Chapter 11
DIANE
Igasp and forget to shut my mouth.
The view that opens up before me as Greg turns the car from the sinuous countryside road onto a gravel driveway lined with tall oak trees blows my mind.
It’s early April, and the ancient oaks have fully woken from their winter sleep, their branches spawning clusters of buds and pale green baby leaves.
I scoot to the door and peep out the window.
On either side of the driveway, green lawns stretch far and wide, smelling of freshly cut grass.
God, I love that smell!
We don’t have nearly enough of it in Paris.
But it isn’t the majestic oak trees or the vast expanses of grass that take my breath away.
Set back at the end of the driveway is the Chateau d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars.
A mixture of medieval and Renaissance, the castle reminds me of the Chateau des Milandes in Perigord that I visited with Mom, Dad, Lionel, and Chloe back when Lionel was still in good health.
It’s smaller, but just as elegant and romantic.
As for its grand staircase leading up the main entrance, it totally deserves a red carpet sprinkled with movie stars.
I’m half aware I’m having a most ridiculous Elizabeth-at-the-sight-of-Pemberley moment, but I can’t help it. The view is just too damn gorgeous.
And, yes, I’m still a convinced socialist.
And no, I don’t think privilege is something people should be born into—it should be obtained based on merit.
And yes, again, I still think that aristocracy with their archaic titles, pompous names, and unwarranted sense of entitlement should be a thing of the past.
But right now, all those righteous thoughts scatter away into the deepest recesses of my brain, letting fascination and awe take center stage.
“What do you think of the castle, mademoiselle?” Greg asks, smiling in the rearview mirror.
I realize my mouth is gaping and quickly shut it, cheeks aflame.
He shifts his gaze to the chateau. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is.”
“Monsieur Darcy landed at the Auxerre airport an hour ago. I’m not sure he’s at the castle yet.”
“He is,” I say. “He just texted me. Raphael has been here since last night, and a few other people, too.”
“You’ll love it here,” Greg says.
I’m not so sure.
Darcy insisted we spend a long weekend at his ancestral chateau in Burgundy, arguing it would be strange if he didn’t bring his soon-to-be fiancée here. Incredible as it may seem, I’ve never visited this region. Well, now I’m going to get an insider tour of it.
Aren’t I lucky?
On the program for the weekend is a tour of the castle, its surrounding English-style park, and its wine cellars.
We’ll also drive through some of the nearby villages and towns and sample their best restaurants.
But the highlight of our weekend will be the main local tourist attraction—the Darcy Grotto and its Ice Age rock art.
As soon as Greg stops the car, a youth with a shy smile opens the door for me, mumbling, “Hello, and welcome to the chateau.”
Before I can introduce myself, he grabs my overnight bag and rushes inside.
I stare after him, blinking.
“Thank you, Roger,” Darcy says to him as the two men pass each other on the staircase, one running up and the other down.
I take in my boyfriend’s casual look—and quickly avert my gaze. His jeans and fine wool sweater hug his lean, muscular frame in a loose-fitting, conservatively masculine way.
I’m sure he hadn’t meant it to be sexy.
Except it is.
He gives me a mild kiss. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s just two hours’ drive from Paris.”
“Could’ve been an unpleasant two hours,” he says, arching an eyebrow.
Did he just make a joke? I study his face. His mouth is unsmiling, and there are no laugh lines around his eyes or any other noticeable signs of humor.
Hmm… Hard to tell.
He’s been doing this more and more lately—saying things which, coming from any other man, I would immediately recognize as jokes. But from Darcy… he’s just not that kind of guy.
Can a man develop a sense of humor after thirty like some develop arthritis or a bald patch?
“Your chateau is awesome,” I say.
“It’s nothing special, really. There are dozens of similar castles here in Burgundy, and a few are more awesome than this one. But there’s one aspect of it that’s unique.”
“Which is?”
Darcy lifts a hand, palm up, as if to say, hang on. He turns to Greg, who has just parked the Prius between Raphael’s flashy red Ferrari and another sports car and now bounds toward us.
“Madame Bruel will show you to your room,” he says to Greg. “You’re free until Sunday evening.”
“Merci, Sebastian. I have some friends in Auxerre. It’ll be great to see them.”
“Take the Prius—I’ll be driving the Lamborghini.” Darcy turns back to me. “What’s unique about this castle is that it’s never changed hands. It was built by Chevalier Henri d’Arcy du Grand-Thouars at the end of the sixteenth century.”
“Oh, my God!” I clap my hand to my mouth. “And he still owns it? Is he a ghost? Does he have chains? Can I meet him?”
Darcy’s lips twitch and form that crooked, unpracticed smile of his that I hate because of what it does to my insides.
“What I meant,” he says, “is that the castle has remained in the family. Its current owner is my brother Noah.”
“Is he here? Am I finally going to meet him?”
“No. He—”
“Couldn’t make it,” I finish for Darcy.
Noah never makes it to any party or event organized by his older brothers—not even when said event is held at his own castle. Neither does Darcy’s mother, by the way. But she, at least, has the excuse of living in Nepal.
