The Cinderella Moment Page 9

  “What was I thinking?” whispered Angel. It was all very well to take a stand, but this house was so far out of her league that she couldn’t even begin to comprehend it. Everything in it breathed history and elegance and old money.

  But it was more than that.

  The room was a perfect harmony of space and light, color and furnishings. It belonged to someone with a keen eye for detail—someone who’d probably see straight through a deception.

  “I can’t do this.” Angel stood up. “Forget Clarissa and the Teen Couture,” she told her reflection. “Forget Paris and this whole stupid plan. You’ve got to go downstairs and tell the Comtesse the truth.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Angel walked slowly across the foyer, trying to think of how to explain herself to the Comtesse de Tourney. She stopped outside the drawing room, took a deep breath and grasped the door handle. Just then someone opened the door from the inside and Angel, still holding the door handle, was pulled into the room.

  Inside, the babble of conversation faded as about thirty designer-clad guests, all about her age, turned to stare at her. Then, almost as one, they turned away and looked over to where an impeccably dressed woman stood by the fireplace. The butler let go of the door handle and said, “Mademoiselle Lily de Tourney.”

  The conversation slowly swelled as Angel moved towards the aristocratic figure. The room was long and beautiful, with tall French windows opening onto a terrace down one side. Several older couples stood outside enjoying the warm summer evening while groups Angel’s own age sat together on the velvet-covered chairs and sofas that stood in the alcoves between the windows.

  Around her people laughed and talked, but all Angel could think of was what she was going to say to Lily’s grandmother. Even from twenty feet away she could see that the Comtesse was not someone to mess with.

  Elena de Tourney wasn’t tall, but she didn’t need height to command attention. It wasn’t the elegant chignon of silver hair or the graceful face with its pointed chin and high cheekbones, or even the Chanel suit, which gave her presence. She had that indefinable something—confidence, poise, power—Angel couldn’t say exactly, but she could feel it.

  About five feet from the Comtesse she stopped. “I—I had to see you.”

  “And you could not wait even to change your clothes. I am flattered.” The Comtesse’s voice was soft and lightly accented, her English perfect. Her piercing blue eyes traveled over Angel’s face, hair and clothes, but if she was displeased by her disheveled appearance she gave no sign.

  Around them conversation ebbed and flowed, but Angel knew that everyone was watching to see what the Comtesse de Tourney would say to her scruffy American granddaughter. She tried desperately to think of the right words to explain that she wasn’t the grandchild the Comtesse had waited more than ten years to see. She was just a New York housekeeper’s daughter pretending to be her.

  Perhaps if they went somewhere private she could explain. Angel opened her mouth to ask, but the Comtesse spoke first.

  “Marcel tells me that you do not speak French. A pity. I had thought that your father would have ensured … ” For an instant the Comtesse looked flustered, then she gave a delicate cough and said, “Still, it does not matter. You will find that many of our young people speak English.” She gestured towards her guests. “And perhaps while you are here some French will return to you.” She smiled. “I am sorry I was not at the airport to meet you, but your plane was delayed and I had to be here to greet my guests.”

  “Yes, I—” Angel began.

  “I had hoped you would be at my side when they arrived, but it can’t be helped.” She considered Angel for a moment, before adding softly, “Naturally, I am delighted to find you so eager to see me, but,” she eyed the groups of well-dressed teenagers, “I believe I can wait a little longer to become re-acquainted with my dear granddaughter.”

  She looked pointedly at Angel’s crumpled shirt and pants, leaned forward and whispered, “You see, my dear Lily, this is Paris and we do not wear casual clothes to dinner.”

  Angel flushed. She knew she looked awful and that every one of the designer-clad guests thought so too, but she didn’t care. Not when she needed to tell the Comtesse the truth. She lifted her chin. “I’m sorry, Madame, but I must speak with you.”

  “And you shall,” said the Comtesse kindly, “as soon as you have changed.”

