Anne Weale - Until We Met Read online

  Anne Weale - Until We Met

  She discovered love was the best career!

  Joanna had had to support herself after her parents' death, and she worked hard to establish her reputation in the Parisian cabaret world.

  However, the night her distant cousin, Charles Carlyon, entered the cabaret, Joanna's life changed. Charles persuaded her to go to England and visit her mother's family.

  Joanna found that families were a mixed blessing, and that Charles was everything she ever wanted in a man!

  CHAPTER ONE

  HE was waiting in her dressing-room after the show. He was tall, blond, good-looking — and heir to the de Mansard shipping fortune. But he was the last person she wanted to see tonight, and she was furious with her dresser for admitting him.

  "Yves! I thought you were still in New York," she said coolly.

  "But you are pleased to have me back?" he asked, taking her hands, smiling. "You have forgiven me for that foolish quarrel between us? Oh, Janine… ma belle Janine… if you knew how I have missed you! These past two weeks have seemed an eternity."

  He would have caught her in his arms, but she managed to free her hands and move quickly to the dressing-table. "You have missed your vocation, mon cher" she said lightly. "You should have been an actor."

  "Ah, you are sarcastic. You are still very angry with me."

  Joanna unscrewed her ear-rings. Tonight, for her final appearance, she had chosen the dragonfly dress. It was a sheath of glistening bronze lam£, so close and clinging that it seemed to be pasted to her body, and from the jewelled shoulder-straps drifted a cloud of golden gauze, as fragile and iridescent as the wings of some beautiful insect.

  "Not at all. I only meant that you like to dramatize everything," she said mildly. "Did you have a good trip? Was your business successful?"

  "Oh, to the devil with business!" he exclaimed violently. "What does that matter when you are so cruel to me, mignonne?"

  Joanna bit her lip. "Look, Yves, I'm really very tired tonight. I don't feel I can stand another of these futile arguments," she said wearily.

  There was a strained silence. Then Yves took something from his pocket and laid it on the glass-topped dressing- table.

  "I have not come to argue, petite," he said swiftly.

  Joanna stared at the flat leather jewel case for a moment. Her fingers trembling slightly, she reached for a cigarette. "I think you had better leave — at once!" The words were like splinters of ice.

  "But you misunderstand, cherie." Reaching over her shoulder, he pressed a catch and the lid of the case flew open.

  Inside, on a bed of rich black silk, lay a magnificent emerald necklace, each brilliant green stone surrounded by rose-cut diamonds.

  "The de Mansard emeralds are given to every bride," Yves said quietly, "I am asking you to marry me, Janine."

  For another long moment Joanna stared blankly at the fabulous jewels. Then, slowly, she raised her head and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

  "Oh, Yves I" she said huskily. "Oh, Yves — I'm so sorry."

  He knelt by the stool and recaptured her shaking hands. For the first time, she saw tenderness as well as passion in his eager blue eyes.

  "Don't look so distressed, ma mie. It is my own fault that you should think the worst of me," he admitted wryly. "But you see, it was not until I went away that I realized how much you mean to me." And, before she could question or protest, he had drawn her close and was kissing her.

  Joanna did not resist him. Still stunned by the shock of his proposal, she was incapable of any positive reaction. But almost at once Yves felt her lack of response and let her go.

  "Janine — what is it?" he asked anxiously. "You are not pleased that I———"

  A discreet cough from the direction of the door made them both jerk round. A dark-haired man, whom Joanna had never seen before, was standing in the doorway watching them.

  "Good evening," he said politely. "I'm sorry to have intruded — but your door wasn't shut, and I did knock."

  He spoke in French, but with a pronounced English accent.

  Yves scrambled to his feet. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded angrily.

  The stranger looked past him to Joanna. "My name is Carlyon," he said quietly, in English.

  "Do you know this fellow, Janine?" Yves asked her sharply.

  Joanna drew in a breath, then shook her head.

