hen Marie-Ange came down for breakfast the next day, after making her bed, she looked tired.

“How did you sleep?” he asked with a look of concern. He was drinking cafe au lait, and reading the paper Alain had bought him in town.

“Oh … I have a lot of memories here, I guess,” she said thoughtfully, thinking that she shouldn’t disturb him more than she had, and that she could get breakfast in town.

“I was afraid of that. I thought about it last night,” he said, as he poured her a huge cup of cafe au lait. “These things take time.”

“It’s been ten years,” she said, sipping the coffee, and thinking of Robert’s clandestine canards.

“But you’ve never come back here,” he said sensibly. “That is bound to be hard. Would you like to go for a walk in the woods today, or visit the farm?”

“No, you’re very kind,” she smiled, “I should drive back to Paris today.” There was no point staying here anymore. She had had one night to touch her memories, but it was his house now, and time for her to move on.

“Do you have appointments in Paris?” he asked comfortably. “Or do you simply feel you ought to go?”

She smiled as she nodded, as he silently admired her long blond hair, but she saw nothing frightening in his eyes. The idea that she had spent a night alone in the house with him would have shocked most people, she knew, but it had been so chaste, and so harmless, and so polite.

“I think you ought to have time to enjoy your house, without a stranger camping out in your master suite,” she said with serious eyes as she looked at him. “You’ve been very kind, Monsieur le Comte, but I have no right to be here anymore.”

“You have every right to be here, as my guest. In fact, if you have the time, I would love your advice, and the benefit of your memory, to tell me exactly how the house was before. Do you have time for that?” In fact, she had nothing but time on her hands, and she couldn’t believe his enormous kindness to her, in inviting her to stay on.

“Are you sure?” she asked him honestly.

“Very sure. And I would much prefer it if you called me Bernard.”

Before lunch, they took a walk in the fields, and she told him precisely how everything had been, as they walked all the way to the farm, and then he called Alain to pick them up, so he didn’t wear her out walking back.

She went into town to buy groceries and bought several excellent bottles of wine for him, to thank him for his incredible hospitality. And this time, when she suggested she cook dinner for them, he offered to take her out. That night he took her to a cozy bistro nearby, which hadn’t been there ten years before, and they had a very good time. He had a thousand tales to tell, and an easy way of speaking to her, as though they were old friends. He was a very charming, amusing, intelligent man.

They parted company outside her parents’ room again, and this time, when she climbed into bed, she fell asleep at once. And the next day, when she got up, she told him a little more strenuously that she thought she should move on.

“I must have done something to offend you then,” he said, pretending to look wounded, and then smiled. “I told you, I would be so grateful for your help if you’d stay, Marie-Ange.” It was crazy. She had literally moved into the house with him, a complete stranger who had landed on him. And in spite of her embarrassment, which he dispelled easily, he didn’t seem to mind.

“But won’t you stay through next weekend?” he asked pleasantly. “I’m giving a dinner party, and I would love to introduce you to some friends. They’d be fascinated by what you know of Marmouton. One of them is the architect who is going to draw up my remodeling plans. I’d appreciate it so much if you’d stay. In fact, I don’t know why you’re leaving at all. There’s no need for you to rush back to Paris. You said yourself you have time.”

“Aren’t you tired of me yet?” She looked worried for a minute, and then smiled. He was so convincing about wanting her to hang around, almost as though he’d been expecting her, and didn’t mind at all that she had taken over the master suite and invaded his house. He treated her like an expected houseguest and good friend, instead of the intruder she was.

“Why would I be tired of you? What a silly thing to say. You’re charming company, and you’ve helped me immeasurably, explaining to me about the house.” She had even showed him a secret passage that she and Robert had loved, and he was fascinated by it. Even Alain hadn’t known about it, and he had grown up at the farm. “Now, will you stay? If you must go, which I don’t believe at all, at least put it off until after the weekend.”

