Everything ends this way in France –everything. Weddings, christenings, duels, burials, swindlings, diplomatic affairs –everything is a pretext for a good dinner. - Jean Anouilh
Beneath a trellis thick with greenery, the d'Or family gathered at an outdoor table piled high with delicacies. Short ribs in red wine sauce over pasta, broiled fish with tomatoes and olives, ratatouille, and a giant tray laden with grapes, nuts, dried fruits, madeleines, and macarons graced the roughhewn oak table.
Leaning back in his chair, Luc soaked up the atmosphere. The scent of grapes permeating the air; the soothing, melodic undertone of conversation; and the smiles of the children as they welcomed Belle, one of the youngsters presenting her with a pink peony that had been pressed between paper pages.
While he blew lazy smoke rings with his cigarette, he observed Belle as she ate and interacted with his family. Dappled sunbeams caressed her face as she closed her lips around a forkful of eggplant. Her lips. Ever since their kiss, he couldn't stop staring at her mouth.
Beyond this schoolboy infatuation that needed to be crushed like a bug beneath his heel, he was oddly pleased to see her laughing, talking, and eating. Rapt delight illuminated her face as she accepted everything placed before her.
Well, everything except the cheese course.
Luc chuckled under his breath when she slammed her lips together and shook her head, refusing to even touch the platter. But other than her intolerance for fromage, she seemed at home here in the countryside.
It had been four long years since he'd basked in the familiar sensations of home. And although there was great pain and regret, there was also joy. A sense of belonging. This was his home and, no matter how dysfunctional it was, these were still his people.
He focused on ignoring his father, who seethed at the head of the table while he picked at the food on his plate. Through his swollen, bruised nose and black eye, Malcolm d'Or simultaneously glowered at and snubbed his only son. A hot-tempered, stubborn man, he was a notoriously sore loser. Traits that, despite their differences, they still shared. What irony. Apparently environment did win out over genetics.
"She's lovely, darling. I'm impressed." His cousin Cruellina interrupted his brooding and nodded in Belle's direction. "That last one you brought home was a joke." She flicked the ashes off the end of her long, thin cigarette.
"Milah?" He snorted, amused. "Well she was my wife."
Cruellina sniffed in disdain and rolled her eyes at his cousin Ursula. Those two were inseparable and had been practically since birth. Neither one had been a fan of his ex. "No spirit, that one. No stamina. No strength of heart. But this girl? She's got fire," said Cruellina.
"Keep it down, all right?" Luc tamped down a flare of annoyance. "She's impossible enough as it is—I don't need her knowing you're over here extolling her virtues."
"Oh ho! Is she good between the sheets?" Ursula fanned herself, raking Belle over like a piece of freshly grilled filet mignon.
"I wouldn't know," he said, a curt whisper through clenched teeth.
"Really, darling." Cruellina's drawl was thick with disbelief. "Then why do you keep staring at her like she's something good to eat, hmm? Though her lips are a lovely, delicate shade of pink."
"She's a friend. I'm not the least bit interested in her." Those two statements were mostly true.
Ursula raised her eyebrows in challenge. "Since when are women just your friends?"
"Since I met her." Sarcasm seemed to be his only ally in this conversation on the road to nowhere. He rose, cutting his eyes at his cousins. "Excuse-moi. I think I will go join my friend."
He approached Belle, who was giggling as she sipped her rosé and chattered with his cousin William. Besotted fool, Luc muttered to himself, noting the adoring look in his young cousin's eyes. William, affectionately known as Scrappy, hung on Belle's every word. While she nursed her drink, the whelp gaped at her as though she'd invented the practice of winemaking.
She was totally unaware of how charming she was, which only served to make her even more alluring. He cozied up next to her and slung a casual arm around the back of her chair. It was a possessive gesture and he knew it, but he couldn't stop himself. He flashed William an annoyed look. Crestfallen, the boy took the hint and scurried away.
Luc searched Belle's face for a reaction but she appeared unfazed by his cousin's disappearance.
"Poor you." She heaved an artificial sigh and toyed with the stem of her glass. "You had to grow up here. The way you acted on the train, I thought you had escaped life in a bordello instead of in a chateau at a charming vineyard. Am I missing something?"
"It's complicated," he allowed, changing the subject. "Are you ready to head back to the train station?"
"Not quite," Belle said. "We have a bit more time before we have to go, don't we? Show me your room."
