‘And also because she’s had affairs, ever since she was a teenager.’ Marguerite did look at Belle now, and her tone softened. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she told her, ‘but it’s time for plain speaking.’

‘Go right ahead,’ Belle told her. Alastair’s companion sat with her hands loosely clasped on her elegantly crossed knees. She was wearing a chic, black dress, her silk-stockinged legs looked as if they went on for ever and her expression, rather than seeming offended, seemed coolly calculating. She tilted her head, causing her sleek bob of auburn hair to glint in the sunlight. It made a striking impression, and she knew it. ‘So I’m not a woman of unimpeachable virtue. Fine. Don’t mind me.’

‘I do mind you, dear,’ Marguerite said apologetically. ‘But the cousins have been digging up dirt. I gather you had an affair with a married man when his wife was pregnant…’

Belle’s beautiful face shuttered down at that. ‘That was ten years ago. It’s hardly relevant.’

‘The lawyers say it is. And it means that if Alastair marries you, he can’t inherit.’

‘Which is damnable,’ Alastair snapped, and his mother nodded in agreement. But her face didn’t look hopeless.

‘Yes, dear, it is damnable, but it’s also avoidable.’

‘I’m marrying Belle!’

‘But if you waited for a little-’

‘No.’

‘Just a moment.’ Belle rose, stretched, cat-like, and crossed to where Alastair was standing. And as she did, his mother had to acknowledge why her son had been attracted to her.

Falling in love had never been an issue for Alastair. Not after Lissa. However, he’d rarely been without a beautiful companion, and Belle was certainly beautiful. She was magnificently groomed and chic and incredibly feminine. She spoke three languages, which, in this tiny border principality, was a huge advantage, and her social skills were polished to perfection. Even in Alastair’s present occupation as a Paris architect, she’d be a hostess to be proud of.