“Are you quite sure you don’t want me to go?”

“On the contrary, not at all. I want you to stay, Marie-Ange.”

She continued to buy groceries for him, and he cooked for her. They went back to the same bistro again, and then she cooked for him the next night. And by the time the weekend came, they had become old friends. They bantered easily in the morning over their cafe au lait, he discussed politics with her, and explained to her what had been going on in France. He told her about the people he knew, the friends he liked best, asked her about her family at length, and now and then reminisced about his late wife and son. He told her he had worked for a bank, and was now doing consulting work, which gave him a remarkable amount of free time. And he had worked so hard for so many years, and been so devastated after he lost his wife and son, that he was finally enjoying taking a break from the rat race for a while. It all sounded very sensible to Marie-Ange.

And by the time she’d been there a week, she decided to call Billy from the post office, just to tell him where she was. She called him from the telephone cabine, because she didn’t want to make a transatlantic call on Bernard’s phone.

“Guess where I am!” she chortled excitedly the moment Billy came to the phone.

“Let me guess. Paris. At the Sorbonne.” He was still hoping she’d come back to finish college in Iowa, and he felt a flicker of disappointment to think that she might have enrolled at the Sorbonne.

“Better than that. Guess again.” She loved teasing him, and had missed talking to him since she’d been gone.

“I give up,” he said easily.

“I’m in Marmouton. Staying at the château.”

“Have they turned it into a hotel?” He sounded pleased for her, and he hadn’t heard her sound that happy in a long time. She sounded rested and content, and at peace with her memories. He was glad she had gone to Marmouton after all.

“No, it’s still a private house. There’s a terribly nice man living there, and he let me stay.”

“Does he have a family?” Billy sounded concerned, and she laughed at the tone of his voice.

“He did. He lost his wife and son in a fire.”

“Recently?”

“Ten years ago,” she said confidently. She knew she had nothing to fear from Bernard. He had proven himself ever since she’d arrived, and she trusted him as her friend. But it was hard to explain that to Billy over the phone. It was just something she felt, and she trusted her instincts about the man.

“How old is he?”

“He’s forty,” she said, as though he were a hundred years old. And compared to her, he was.

“Marie-Ange, that’s dangerous,” Billy scolded her sensibly. “You’re living alone at the château with a forty-year-old widower? What exactly is going on?”

“We’re friends. I’m helping him remodel the house, by telling him how it used to be.”

“Why can’t you stay at a hotel?”

“Because I’d rather stay at the château, and he wants me there. He says it will save him a lot of time.”

“I think you’re taking a hell of a chance,” Billy said, sounding worried. “What if he jumps on you, or makes a pass at you? You’re alone with him in the house.”

“He’s not going to do that, I promise you. And he has friends coming down for the weekend.” On the one hand he was pleased for her, but on the other, Billy thought she was being very foolish to trust the man. But the more he said, the more she laughed at him, and she was suddenly sounding very French.

“Just be careful, for God’s sake. You don’t even know who he is, except that he’s living in your old house. That’s not enough.”

“He’s a very respectable man.” She was quick to defend Bernard.

“There’s no such thing,” Billy said suspiciously, but she sounded happy and independent, and so pleased to be back home. And it was obvious to both of them, from what she said, and so evidently felt, that to her it was still home. She told him about Sophie’s letters then, and he said he wasn’t surprised. It sounded like just the kind of thing her Aunt Carole would have done. “Anyway, be careful, and let me know how you are.”

“I will. But don’t worry about me, Billy. I’m fine.” And he could certainly hear that she was. “I miss you.” That was true, and he missed her too. And now more than ever, he was worried about her.

She went back to the château, and that night she and Bernard went out again. And the following morning, his friends arrived. They were a lively group, the women were sophisticated and fashionable, and all of them were well dressed, and extremely nice to Marie-Ange. Bernard explained who she was, and that she and her family had lived at the château when she was a child. One of the men recognized her name, and knew of her father’s enterprise. He commented that John Hawkins had been an extremely respected and successful man. She told Bernard how her parents had met, and he was touched by it, but even more impressed by what his friend had said about her father’s success in exporting wines. And she realized that men were more intrigued by business than romance.