Darcy’s expression hardens.
“Let me get this straight,” I say to lighten things up. “You don’t own the island, you only co-own the jet and the club, and now you tell me the castle isn’t yours, either.”
“That’s correct.”
I arch an eyebrow. “And here I thought I was snatching a real billionaire.”
“You are.” He smiles again. “I inherited Parfums d’Arcy, which is worth well over a billion. It’s one of Europe’s largest individually owned businesses. Not to mention the trinkets such as the Paris town house and apartments in London and New York.”
The expression of genuine pride on his face is the same as the one I saw on Liviu—Jeanne’s friend’s nine-year-old—last Wednesday. He’d dragged his mom to La Bohème so he could show everyone his new remote control drone.
As the saying goes, the only difference between men and boys is the price of their toys.
“Oh, good.” I exhale in feigned relief. “I was almost about to call the whole marriage thingy off.”
As we reach the top of the stairs and step inside, a skinny woman in her fifties holds her hand out. “I’m Jacqueline Bruel, the housekeeper.”
I shake her hand. “Diane. Very pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” she says with a sincere smile before pointing to a wide wooden staircase across the foyer. “My office is on the first floor, second door on the left. Knock if you need anything. Or give me a call.”
She turns to Darcy, raising an eyebrow in half question.
“I’ll make sure Diane has your number, Jacqueline,” he says, leading me upstairs.
Unlike the sleek villa on Ninossos and the impeccably kept town house, the castle looks as if it has seen better days. Everything in here is authentic and beautiful—but also threatening to collapse at any moment.
The antique ceiling fixtures will be the first, I’m sure, followed by the creaky floorboards under our feet.
“Needs work, huh?” Darcy says, following my gaze.
I nod.
“I almost approached Chloe a month ago, seeing how tastefully and respectfully she rehabbed La Bohème, but…” He sighs. “This chateau is Noah’s. He needs to at least confirm he wants it restored.”
When we reach the second floor, Darcy opens a door, which groans and nearly unhinges itself in protest, to a spacious room.
“The lord and lady’s chamber,” he says. “Aka our bedroom. The bathroom is two doors to the right.”
I step inside and take in the large four-poster, the exquisite Art Nouveau wardrobes and chests of drawers, and the mildew stains on the walls. The wood floor is covered with beautiful rugs, their blue flower patterns in perfect harmony with the rest of the decor.
I look around for the couch area like the one in the town house, but don’t find one.
Darcy points to a small door between the wardrobes. “There’s an adjacent room right there. Grandpapa Bernard and Grandmaman Colette, who were the last ones to refurbish the castle, slept in separate bedrooms.”
“How clever of them,” I say, my shoulders slacking with relief. “So, who’s around? I saw Raphael’s car outside. Anyone else I know?”
“Genevieve—you met her at his birthday party. We’re also hosting Dr. Muller, the archeologist who manages the Grotto, and the mayor of the village with his spouse. You’ll meet everyone at dinner tonight.”
Ah, I see. The cream of the local society.
What a shame Elorie couldn’t be here today! She had to stay in Paris for her dad’s fiftieth birthday party. But she’s coming over tomorrow morning, and Darcy and I will fetch her from the train station.
I can’t wait.
“The dinner will be served at eight in the great hall, but at four, we all meet in the front yard to visit the cave.” Darcy heads for the little door. “I’ll let you freshen up.”
“What’s the dress code?”
The dos and don’ts of high society go over my head, so I always prefer to ask.
“Casual.” He hesitates for a second and adds, “My casual.”
Ha!
This is Darcy’s way of admitting that what passes for casual in his circles, normal people call dolled up.
My casual for midseason consists of well-worn baggy jeans and a roomy sweater.
I wore the combo to a couple of informal outings with Darcy’s friends.
Only everyone else looked as if they’d read the wrong memo and had dressed for a job interview at Vogue.
When Darcy raised the matter of buying me clothes again a couple of weeks ago, I promised I’d make an effort. And I did. I bought a pair of jeans and two sweaters from a low-cost supermarket.
At least they were new.
In regards to the formal events that require gowns, I’ve found a solution that eliminates an extra expenditure from Darcy or me.
I borrow.
Elorie and I are the same size, and my initial idea was to ask for one or two of her little black dresses that would be perfect for any occasion.
But something stopped me. It may have to do with the way Darcy looks at me, especially when I show some skin or wear pants that are a notch tighter than my norm.
It may also have to do with the way my stupid body reacts to those looks.
So instead of Elorie’s sexy LBDs, I picked a few of Manon’s formless gowns she’s kept from her XL days as a reminder of what awaits her if she puts on weight again.
Those gowns swallow me up, their thick material creating a shield-like barrier between me and Darcy.
They’re my chastity belts of sorts. And while it annoys and saddens me that I need one around Darcy, I’m not taking any risks.
I haven’t even moved in with him yet, for crying out loud.
Hmm, I wonder if there’s an online shop that carries a high-tech twenty-first-century version of a real chastity belt… Perhaps I should order one.
Just in case.