  She beckoned to the butler. “Marcel, please ensure Marie helps Mademoiselle Lily dress for dinner.” She held up a finger to silence Angel’s protest. “We will wait for you.”

  Upstairs, Angel found Marie hanging Lily’s clothes in the armoire. The maid looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Lily, but Marcel insisted.”

  “It’s okay, Marie. I understand.”

  “I will help you dress.”

  “No, I can manage.” Ignoring the maid’s protests, Angel pushed her gently from the room and opened the closet with a sigh.

  Confessing was going to be harder than she’d thought.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later she re-entered the drawing room. As she’d expected there was another lull in the conversation as the guests took in her appearance.

  Angel tossed back her hair and squared her shoulders. She knew she looked awful because how else could she look in a dress that was the wrong shade of blue, the wrong size, shape, length and cut? Lily’s clothes were not her style at all.

  Angel scanned the room and found the Comtesse surrounded by a group of chattering girls. As she moved towards them Angel couldn’t help wondering why her drawing room was full of high-school students. Maybe they were part of some charity? Though they didn’t look like orphans—not in those clothes. Maybe foreign-exchange students? Though everyone was speaking French. Perhaps a youth group?

  A waitress appeared in front of her holding a tray of canapés. Angel hesitated; she hadn’t eaten for hours and was starving. The savouries looked delicious—perhaps a mouthful of food might give her courage.

  Heaven knows I need it, she thought, looking across at the Comtesse. How was she going to get her alone so she could confess?

  She picked up a wafer-thin slice of toast covered in a thick layer of pâté and popped it into her mouth. It was so delicious she grabbed two more before the waitress moved away.

  Angel had just swallowed one when a burst of laughter from a nearby group of girls caught her attention. A striking redhead, wearing a breathtaking mint-green and white Elie Saab dress with three-quarter sleeves and a high neck, commanded the group’s attention and it was obvious that, like the Comtesse and her staff, she and the others had concluded that Angel spoke no French.

  Angel pretended not to hear as the redhead said, “Can she really be the Comtesse’s granddaughter when she has no style or eye for color? Of course, she is American, which must be why she has no taste.”

  Several of the group laughed and a brown-haired girl said with a snigger, “Perhaps it’s hillbilly chic?”

  “Yes, she probably bought it at Walmart,” added the redhead, smirking.

  Angel sighed. Apparently the evil diva type wasn’t confined to America. Well, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of letting them know she’d understood. Let them think she was an uncultured American who couldn’t speak a word of French. What did she care?

  But, despite her determination to remain aloof, it made Angel seethe. Only a stupid French girl would be so arrogant, she thought crossly, conveniently forgetting her own heritage. How dare they look down their snooty French noses at America!

  Angel stopped herself. Forget them, she thought. Eat your pâté, get a grip on yourself and go and tell the Comtesse you’re an imposter.

  She swung round and collided with the person behind her. Caught off-balance, Angel grabbed at the body in front of her. Her hands connected with a hard, masculine chest and she felt the squish of pâté against superfine wool. Pushing away, she stared in dismay at the mess of rich brown paste coating one perfectly cut
charcoal-grey lapel.

  “Oh!” gasped Angel, gazing at the stain. “I am so sorry.” She dabbed at the lapel with her napkin.

  A male hand, well-shaped and tanned, closed over her fingers. “Probably best if I do it.”

  Angel looked up and inhaled sharply.

  Smiling down at her was the boy from the airport. She pulled her hand free from his grasp just as a voice behind her said, “Thank you, Nicky. Perhaps you would be so kind as to escort my granddaughter into dinner.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Angel stared at Nick. What was he doing here? Wasn’t he in the Bahamas with what’s-her-name?

  Apparently not.

  “Take Nicky’s arm, Lily. He won’t bite,” said the Comtesse. “Everyone is waiting to follow you into dinner.”