It was an idyllic weekend for all of them, and when she packed her bags after the weekend, Bernard begged her not to go. But she knew she had been there long enough, and had told him all she could about the château. It was definitely time for her to leave, and she wanted to visit the Sorbonne, but she would cherish the memory of the ten days she had spent at Marmouton with him, and she thanked him profusely before she left, and was touched when he kissed her on both cheeks and told her how sad he was to see her go.

She drove back to Paris that day, and had dinner alone at her hotel, thinking of him, and the days she had just spent in what had once been her family’s château. It was a precious gift Bernard had given her, and she was deeply grateful to him. The next day, she wrote him a long thank-you note, as she sat at the Deux Magots. She mailed it that night. In the morning she went to the Sorbonne to see about classes. She still hadn’t decided whether to enroll, or go back to Iowa to finish her last year of college there. And she was thinking seriously about it, as she took a walk along the Boulevard Saint-Germain that afternoon to decide what to do, and ran smack into Bernard de Beauchamp on her way back to her hotel.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a look of surprise. “I thought you were staying in Marmouton?”

“I was,” he said sheepishly. “But I came to Paris to see you. The place was like a tomb once you left.” She was touched and flattered by what he said, and assumed he had other things to do in town, but she was as happy to see him as he was to see her.

He took her to Lucas Carton for dinner that night, and Chez Laurent the next day for lunch, and she told him all about her visit to the Sorbonne. And he begged her to come back to Marmouton with him, for a few days at least, and after resisting for as long as she thought reasonable, she finally packed her bags and went. She had given up her rented car by then, and drove back down to Marmouton with him, and was amazed by how much she enjoyed his company, and how much there always was to say. They were never bored for an instant talking to each other, and when they reached Marmouton, she felt as though she had come home.

She stayed there for a week the second time, and they grew more comfortable with each other every day, as they walked in the woods, and spent hours wandering the grounds.

It was nearly the end of the month when she went back to her hotel in Paris finally, and he went back to his house there after a few days, and came to see her at her hotel. They were together constantly, for meals, and long walks in the Bois de Boulogne. She was more comfortable with him than she had been with anyone in a long time. Other than Billy in Iowa, Bernard had become her only friend. And the only thing that worried her was deciding what to do about the Sorbonne. She was having a hard time making up her mind. She wasn’t sure if she should go back to Iowa, or stay in France.

They were sitting at the Tuileries, when she brought up the subject. “I have a better idea, of something else you should do before you decide,” he said cryptically. She had no idea what he would suggest, and was stunned when he suggested she come to London with him. He had some business to do there. “We can go to the theater, and have dinner at Harry’s Bar, dance at Annabel’s. Marie-Ange, it will do you good. And afterward, we can go to Marmouton for the weekend and then you can decide what to do.” It was as though she had suddenly become swept up in his life. And there was no romance between them, they were just good friends.

In the end, feeling ever more comfortable with him, she went to London, and they stayed in separate rooms at Claridge’s, and went out every night. She loved the people they saw, the plays he took her to. They looked at antiques for Marmouton, and went to an auction at Sotheby’s. She had a fantastic time with Bernard, and this time, she didn’t call Billy to tell him where she was. She was sure he wouldn’t understand. And even she knew that it was a bit of a jet-set life, and probably a crazy thing to do, but she had nothing else to do, and Bernard had behaved impeccably. He had never laid a hand on her, and he obviously respected her. They were nothing more than friends until the night they danced at Annabel’s, and after dancing with her all night, he leaned down gently and kissed her lips, as she looked up at him and wondered what it meant. She would have liked to discuss it with someone, but there was no one she could talk to about Bernard. She could hardly call Billy and consult with him.