"Bossy, aren't you?" He smirked and folded his hands behind his head, feigning relaxation. After Ursula and Cruellina's taunting, he was strung tighter than a violin bow. He wondered what mental torture they would devise for him if he and Belle slipped away together.
"Please?" The wench had the audacity to bat her eyelashes at him. "It's not in the dungeon or anything, is it?"
"Very well," he said. What harm could come from showing her four walls and a twin bed? "But I make no promises about the dungeon."
Her earnest blue eyes went wide as saucers.
"That one was a quip, cherie. Come on, then. Bring some fresh wineglasses."
He chose an excellent Cabernet from the collection on the table and Belle picked up two clean glasses. If she was going to charm him into squiring her around the estate, he may as well take advantage of this golden opportunity to get drunk.
Belle was at a loss for words, a rare event. Whether the situation warranted encouragement, comfort, or scolding, she prided herself on knowing what to say to people and when her comments and questions would be welcomed. But after Luc's unexpected fight with his father, she searched hard for words of solace and came up empty.
After leaving the courtyard near the train station where he'd left his father bruised and bleeding on the ground, Luc had trudged through an abandoned vineyard, swiping at the gnarled branches obstructing his path. His anger was palpable, and Belle had tagged along like a puppy, trying to keep pace.
Even in wild disarray the vineyard they walked in was beautiful, but she took little pleasure in her surroundings. Her attention was focused on the man next to her. Luc's shoulders were slumped as he stared at the ground, his mouth drawn into a taut, thin line. Her mind was a whirlwind of questions, but voicing them would only make matters worse. Instead she'd grabbed his hand and squeezed, a gesture of solidarity and reassurance. She didn't have the first clue what he needed, but that seemed like a good place to start.
For a while, they strolled hand-in-hand, the breeze whistling through the trees and the light crackle of their shoes on the earth the only sounds. Then he'd received call from his cousin Cruellina, demanding he come home for a visit. A short time later, Belle was sitting in the shadow of a chateau partaking in a midday feast with Luc's large and colorful family.
Now she was entering his room, the inner sanctum of his childhood. Even though she had asked, she hadn't expected him to say yes. Luc was a private person—an expert at unveiling the desires and motivations of others while sharing nothing of himself. It surprised her that he was permitting this intimacy.
It was difficult for her to imagine he'd ever been a child at all. The man before her seemed ancient—not in years, but in experience, wisdom, and knowledge of the world. Whenever she thought she was getting a glimpse of the real Luc and beginning to enjoy their fragile friendship, he would twist his lips up in a sardonic smile and taunt her with those know-it-all, seen-everything, bored-with-life eyes. Eyes that made her feel foolish, childish, and out of her depth.
But Luc's room defied all of Belle's expectations, shattering everything she thought she understood about him.
She'd expected posters of scantily clad fashion models, mementos from prostitutes, and collections of shot glasses, but this? This dark, dusty, old-fashioned room revealed the heart of someone both sentimental and sweet. Though his other home in Paris was filled with things, they were artifacts staged for showing rather than personal treasures collected by someone who truly lived there.
Gawking, she gorged her eyes on the array of books plastering two entire walls of the spacious room. Crammed onto the shelves were all manner of treasures: unusual wine bottles, hand-painted pottery, a white and blue porcelain tea set. "This is amazing!" Belle shimmied up the wheeled ladder, exploring the bookcases. Running her hands over the leather covers, she savored the musky, vanilla scent of old books. "There's more books in here than I could ever read."
"Surprised to learn that I am literate, cherie?" He interrupted her perusal with a lopsided smirk.
"Perhaps," she said, laughing. She knew Luc was intelligent and worldly, but she hadn't expected such a vast collection of literature or sentimental trinkets. Belle rolled the ladder over a few feet so she could reach the windows. She climbed higher and began to tug at the dark, heavy coverings blocking out the sun.
"What are you doing now?" The question came from behind her; he was standing at the foot of the ladder, holding it steady. He sounded exasperated, and she turned to flash him an easy smile.
"Opening these," she said. "It's a gorgeous spring day in France; we should let some light in." But no matter how much she yanked and pulled, she couldn't get the curtains to budge.
She felt him watching her grunt and strain and chanced another peek at him, wondering if he was laughing at her expense. But the look on his face was one of curiosity. Finally she abandoned the task and descended the ladder. Time was short and there was more to explore. Another sweep of the room revealed an old-fashioned spinning wheel sitting in the corner.