  "No, we haven't met before," the man agreed casually. "But I think you must have heard of me… Miss Allen."

  "Oh, the fool must be tipsy," Yves said, in an exasperated undertone. Then, raising his voice, "I'm afraid you are mistaken, m'sieur — and patrons are not permitted to come backstage. Allow me to direct you to the exit."

  The Englishman ignored him. "Am I mistaken, Miss Allen?" he asked her, with a subtle emphasis on the surname.

  But this time she did not hesitate. "I'm afraid you must be, m'sieur. My name is Janine Alain, and" — with a slight shrug — "yours means nothing to me."

  The stranger's eyes narrowed slightly. He was even taller than Yves, and more powerfully built. Without hearing his voice, she could have mistaken him for a Frenchman, although his eyes were a clear slate grey and curiously arresting against the deep bronze of his skin.

  For a moment she was afraid he was going to press .the matter and that Yves might not easily eject him. Then, with a gesture of acceptance and a faintly sardonic smile, he said, "My apologies, mademoiselle. It seems I was misinformed." And, with a civil nod to Yves, he walked out of the dressing-room and closed the door behind him.

  "What extraordinary behavior! He must either be drunk or deranged," Yves said, frowning. Then, dismissing the incident, "Come, cherie, there is not enough privacy here. As soon as you have changed, we will go to my appartement. Why, petite, you are trembling! Did that stupid oaf frighten you?"

  "N-not really. I can't think how he got in here. He must have slipped through the service door." Her voice was strained. "No, please—" as Yves moved to embrace her again — "I must get out of this costume. I wonder where Marie is?"

  "She has gone home. I told her you wouldn't require her tonight," Yves explained, with a grin.

  Joanna disappeared behind the changing screen. "She had strict instructions not to let you in."

  "So she said, but I soon persuaded her that you could not possibly have meant such an order seriously."

  "You mean you bribed her," Joanna said drily.

  He laughed. "Oh, not a bribe, cherie — merely a small token of my appreciation of her services to you. Can you extricate yourself from that costume, or shall I help you? After all, if we are soon to be married…"

  "I can manage, thanks," Joanna said briskly. She had already wriggled out of the narrow lame sheath and was fastening the sash of a blue wool dressing-gown.

  Emerging from the shelter of the screen, she pulled the sequinned combs from her elaborate chignon, bound a cotton bandage over her hairline and sat down at the dressing-table again.

  Lounging in the single shabby armchair, Yves lit a cigarette and watched her peeling off the inch-long false eyelashes and creaming away the heavy stage make-up. The transformation never failed to fascinate him, for he was one of the very few people who knew that there were two Janine Alains — the glamorous sophisticated cabaret artist, and the "real" Janine, the girl he wanted to marry.

  At first, it had been Janine, the cabaret star, who had attracted him. He had been escorting some American business associaties on a tour of the leading Paris night-spots and, shortly before midnight, they had arrived at the Club Cordiale. Barely concealing his boredom, Yves had given very little attention to the first part of the floor-show. But when the lights had lowered and a single amber spotl
ight had focused, not on some banal strip-teaser or sobbing torch-singer, but on a willowy auburn-haired girl with beautiful legs and a genuinely lovely singing voice, his interest had quickened. Even before she had ended her first song he had beckoned a waiter and scribbled a note asking her to join his party.

  But within a few minutes of her disappearance between the spangled velvet curtains the man had returned to murmur apologetically that Mademoiselle Alain thanked him for his invitation but was otherwise engaged.

  In the end she had come — but only after Yves had spoken to the proprietor, who had a suitable respect for the powerful name or de Mansard. And it had been a hollow victory because, although she had been perfectly polite to the Americans, Mademoiselle Alain had shown complete indifference to her host's attempts to charm her.

  Indifference was new to Yves, and he did not care for it. Puzzled and challenged by her coolness, he determined to break through her detachment. And six weeks later, after he had spent almost every night at the club and bombarded her with flowers and chocolates and a succession of tempting invitations, his campaign was successful. Suddenly, and still without enthusiasm, she gave him her address and consented to spend a Sunday with him.