But Bernard himself explained it to her when they returned to Marmouton for the weekend. She could sense something different this time, as they walked hand in hand in the woods.

“Marie-Ange, I’m falling in love with you,” he said quietly, with a look of concern. “This has never happened to me since I lost my wife, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” As she looked at him, her heart went out to him, and she realized that they were becoming more than just “friends.” “Does that sound insane to you? That it should happen so soon?” he asked her with worried eyes. “I’m so much older than you. I have no right to pull you into my life, particularly if you want to go back to America. But I find that all I want now is to be with you. How do you feel about that?”

“Very touched,” she said cautiously. “I never thought you would feel that way, Bernard.” He was so sophisticated, and so glamorous, she was flattered to think that he was falling in love with her, and she realized that she was beginning to feel a great deal more for him as well. She had never let herself think about it before, because she had been so determined that they were only friends. But he had not only opened his heart to her, but his home as well. She had imposed on him mercilessly, staying at the château with him, and now all she wanted was to be there with him. She couldn’t help wondering if this was the life she had been destined for, and the man.

“What are we going to do about this, my love?” he asked her with such tenderness in his eyes that this time when he kissed her beneath the tree where she had played as a child, she was no longer surprised.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before,” she admitted to him. She was not only a virgin physically, but emotionally as well. There had never been a serious love in her life until then, and suddenly everything was new to her, and more than a little dazzling, like Bernard himself.

“Perhaps we should give it a little time,” he said sensibly. But from that moment on sensible seemed to be impossible for either of them.

They stayed at Marmouton for longer than they had planned, and he brought her flowers, and small thoughtful gifts, they kissed constantly, and Bernard was so passionately in love with her that Marie-Ange was swept away on the wave of all that she felt for him as well. And finally he made love to her for the first time, in November, just a little over a month after they’d met. And as they lay in each other’s arms afterward, he said all the things that she had never dared to dream she would hear from any man.

“I want to marry you,” he whispered to her, “I want to have children with you. I want to be with you all the time we can.” He told her, having lost a wife and son, he knew how ephemeral life could be, and he didn’t want to lose a single moment this time. And Marie-Ange had never been as happy in her life. “This isn’t respectable, Marie-Ange,” he complained to her finally. He was worried about her. “I’m a forty-year-old man, you’re still a very young girl. I don’t like the kind of things people will say about you, if they discover that we’re having an affair. It’s not fair to you.” He looked distressed, and she looked panicked, thinking that he was ending their romance. But he clarified it immediately, much to her relief. “You have no family to lend you respectability. You’re completely at my mercy, and alone in the world.”

“I think being ‘at your mercy’ is very nice,” she teased.

“Well, I don’t. If you had a family to protect you, it would be a different story. But you don’t.”

“So what do you suggest? Do you want to adopt me?” She was smiling once she knew that he was not ending it with her. She loved the way he worried about her, and wanted to protect her. No one had ever done that before, except Billy, and he was only a boy. Bernard was very much a man. He was old enough to be her father, and he acted like one sometimes. But having lost her own at such an early age, she loved the protection he offered, and his obvious concern. She was totally in love with him.

“I don’t want to adopt you, Marie-Ange,” he said solemnly, almost reverently, as she reached out and touched his hand. “I want to marry you. I don’t think we should wait much longer. We haven’t known each other for long, but we know each other better than most people who get married after five years. We have no secrets from each other, we’ve been together almost every instant since we met. Marie-Ange,” he looked at her tenderly, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.”

“I love you too, Bernard,” she said softly, amazed by what he was suggesting. It had all happened so quickly, but it seemed so perfectly right to her too. There was no more thought of school. Just Bernard and returning to the château – and having a family. He was offering her a life that seemed more like a dream.

“Let’s get married this week. Here, in Marmouton. We can be married in the chapel, and then begin our life together. It will be a new start for both of us,” and one they both wanted more than anything or anyone else. “Will you?”