"Do you spin?" she asked, approaching the contraption.
"In another life, I used to."
His tone was casual, but his stiff posture belied the flippant words.
Belle eased down on the bench behind the wheel and caressed the smooth wooden surface, learning the wheel as it glided beneath her palm. Luc seemed miles away as he rubbed forefinger and thumb together in an unconscious gesture that betrayed his nervousness. She sensed the cord of tension in his spirit. He'd seemed relaxed and carefree at the luncheon with his family, but now he was worried and distant.
Maybe spinning again would help ease him. Crooking a finger, she beckoned him closer. "Will you show me? Please?"
"It's been a long time," he said, looking poised to bolt for the door.
"Oh, you remember what to do," she said, capturing his wrist before he could sidle away.
It was amazing how a place could change a person. Out there in the world, Luc was controlled and self-assured, but in here, he was like a skittish bird, flighty and uncertain.
With a nod of assent, he pulled a stool closer and settled behind her, placing her hands in the proper positions. He started instructing her in the proper use of the wheel, but to Belle the lesson was a jumbled mess of sounds and sensations. Her head grew fuzzy, her vision cloudy, and she grasped at the questions she wanted to ask—about his father, about the fight, about the little boy's outfit in the flat in Paris. But one by one the thoughts in her mind curled up like a scroll. Surely imbibing one too many glasses of the d'Or Vineyard's excellent wine was to blame.
Luc's breath was hot and sweet on her neck, and she inhaled the aromas of plum, cherries, and tannin from the Cabernet he had been sipping. Belle's skin prickled and she felt restless, her limbs as heavy and immovable as the curtains she'd tried to pry open.
Seeking to get comfortable, she leaned backward a bit and arched her neck. That was a mistake. It put her body in direct contact with the lean, hard planes of his torso. Her breath was now coming in gasps, and she turned crimson when she saw the rapid rise and fall of her own chest.
Surrounded by the heat of his body, she felt his quickened heartbeat against her spine. It felt strange to be so close without being able to see him, so she twisted her head, placing her cheek against his tender skin of his neck. Her head fit perfectly under his chin and she bit back a moan.
His hands had dropped to from where they were guiding hers along the wheel to span her waist in a light squeeze.
She couldn't think at all when he was touching her this way and she grasped for equilibrium, blurting, "What happened…between you and your family?"
A lengthy silence stretched between them as she waited, feeling his face press against her hair.
"I'm a difficult man to love." He muttered the words into the shell of her ear, his raspy voice causing gooseflesh to race across her skin.
"That's not an answer," she replied, leaning forward in an attempt to break the spell. His hands left her hips and went back to the wheel, turning it with practiced ease. She watched his fingers work as she asked, "What about the fight with your father? You might feel better if you talk about it."
"He, ah, stole something from me." The reply sounded calm and practiced. He continued to spin the wheel.
"What did he take? That reaction was about more than a few trinkets." She was persisting, she knew, but she was weary of him evading and dodging her while she had spilled out her entire life story. She wanted to know him.
Belle spun about on the bench to look at him, and her heart lurched. His face was wreathed in misery, his eyes trained on the wide floorboards.
His Adam's Apple bobbed and she waited another long, anxious beat before he at last answered in a harsh whisper: "My livelihood. My inheritance. My identity."
She opened her mouth to ask how that was possible, how a father could do that to his son, when a loud crash startled her, and she pitched forward into his arms.
The curtains she had tried to pull open had fallen to the floor in a heap, sending dust particles every which way. Bathed in light, they both squinted at the window, still wrapped in each other's arms. Belle looked again at Luc, seeing a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Was it disquiet over his father or their nearness that caused this reaction?
She didn't have the chance to find out.
Luc disentangled their limbs, stood up, and backed away, leaving Belle feeling oddly bereft at the loss of contact. He stalked toward a large floor mirror in the opposite corner of the room.
Belle met his gaze in the glass. "Luc? How can he do that?" she asked, wincing at the thready raggedness of her own voice.
He laughed cruelly as he looked at himself, and Belle's stomach hurt to see the self-loathing reflected in the depths of his eyes. "It's rather simple, actually. I'm not really his son."
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Up Next: We'll explore Malcolm and Luc's history a bit more in the next chapter.