Not that her relationship with William was in any way sexual. She was here to do a job, and after taking off for the best part of the day, when what she and Charles had had to say to each other would have only needed ten minutes at most, she might not have a job to go back to, she thought sniffily.
Charles reached the car well ahead of her and was waiting, holding the door open, and she got in, not able to look at him because he had reduced her to the status of a plaything, had decided to indulge in one last sexual romp before he tossed her out of his life forever.
And she, poor fool, had urged him on! She disgusted herself, she really did!
He drove back to the farmhouse in silence—the air in the cabin of the car was thick with it—and as she fumbled to release her seatbelt he glanced at his watch, his brows drawn together in a heavy bar of impatience.
'Nothing's been resolved. Not a damn thing.' His fingers beat an irritated tattoo on the wheel and she slid out of the car quickly as he threatened, 'But I'll be back. Make no mistake about that.'
Her fingers quivering on the door, Beth retorted sharply, 'Don't bother. Make all the arrangements for the divorce through my solicitor,' and banged it shut, wincing as a moment later she heard the powerful engine roar to life, scattering the handful of foraging hens when the car shot out of the courtyard on an angry, full-throated snarl.
She was shivering with reaction as she crept round the side of the house, making for the kitchen. She couldn't face her employer until she'd pulled herself together. Trying to come up with a reason to excuse her hours-long absence wasn't going to be easy. She certainly couldn't tell him the truth, tell him that she'd spent the afternoon making love with her estranged husband, sleeping naked in his arms!
Mariette was in the kitchen, podding broad beans ready for the evening meal, her small black eyes gleaming with curiosity, and Beth could almost see the wheels in her brain turning as she tried to find the English words for the endless questions that were obviously right there on the end of her tongue.
Giving the housekeeper a wan smile, Beth scurried through to the annexe to the privacy and safety of her own room. It would be a long time before she got over the trauma of what had happened this afternoon, the disgust she felt for her own behaviour. She simply wasn't up to facing anyone until she could face herself.
But she would have to face William, she reminded herself sharply as she emerged from the shower and dressed in a fresh skirt and cotton-knit sweater. When his secretary disappeared for hours on end he was entitled to an explanation.
She found him in the airy sitting-room of the main house, the room they took their meals in, and he had his back to her, standing by the window with the pages of manuscript she'd typed previously in his hands. And he turned sharply as she entered and, amazingly, there was nothing on his bluntly good-looking face but relief.
'Are you all right? When you didn't come back I thought that brute had done something to you. I was beginning to panic'
'I'm sorry.' Thick hot colour slid over Beth's face as vivid pictures of exactly what 'that brute' had done to her flooded her mind. But she couldn't put that into words, could she? And she began to gabble, 'Our—our discussion took longer than I'd bargained for. I'll make up the time, of course.'
'Don't even think of it,' William dismissed gruffly. 'Just as long as you're all right.' He moved over to the table Mariette had already set, poured wine and handed her a glass. 'Sit down and drink this. You look as if you need it.' And as she gratefully sank down on to the sofa he sat beside her, his big-knuckled hands hanging between his knees, questioning, 'Was it to do with a divorce? When you came here you told me you were separated. My advice is, give him what he wants. He'll take it, anyway—he looks that type.'
Beth nodded, too choked to speak, twisting the stem of the wine glass around in her fingers, and William patted her shoulder awkwardly, his voice gruff as he added, 'There aren't any children, are there?' and she shook her head.
No, there were no children. Just Harry. Just Charles's son. But not hers, of course. Never hers. She had lost her child, along with all her foolish dreams of happiness, three long months ago.
Her eyes filled with sudden unstoppable tears and William said quickly, 'I'm sorry. None of my business. But if the brute's made you unhappy my advice is cut and run. Forget him and don't look back. It never pays. And don't forget, if you ever want to talk it out, need a shoulder to lean on, I'm here.' He had gone very pink, changing the subject rapidly. 'I'm going to be up to my eyeballs in research tomorrow, so why don't you take the morning off, go into Boulogne, have lunch and bring back some fish for supper?'
'Are you sure you won't need me?' He was doing his best to be kind, manufacturing an errand as an excuse for her outing, despite the hours she'd wasted today.
He was a dear, and not to know that she would much prefer to work flat out. Hard work was the only thing that would take her mind off her misery. But she couldn't throw his kindness back in his face, especially when he beamed, 'I've told you. I've got to get a few facts straight before I can go any further, and I prefer to do my own research. And I'm partial to fish, straight from the boats. See if you can get a couple of good sole.'
'Yes, of course.'
She did her best to look pleased, more than grateful that he hadn't bawled her out for disappearing for hours, staying away with the stranger who had invaded the privacy of his home, a stranger he obviously disliked as intensely as Charles disliked him. And, just for one weak moment, she was tempted to confide in her kindly employer.
It would be a relief to talk about the pain and misery she'd endured, the insecurity of knowing that her husband no longer pretended to want her in any meaningful way, the dreadful shock she'd sustained when Zanna had come back on the scene. She'd never talked about it to anyone, never hinted—even to her parents—that anything was wrong.
Sighing, she pushed the weak moment aside. Who was she to burden others with her misery? William was only her employer, after all. If she told him the whole truth she might only manage to embarrass him. No one wanted to be burdened with another's troubles. And she had their future working relationship to think of.
* * *
Beth parked her car on the quai Gambetta and made for the fish stalls, the pale lemon skirts of her light cotton dress swinging around her long, slender legs, the wind from the sea tossing her glossy dark hair, setting it flying around her face.
There was a spring in her step this morning, a half-excited, half-fearful hope in her heart, a hope she had tried to kill—and, having failed, was determined to act on.
She bought the fish William wanted, two large sole fresh from the boats, and hurried back to the car, oblivious to the bustle of locals and the British tourists who were buying the famous Boulogne mussels and oysters to take home on the ferry. At any other time she would have lingered, enjoying the sounds, sights and smells, used the holiday William had given her to explore the ancient town which Henry VIII of England had once captured and where Napoleon had spent three years preparing to invade in his turn.
But, even though she half feared she was going on a fool's errand, she had to see Charles. In answer to William's question he had given the name of his hotel and, before she steeled herself to face the irretrievable breakdown of her marriage to the only man she had ever loved, ever could love, she had to see him one last time.
Trying to steady her racing heartbeats, to warn herself that nothing might come of this one last meeting, she found a space on a multi-storey car park, rummaged in her handbag for her small hand-mirror and checked her reflection. Her huge green eyes were over-bright, feverish, too big for her small, pointed face. And her full, wide mouth still looked swollen from the passionate imprint of Charles's sensual onslaught. And there were lines of strain, too, deepening the hollows beneath her cheekbones, painting dark smudges beneath her eyes.
Pushing the mirror back into her bag, she snapped it shut decisively and left the car. Bewailing the havoc that was the result of a sleepless night wasn't going to achieve a thing.