‘Do you prefer to keep our friendship a secret?’
‘No, no, I don’t want to, but I don’t want them asking loads of questions and going on about it. What am I supposed to say?’
Léo shrugged.
‘The French do not stumble over these things as you do. We are happy to announce an affair, and people are often happy to hear it.’
‘An affair? Is that what this is?’
Léo looked confused.
‘Oui– I hope so? A love affair –une histoire d’amour.’
‘Oh!’ Juliet flushed. ‘Um, well…histoireis story, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Is affair the wrong word?’
‘Well, in English, it usually means something casual or illicit, like…’
She stopped abruptly, and Léo continued.
‘Like the one you saw in the magazine? Ah. No, I hope this is something very different – a story, yes, and not acinq à sept, which is how we describe your “affair” – a relationship that happens between five and seven p.m.’
Juliet burst out laughing.
‘Is that really what it’s called in French? That’s so funny. I suppose it tells it like it is.’
‘Well, quite. But all this talk of love and affairs and stories has made me realise something very important.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Une histoire d’amourthis may be, but I have not yet kissed you, and that is definitely not very French.’
‘Not very English either,’ said Juliet, smiling at him.
‘Perhaps not.’
Léo leant forward in his chair and slid one hand into Juliet’s hair; the other took her hand gently. She could feel her pulse pounding and, as she gazed into his eyes, realised that never in her life had she wanted anything more than to be kissed, now, by Léo. She leant forward fractionally, without meaning to, and he responded instantly, bringing his lips to meet hers. Their touch carried infinite tenderness, but also sent a shockwave throughout Juliet’s body and the combination of sensations was dizzying and compelling. Her arms sprang up to wind around his neck, and she yearned to feel his body against hers; impossible sitting in chairs, as they were. She pulled away a fraction.
‘When do we have to check out?’
‘Not for another three hours yet.’ A teasing tone came into Léo’s voice. ‘Aren’t you in a hurry to get back to Feywood?’
Juliet grinned at him.
‘Not anymore.’
She stood up and kissed him again, now pressing her body against his, feeling the shared heat and urgency. Together theystumbled back towards the bedroom, the view and the breakfast forgotten.
By the time they drifted back through the front gate of Feywood, it was three o’clock and the place seemed deserted. But if there had been a welcoming party of her entire family ready to quiz and josh her about her night in London with Léo, she wouldn’t have cared; in fact, she was more likely to start volunteering information to any passing neighbour, she felt so buoyant. They started walking up the drive, hand in hand, when Léo suddenly stopped.
‘What was that?’
‘What?’
‘Listen.’ He pressed a finger to his lips and there came the sound of a pathetic, whining cry.
‘It sounds like an animal or something that’s been hurt,’ said Juliet. ‘It came from back here.’