  But when Yves arrived to fetch her — his opulent silver sports coupe looking oddly incongruous outside the cheap artisans' cafe where, unexpectedly, she lived — there were two surprises awaiting him.

  The first was Janine herself. For a moment, as she ran down the stairs to meet him, he almost failed to recognize her.

  "Is anything wrong, Monsieur de Mansard?" she had asked gravely, holding out her hand.

  It had been one of the rare occasions when Yves's suave assurance had momentarily deserted him. He had even found himself stammering slightly, like any callow schoolboy at his first rendezvous. But how could he have guessed that, away from the cabaret, Janine was another person — a laughing unsophisticated girl who wore home-made cotton sun-dresses and a minimum of cosmetics and whose hair curled loosely round her neck?

  The second surprise had been to find that she was bringing a chaperone, a thin pasty-faced boy who lived in a neighboring house and had been crippled by polio.

  "I was sure you wouldn't mind, and it will be such a treat for him," she had explained quickly. "You see, his family are too poor to take him out much, so Jean has been cooped up in their fusty little room all summer, pauvre petit. A day in the sun will do him the world of good."

  And strangely enough — after the first spasm of annoyance — Yves had enjoyed himself. Even when he had had to forfeit the intimate little dinner at a sequestered riverside aubergt because Jean was half asleep, he had not really minded. He was not aware of it then, but for the first time in twenty-six years of being grossly over-indulged he was finding pleasure in pleasing someone else.

  Now, waiting for her to finish removing her tnaquillage and looking back over the twelve months he had known her, he admitted to himself that, from that very first Sunday, he had never really expected Janine to conform to the pattern of his previous light-hearted love affairs. Perhaps, deep down, he had been glad of her resistance. Oh, he had not suddenly become so chivalrous that he had not tried to have his own way. Before his trip to the States, marriage had never occurred to him. It was not until he was a thousand miles away from her that he had realized how much he missed her — and not only as an amusing companion or a potential conquest, but as an integral part of his life, as someone to be needed always.

  While Yves was reviewing the past, Joanna was thinking of the Englishman called Carlyon. How had he traced her? And for what reason?

  "You look very serious, mignonne. I thought you would be so happy," Yves said suddenly. Then, remembering how she had failed to respond to his kiss before the intruder had burst in, "Janine, you are upset about something. You are worried about how my family will receive you?"

  Joanna reached for a face tissue and folded it into a pad. "No… no, it isn't that," she answered, in a low voice.

  "Then what is it, ma miel" he persisted.

  "I — I don't know how to tell you," she stammered painfully. "You see, it's that… that I can't marry you, Yves."

  He stared at her incredulously. Rejection had never occured to him. If she had told him that the Eiffel Tower had collapsed, he could not have been more thunderstruck. Apart from the fact that he had taken for granted that she was in love with him… he was Yves de Mansard, one of the most eligible bachelors in all Paris. Even if he had been short and squat and repulsive, his position and fortune would still have made him a most desirable "catch." Being handsome and witty and gallant, he was not only sought after by every ambitious matron, but was also the secret idol of their more romantic daughters. That he should offer marriage to a girl who sang in a night-club and thereby flout all the most rigid shibboleths of French society — that in itself was startling. To be refused was inconceivable.

  "But — why not?" he demanded, at last.

  Joanna's mouth trembled. She hated having to hurt him, but there was no choice.

  "It would never do, Yves," she said gently. "Apart from what your family and friends would think — and I'm sure they would be horrified — we just aren't right for each other."

  "Why not?" he repeated bewilderedly. "Why not, Janine?"

  She bent her head. "Because I'm not in love with you, mon cher. I thought you knew that. I had no idea you… you might become serious about me."

  There was a strained silence. Then Yves gave a harsh laugh. "But of course not — why should you think so?" he said sharply. "Naturally you have judged by my reputation, which is certainly not that of a man with honorable intentions. Far from it. I am Yves de Mansard — the notorious roue, the admitted libertine!"