  Angel looked around to see Elena de Tourney’s guests standing in pairs, the girls’ hands resting lightly on the boys’ arms. She blushed—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go—how could she go into dinner when she hadn’t told the Comtesse the truth?

  But, short of blurting out her true identity to a room full of strangers, it seemed she had no choice. Angel sighed and put her hand on Nick Halliday’s arm.

  As they entered the dining room, its splendor made Angel want to turn and run. But before she could move, the guests were dispersing around the table and Nick was pulling out a chair for her.

  She sank onto the velvet seat and tried to take in the paintings, the mirrors and the chandeliers. There were works of art everywhere, but it was the table that took her breath away.

  It was mahogany and the largest she’d ever seen, with twenty gilt-edged chairs down each side and an imposing carver chair at each end. Each place was set with four cut-crystal wine glasses, gleaming silverware and a fine bone-china dinner plate with royal-blue edging and a gold crest on the rim. At Angel’s elbow lay a white damask napkin in a silver ring. Peeping from the napkin’s folds was a crimson rosebud. Down the table tall, white candles flickered from a dozen silver candelabra and between them stood porcelain bowls filled with violets, freesias and old-fashioned roses. Angel breathed in their heady scent and tried to stay calm.

  Just then someone nudged her. Looking round, she discovered Nick still standing by her chair. What now? she thought. Why was he still standing there gawking at her?

  It took her a moment to realize that Nick wasn’t the only one standing, and another moment to realize she was the only person seated; around the table the guests stood waiting by their chairs.

  Angel’s cheeks grew hot. They were waiting for their hostess to sit. She scrambled to her feet, silently cursing herself for forgetting something she’d been taught from childhood.

  “Bienvenue—welcome everyone.” The Comtesse’s voice rang down the table. “Welcome to the first dinner of the summer season.” There was a smattering of applause. “This year’s season is particularly special because my granddaughter has come to Paris for it.” She raised her glass to Angel. “Welcome home, Lily.”

  Around the table forty voices echoed hers as Angel’s cheeks burned.

  “And now, let us eat.” The Comtesse sat down.

  A babble of talk broke out as everyone was seated. Nick took his place beside Angel. She almost groaned aloud. It was bad enough being introduced to everyone as Lily de Tourney, but spending the evening chatting with Lily’s old playmate only made it worse. She wished she’d told the Comtesse the truth before they sat down, because there was no way she was confessing in the middle of the dinner party—she’d have to wait till later.

  A waiter placed an elegant fluted bowl in front of her. Angel stared down at delicate lobster flesh nestled atop a bed of steaming yellow rice. A tantalizing smell invaded her nostrils.

  The food looked divine. Angel was pretty sure she wouldn’t be eating lobster risotto once she’d confessed, so she might as well enjoy it. She put a forkful into her mouth and her tastebuds practically squealed with delight.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  “Always,” said Nick. “The Comtesse’s dinner parties are legendary.”

  Despite herself, Angel was interested. “Have you been to many?”

  “A few. This is my third summer season and there’s always a dinner here.”

  “The summer season,” repeated Angel. “What is it, exactly?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You don’t know about the summer season? But isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Well, you’ll love the summer season,” grinned Nick, “because we all know how to party and we’ve got two whole weeks hanging out together.”

  Angel stared at him. “That’s it? That’s all this is? Rich kids partying together?”

  “Not ex—” Nick began, but she cut him off.

  “So the summer season’s just some fancy-schmantzy get-together for rich kids so they can, what?” She thought of Margot and her lip curled. “Meet the right people, attend the right parties and get together with other rich kids?”

  There was a pause.

  Nick let out a breath. “Whew! I gather you don’t like rich people very much. Would that include you and your dad, by any chance? Or are you just too good and pure to ever have anything to do with something as dirty and unpleasant as money?”

  Angel blinked. Was she crazy? What was she doing going off at him like that? She didn’t even know where that rant had come from.

  Worse, she’d forgotten to be Lily. She couldn’t imagine what he thought of Lily de Tourney venting about rich people. He must think she was weird.

