‘Let’s get you up off this floor,’ he said and helped her to a sitting position before hauling her to her feet. She swayed a second, light-headed again, and then Luc scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to one of the kitchen chairs, where he gently deposited her. Was it wrong to rather enjoy being carried?
‘I’ll make you a coffee and then I’d better let Solange, our housekeeper, know you’re here. She’ll be mortified that she’s not had a chance to get a room ready for you.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ Hattie felt obliged to apologise once again.
‘You say that a lot,’ he said and she found herself fascinated by his lopsided smile.
‘Sor—’ She smiled back at him as his eyes twinkled and she felt a funny rush inside her chest.
‘And will you need me to move out?’
‘Er … I …’ She had no idea. It hadn’t occurred to her. ‘I don’t think so. Not until the actual wedding maybe. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead. I don’t want to kick you out of your own home. I’ve no idea what was agreed. It’s not like there’s a contract or anything, is there?’ she asked, realising that perhaps she’d been a little precipitate in diving headfirst into this venture.
When she’d heard that the wedding planner for her cousin Gabby’s wedding had fallen through mid-arrangements, asking her Uncle Alexander if she could step in had been a long shot. She’d been so desperate to find a way out of a rut deeper than the Mariana Trench.
Luc gave a twisted smile. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. It’s an agreement between Alexander and my father. As my father says, they have been in business together for the last twenty years, why should it be a problem? We shall have to learn as we go. I would prefer not to move out of my own home.’
‘Of course,’ she said. It was a big house, there would be plenty of room. She was surprised the bridal party wasn’t staying here but her uncle had told her that the original wedding planner had said it would be too much to organise from England when she hadn’t seen the château for herself. Hattie got the impression the wedding planner hadn’t been terribly impressed by the change of venue from a Surrey mansion to a French château. ‘And what about the housekeeper? Does she live here too?’
‘Solange. She has her own living quarters. A renovated annexe in the old stable block. My father didn’t see fit to tell her of these arrangements or what is to be expected of her. I haven’t yet informed her of the wedding.’ He pursed his lips, clearly not relishing the idea. ‘And I would suggest that you don’t expect too much of her. She already has enough to do looking after the house, which she does on her own.’
‘Okay,’ said Hattie, immediately imagining a Mrs Danvers type who would kick off if asked to do any extra work.
‘I’m afraid … I’m not sure what the protocol is. I can give you a key.’ He turned and rummaged in a drawer in the big white-painted dresser before handing over a long black iron key. Not exactly purse-sized. She stared at it for a minute. That certainly wouldn’t fit in the back pocket of her jeans.
Luc interpreted her expression correctly, ‘It’s okay, we rarely lock the front door unless we’re leaving for a protracted length of time. It’s more symbolic. Giving you the run of the house and your own space.’
‘It’s not like there isn’t enough room. I don’t think we’ll be tripping over each other.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asked with a sudden teasing lift of one eyebrow, picking up his foot and rubbing at it with a grimace.
‘Sorry, I’m not normally this clumsy. It’s just you … you … d-d …distracted me.’ She looked appalled realising how close she’d come to saying dazzled me.
‘I don’t usually have women falling at my feet, Hattie.’ She wished he wouldn’t say her name, not in that super-sexy way. Every time he dropped the H, she could barely think straight.
‘Don’t you?’ she asked and realised that she shouldn’t have said that out loud.
‘Not usually, no. Are you feeling better now? It’s just that I was on my way down to the vineyard.’ He looked at the watch on his wrist. ‘I was due there half an hour ago.’
She nodded. She wasn’t going to say sorry again. The constant apologies were starting to annoy her – she sounded completely wet, when normally she was much more on it.
‘I don’t have time to show you around. Perhaps you can choose a room for yourself and…’ He shrugged. ‘My room is on the top floor, under the eaves. If you want me for anything.’
Hattie narrowed her eyes but his guileless, friendly smile gave nothing away. Was he aware of what he was saying or was it a mismatch between English and French? She couldn’t be sure. The charming Frenchman had her completely flustered.
ChapterTwo
Luc strode down towards the vineyard, his feet pounding the hard-packed ground beneath him with a mix of fury and irritation. He was going to kill his father, a slow, painful death. After all these years, he’d finally persuaded the old bastard to let him take over here and then he dumped a circus on him.
What he hadn’t told Hattie, the would-be wedding planner, was that he’d only arrived a few scant hours before her and hadn’t even had a chance to unpack his own bag. He was disconcerted by her. By those bright brown eyes and the humour in her ready smile. It was as if he knew her already.
Cute as she was, and she was very cute, he didn’t need any of the additional stress of a wedding on site. How could the old bastard do this to him? Well, one thing was for sure, he was not going to be sucked in to help. Cute Hattie was on her own. He thought of Solange. Yup, Hattie was definitely on her own. On his last visit Solange had still been grieving the death of her husband– a difficult character – but it seemed as if he’d taken her spirit with him, leaving her more like a ghost these days, drifting in and around the château. Luc shook his head, not liking the direction his thoughts were headed.
Heaven forbid his father thought weddings were a good revenue stream and opened the château up for more such events. What if he decided to let out the bedrooms too? Luc paused outside the front of the brick-built cellar. He still remembered the very first time he’d been here, brought as a young boy by his formidable Great-Aunt Marthe, the driving force behind St Martin champagne. Like many of the pioneering female champagne makers, including the legendary Madam Clicquot, his aunt had continued her husband’s legacy after he had died in a labour camp during the war. She’d only stopped fifteen years ago after a stroke at eighty.
Even at a young age she’d instilled within him a sense of awe at the importance of the building and the history of the caves below, dug by Roman slaves mining for chalk, centuries before. The caves were the perfect place to store fermenting champagne, providing a constant cool temperature, with exactly the right humidity.
‘Luc!’