“I … yes … I will.” He held her close for a long time, and then they walked back to the house hand in hand. They made love for hours that afternoon. And he called the priest and made the arrangements the next day. And after he did, she called Billy, from the château this time. At first, she had no idea what to tell him, and in the end, she just blurted it out. She was worried about hurting him, although she had always discouraged him from having romantic thoughts about her. But she knew how much he cared about her.

“You’re doing what?” Billy shouted at her in disbelief. “I thought you were just friends.” He sounded horrified by what she had told him, and he accused her of losing her mind since she arrived in France. She had never been impulsive before, but she was madly in love with Bernard, and he was a powerful force now in her life, a man with passion and determination and a forceful way about him. He had completely swept Marie-Ange off her feet in an incredibly short time.

“We were just friends, but things changed,” she said in a small voice. She hadn’t expected him to be quite as upset as he was.

“Apparently. Look, Marie-Ange, just give it some time, and see if this is real. You just got there, it was emotional for you, going back to the château. It’s all wrapped up in that.” He was pleading with her.

“No, it’s not,” she insisted. “It’s him.” He didn’t want to ask her if she was sleeping with him, he had already guessed that she was. And she absolutely wouldn’t listen to him. He was worried sick about her when he got off the phone, but he knew there was nothing he could do. She was marrying a perfect stranger, Billy thought, mostly because he was living in her father’s château. And what’s more, he was a count. He felt utterly helpless to change her mind.

“Who was that?” Bernard asked her when she got off the phone.

“My best friend in Iowa.” She smiled at him. “He thinks I’ve lost my mind.” She was sorry to have upset Billy, but she was entirely sure of Bernard, and his love for her, and hers for him.

“So have I.” Bernard smiled. “It must be contagious.”

“What did the priest say?” she asked calmly. She wasn’t worried about any of the things Billy said. He was suspicious of Bernard, understandably, and only time would prove him wrong. But she had wanted him to know that she and Bernard were getting married. He was, after all, her best friend, and like a brother to her. In the end, he had said to call him if she came to her senses, or even if she didn’t. And he promised her that he would always be her friend, and be there for her. But as much as she loved him, she needed him less now. She had been completely absorbed in Bernard’s heady world, and she couldn’t help wondering what his friends would think, but he didn’t seem to care. They were both absolutely certain that they were doing the right thing.

“The priest said we will do the civil ceremony at the mairie in two days, on Friday, and he will marry us at the chapel here the next day. He’s going to publish the banns today and shorten the waiting period a bit. How does that sound to you, Madame la Comtesse?” She hadn’t even thought of that. She would be a countess now. It really was like a fairy tale. Four months before, she had been Aunt Carole’s slave, and then a month later, she had become an heiress with an enormous fortune, and now she was marrying a count who adored her, and whom she adored, and returning to her family home in Marmouton. Her head spun as she thought about it, and it was still spinning when they went to the mairie together two days later to be civilly married. And the next day, they stood in the chapel on their property, and were married in the eyes of God. Madame Fournier and Alain were their witnesses, and the old woman cried through the entire ceremony, thanking God that Marie-Ange had come home.

“I love you, my darling,” Bernard said as he kissed her after the ceremony, and the priest smiled. They made a handsome couple, the Comte and Comtesse de Beauchamp.

And when the priest and the Fourniers left them, after drinking champagne with them, Bernard swept her into his arms and took her upstairs to the guest suite he used as his bedroom at the château, and he laid her gently on the bed in the pretty white silk dress she had worn. He ran a hand over her golden hair and then kissed her again. “I adore you,” he whispered, and Marie-Ange kissed him, hardly able to believe all that had happened to her, or how happy she was. And he gently took her dress off, as he peeled away his own clothes, and when he made love to her that night, all he hoped was that he would make her happy and that she would conceive his child.