  The bitterness of his tone made her flinch. "You know I don't think of you like that," she protested swiftly. "I may have done so at first — but only at first."

  His expression did not soften. "Nevertheless, you have not thought me capable of love," he countered grimly.

  Joanna looked down at her hands. Without being aware of it, she had torn the tissue into a dozen shreds. "Should I have done?" she asked quietly.

  Yves's mouth tightened, but after a moment he leaned back in the chair and said flatly, "No, you are right, cherie. I have only known it myself these past few days." He made a wry grimace. "I suppose this is what is known as the irony of fate. For years I have been disengaging myself from affaires which became too intense. Now the situation is reversed." He leaned forward again and laid his hand on her arm. "You really mean this, Janine? You are not just pretending a lack of feeling because you are afraid it would be considered a mesalliance ?"

  She put her hand over his and shook her head. "No, Yves, I'm not pretending. If I could love you as you ought to be loved, I wouldn't care what anyone thought."

  "And you are very sure that you don't love me?" he asked her softly.

  For a moment, sharply aware of his attraction for her and knowing what it would be like to be his wife, she was torn with indecision. Perhaps what she felt for him was love, or as close as she would ever come to it. Certainly she would never again be offered such material security, such a safe and luxurious future. Perhaps, instead of being honorable and high-minded, she was merely recklessly idealistic… throwing away the substance of real life for the shadow of an adolescent dream.

  But her doubts were only momentary and, ashamed of the fleeting weakness, she shook her head. "I wish I did, mon cher. I am sure you will make someone very happy."

  "Look, why not think about it?" he said persuasively. "I have sprung this on you too suddenly, and you are not yet accustomed to the idea. Instead of going on this absurd visit to Brittany while the club is closed for six weeks, why don't you come with me to Cannes ? You have been working too hard, mignonne. You need to lie in the sun and relax. In Brittany it will probably rain most of the time and there will be cold winds and no one to amuse you but some dull English tourists."

  She colored slightly. "Are the Engli
sh so dull?" she asked, in a casual tone.

  He shrugged. "I have always found them so. The men are only concerned with football and livestock, and the women, too, are stolid, like vegetables."

  Joanna's mouth quirked slightly. She wondered what he would say if she revealed that, legally, she was herself a "vegetable."

  Not that she ever thought of herself as being English — at least not since her father had died. And even before that, she and Michael had always spoken French together and followed French habits of life.

  If Yves had ever asked about her background, she would have told him the truth. But he had never seemed curious about her past. And now — well, now it was too late.

  "You will come with me?" he urged, taking her absent expression as a sign that she was considering his suggestion. "There will be no scandal entailed. The villa is very secluded and there is a private beach, so we shall not be remarked by any gossip columnists." Another aspect occurred to him, and he added seriously, "Believe me, cherie, I shall not take advantage of such an arrangement. It will be solely a holiday, and a chance for you to consider the future at leisure. If you do not wish it, I shall not even try to hold your hand."

  It was such an improbable assurance for him to give — yet he was so obviously in earnest — that Joanna felt another surge of compassion for him. Poor Yves! It was indeed a cruel irony that, after years of careless philandering, he should finally fall in love with someone who could not love him.

  She shook her head. "No, Yves, I can't come with you. It would only make matters worse."

  "But, mignonne———-"

  "Oh, please — you must try to accept it. Marriage isn't something that one has to consider, like… like a business contract. One has to know instinctively that it is right; and I know that, for us, it is not right. It never will be."

  Yves's' face was bleak. Suddenly, in the space of a few moments, he seemed to have aged ten years.

  "So this is goodbye?" he asked, at last.

  Joanna's throat ached. "I think it must be," she said huskily. "As a matter of fact, I'm considering going abroad for a while. There is an offer from London which my agent wants me to accept. But, in any case, I shall not be staying on at the Cordiale."