  A waiter discreetly removed their plates. When he’d gone, Angel looked at Nick. “Jet lag! I’m sorry, it’s jet lag. I haven’t slept for eighteen hours—it must’ve affected my brain.”

  “That’s a relief,” replied Nick. “For a minute I was worried you’d taken a vow of poverty and were set on becoming a nun or something.”

  “Oh no,” she retorted. “I could never be a nun: those habits they wear are so last century.”

  He laughed and Angel’s hostility faded.

  He might be rich and interested in nothing but pleasure, but at least Nick Halliday had a sense of humor. She kind of liked the way he’d dealt with her outburst. He hadn’t been angry or unpleasant—just honest.

  The waiter put the next course in front of them.

  “Oh, wow,” said Nick enthusiastically.

  “What is it?” asked Angel, staring at her plate. As a waitress she’d seen lots of gourmet food, but she’d never seen this dish.

  “It’s guinea fowl. Don’t look so scared. You’ll like it, everyone does.”

  “I’m not scared,” she shot back. “I’m dying to eat it. I’ve barely eaten a thing today.”

  “You did have some pâté,” Nick reminded her.

  “Actually, I think you got most of that,” she replied, looking at the dark stain on his lapel. “I should pay for the dry cleaning.”

  He shook his head and began eating.

  Angel followed suit. Nick was right: the food was unlike anything she’d eaten before.

  “What do you mean you haven’t eaten all day?” asked Nick suddenly. “Didn’t they feed you on the plane?”

  “They tried, but I was too nervous to eat.”

  “Nervous? Why?”

  “Oh, you know,” said Angel, trying to speak lightly, “coming back to Paris after so long.” It wasn’t a total lie—they’d flown from Paris when they’d taken Papa to New York.

  “Are you glad to be back?” asked Nick.

  “I guess. I don’t remember much.”

  “You were only five.”

  He means Lily, she realized and she didn’t want to talk about Lily—better to get Nick talking about himself. She said brightly, “And you were …?”

  “Eight. And thinking I was so grown-up.” He shook his head ruefully. “You still ran rings around me, though.”

  “I did?”

  “Sure did. I remember that summer vividly and I remember you as a be
witching little girl—full of fun and very feisty.” He touched her hand. “Nothing’s changed.”

  Angel blushed. What did he think he was doing? Was he actually thinking he could charm her with anecdotes of some ancient childhood friendship? And what about Yvette? Had he already forgotten his gorgeous girlfriend? That was the trouble with rich guys; they were used to having it all. Angel pulled her hand away and cradled her glass.

  “I’m not that girl anymore,” she said stiffly.

  “No?”

  “No. I’m someone quite different.”

  “Not so different that you can’t enjoy being back in Paris, I hope,” smiled Nick.

  “That depends … ”

  “On?”

  “Lots of things,” replied Angel. Keeping Nick at a distance for one; it’d only complicate an already complicated situation if he decided he wanted to reignite his friendship with the girl he thought was Lily.

  Angel swallowed the last morsel of food and stared down at her empty plate. She suppressed a sigh. She’d never imagined deception could be this exhausting.

  “Fortuna favet fortibus,” said Nick.

  She looked up. “Pardon me?”

  He tapped the crest on the rim of her plate and Angel noticed three tiny gold words beneath it.

  “Fortuna favet fortibus,” he repeated. “It’s Latin for ‘Fortune favors the bold.’ It’s the de Tourney family motto.”

  It was news to Angel, but when she thought of Lily it seemed the perfect slogan.

  “It’s one of the things the Comtesse tries to instill in us during the summer season.” He ran his forefinger over the crest. “Not only that, but other things as well.” He frowned. “What I said before—I wasn’t serious—the summer season isn’t all parties—not in the way you think.” Angel followed Nick’s gaze down the table to where the Comtesse was listening attentively to her neighbor.