“It’s a pleasure to watch a woman eat a meal with enjoyment.”
“I’m afraid it’s not ladylike.”
“According to whom?”
She didn’t have to think about that one. “Other women.”
“Then they’re envious of your figure. If I’m being transparent, I can’t help it. I’m a man.”
Yes. He was a man like no other and she was growing more enamored of him by the second.
“All right. I’m waiting to hear the real reason you’ve invited us to come to France.”
“Let me tell you a story first.”
Abby. You’re an idiot to sit here and listen to this any longer. This had to stop before he realized she was crazy about him.
“Raoul? Thank you for the delicious lunch. Now I think you’d better drive me back to the château.” She got up from the table, but he still sat there.
“You want to leave before you’re told where ‘Labyrinths of Lavaux’ can be found?”
With that question, she wheeled around.
“That’s the information you wanted to tell and show me?”
“I can tell you’re surprised,” he came back with enviable calm. “Only Lord Byron himself. It’s about the vineyards at La Floraison. When my relative Auguste Decorvet first moved into the château fifty years ago, he found it written in a notebook tucked in some terroir maps in the library. Perhaps Byron had stayed at the château when he was passing through years earlier.”
What?
“Auguste didn’t know what to think. Knowing my grandfather’s English is excellent and that he has a love for Byron’s works—especially those written during his Greek period—he sent the notebook to him.”
Abby stood there in shock and clung to the chair back. “Your grandfather has it?”
“That’s right. He thinks it’s the real thing. Apparently, Byron was intrigued with the vine terracing system of the steep terrain that he called labyrinths. It’s yet another example of what you were saying about the beauty, yet the harshness of nature.”
Unable to stand any longer, Abby sank back down on the chair. “So he’s never shown it to an expert to be authenticated?”
“No. If it was authentic, then he wanted to hold on to it and not let it be turned over to the world. I’ve read it. The piece only covers two notebook pages. He signed it Byron in that unmistakable, flamboyant style.
“With Auguste gone, no one knows my grandfather has possession of it except my grandmother, me and now you. If you’d come to France with me, he’d be honored if you would look at it and give him your expert opinion.”
Abby had already made up her mind to go to France with him for a day or two. But if he was being serious about this and the poem was authentic, then this would be the most exciting event ever to happen to her.
While she was sitting there in a daze, Ginger texted that they were back. Abby let her know she’d be there in a few minutes and put the phone in her purse.
“My friends ate in Broc. I told Ginger I’d join them shortly.” He wanted a yes or no answer. “If you’re telling me the truth, of course I’m tempted to meet with your grandfather and see it for myself, but—”
“But you’re not sure you believe me,” he broke in on her with a frankness that took her breath. He put some bills on the table and got to his feet.
She looked up at him. “After you drive us back to the farmhouse, I’ll talk to my friends.”
Raoul came around to help her up from the chair. She was already too sensually aware of him before she felt his hands on her shoulders. For a moment she wished he’d have pulled her into his arms. Now her legs had become traitors as he walked her out to the car.
She knew the girls had their hearts set on returning to Greece and Italy. They wouldn’t want to go to France and would laugh at her for being so gullible. She knew they’d question her sanity if she took Raoul up on his invitation.
Her thoughts were more than prophetic when a half hour later, after she’d introduced them to Raoul in the courtyard, they went upstairs to her bedroom. She told them everything, including the fact that he was a widower who’d lost his child too.
Zoe eyed her with compassion. “I understand the attraction. He’s gorgeous and has a male virulence no woman could be immune to. But maybe he’s a little too clever. Once you told him about the supposed missing work of Lord Byron and mentioned the name Labyrinths, it wouldn’t have been that difficult for him to fill in the word Lavaux, right?”