed her fiancé’s appalling behavior.
Had Zoë been in her position, she would not for a moment have put up with it. Not that she would have accepted him in the first place, fortune or not.
She was fed up with Etienne’s importunities, his sly, suggestive remarks and his even more infuriating surreptitious touches and squeezes, not to mention the persistent and unsubtle invitations to his bed.
And no matter how often and how firmly—even bluntly—she’d repudiated his advances, his self-consequence was so inflated that he took every rebuff as encouragement.
His parents must have known what he was like, but they’d done nothing, seeming to think it was natural for their beloved son to behave like a randy goat toward an invited guest. To him, all females were fair game.
Hurrying along, she turned a corner and found herselfin a dark, deserted corridor that ended in a wall. Curses. A dead end. She’d been heading to her bedchamber, intending to lock herself in, but the old château was such a rabbit warren of corridors, in her haste she’d taken a wrong turn.
The puffing came closer.
Very well then, it was time to make a stand.
Taking a deep breath, she turned and faced him. He bustled toward her, red-faced and breathing hard. Even in the dim light she could see his triumphant leering grin. “So,mon petit chou, you wait for me.”
Zoë might speak French like a native, but she was English enough to dislike being likened to a vegetable, especially by this pig of a man. “Monsieur Etienne, I amnotyour little cabbage. I am not even yourchou de Bruxelles!”
He giggled. “Ah, so witty,ma belle.”
“I am not your belle, either. I am your ‘touch me again and you will regret it’ guest!”
“Ah, such fire, such passion,cherie.Je’t’adore.”
He hurried over to her, and she put up her hands to prevent the embrace that was clearly coming. “Monsieur Etienne—”
But before she could say a thing, he grabbed her outstretched hands and shoved them above her head. She struggled to free herself, but though he was shorter than her, to her fury, he was stronger. He pushed her hands together, gripping them in one hand, and shoved her hard against the wall.
“How dare you,” she began, but seeing his mouth aiming wetly for hers, she jerked her head aside, and he slobbered on her neck instead.
He pressed her hard against the wall, holding her immobile with his body. His aroused body. She shuddered.
“Oui, ma belle, I am hot for you too,” he muttered, and with his free hand he clawed at her skirts, dragging them up, muttering excited obscenities.
She could scream for help, Zoë thought, but in this partof the château there was no telling whether anyone would even hear her, let alone come to help. Monsieur Etienne was indulged by all. No, she knew what to do. She’d never actually done it before, but if ever there was the time…
