“How old is this chateau?” I ask when we’ve reached the top of the stairs.

Noah unlocks the beautifully carved entrance door. “More than four hundred years.”

“Is it listed as a historical monument?”

He nods.

“It means the new owners won’t be able to make any big changes without a special permit,” I say.

Noah gives me a worried look. “Why would they want to make big changes?”

“Does the chateau have an indoor swimming pool and a spa?”

He shakes his head.

“Non-European buyers would likely want those things.”

“Right.”

I look around, taking in the vast foyer flooded with soft light, the marble flooring, the imposing chandeliers and fixtures, and the majestic staircase that leads to the second floor.

“This way.” Noah motions to a drawing room on the other side of the foyer.

The chipped marble under our feet changes to an intricately set art parquet. The floor creaks with every step we take, but it’s beautiful. Small honey-colored panels—probably oak—come together in large diagonal squares. I’ve seen this design before. I close my eyes, recalling what Véronique taught me about traditional French flooring styles.

“Parquet de Versailles,” I announce with pride, pointing down. “That’s what this pattern is called.”

Noah smiles. “Good to know.”

“Don’t you go all smug on me, goalie.” I jerk my chin up. “You brought me here so you could hear my opinions on this property, did you not?”

He drops his head to his chest. “Désolé. I did.”

“I tried to look up this estate last night, but I couldn’t find a chateau called Thouars-Maurice.”

“No?” He stares out the window.

“Are you sure you got the name right?”

“I’ll check with my buddy,” he says. “Maybe the official name is slightly different.”

“I bet it is.”

Peeling my gaze off Noah, I look around. “This room is… unbelievable.”

He grins. “It’s called Salon Bleu.”

I can see why. The walls are covered in faded blue murals depicting pretty shepherd girls frolicking with naughty shepherd boys in bucolic settings. I doubt Noah will be able to give me the age of these murals, but they must be at least a couple hundred years old.

The only mural-free wall has tall French doors that open to an English-style park, some of which we saw from the front of the building.

The view takes my breath away.

Surveying generous lawns that meld into meadows to meet woodlands in the distance, I declare that this is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

Even the ocean sunsets back home can’t compare.

“This view is gold,” I say to Noah. “Make sure nothing obstructs it when buyers come.”

“Your word is my command.”

“If I were you—or your friend—I’d put a big comfy armchair right here.” I point to the space between the fireplace and the French doors. “And an open book on top.”

“Wouldn’t it look messy?”

“It will look lived-in and help the prospective buyers imagine themselves in this salon.”

“Very clever.”

“Just a little realtor trick.”

“Got any others up your sleeve?”

I give him a cocky what-do-you-think look.

He grins and pulls me to him. “I love it when you act naughty.”

“This is nothing, babes,” I purr, emboldened by his compliment. “You haven’t seen me naughty yet.”

Nobody has seen me naughty yet, to be exact, but there’s no need to mention that.

Noah’s hand makes its way down my back and lingers on my backside. “Let me show you the great hall before we make it to the bedrooms.”

I raise my eyebrows.

He couldn’t possibly be suggesting what I think he’s suggesting.

Or could he?

He takes my hand and leads me to another salon, bigger and grander than the one we just admired. There’s a small pedestal table planted in the middle of the ballroom. A bottle of red wine, a corkscrew and two stemmed glasses form an inviting group on top of it.

Noah picks up the bottle whose label reads, Coteau de la lune. While he’s studying it, I spot a note, written in a neat schoolteacher’s hand.

I show the note to Noah. “Who are these people?”

“The staff.”

“Are they invisible?”

He smirks. “They’ve taken the afternoon off so we can snoop around undisturbed.”

How unusual.

Noah opens the bottle and pours a little wine into one of the glasses. He sniffs it, takes a sip, and fills both glasses.

“A la tienne,” he says, touching his glass to mine.

I take a small sip. The wine is full-bodied and rich in subtle flavors I wish I could identify. One thing I’m sure of—the chateau had a damn good vintage twenty years back.

“Do you know why they stopped making wine?”

“Sebastian’s father died,” Noah says. “He’d been the vigneron of the family.”

He sets his glass on the table. “Come on, let’s go. We have a dozen bedrooms to check out, not to mention the park and the vineyard.”

As I follow him up the gorgeous but rickety staircase and down a long hallway, I notice how dilapidated the castle is behind its regal grandeur and refinement. It’s squeaky clean, but no amount of dusting and polishing can hide the mildew stains on crumbling walls or the huge cracks in the ceiling.

“When was this castle last refurbished?” I ask Noah.

“In the sixties.”

He knows quite a bit about this place. Of course, his friend Sebastian probably gave him all the important details.

Noah opens one of the doors and motions me into a spacious room. “This is the lord and lady’s chamber.”

“The floors will need to be refinished here,” I say. “And the walls treated and replastered.”

After that we check out a magnificent wood-paneled library and five or six smaller bedrooms with en suite bathrooms. Some of them have paintwork or fabrics on the walls, others boast ceiling beams and antique bathtubs. All are as delightful as they are run-down.

In one of the rooms, he backs me to the wall and kisses me until I’m weak in the knees.

“Tomorrow?” he asks, staring into my eyes.

I know what he means without needing to ask. “Tomorrow.”

He flashes me a big, sexy grin.

I grin back, excited and scared in equal measure.

“Want to look at the vines now?” he asks, drawing back. “Or continue exploring the remaining guest rooms, drawing rooms, wine cellars and the kitchens?”

I glance at my watch. “Our train leaves in less than two hours. So, yeah, let’s see the vineyard.”

We exit the castle and head toward the hillside, passing a small chapel, a fountain and an incredibly romantic orangerie on our way.

“Would you happen to know the estate’s annual upkeep cost?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Can you ask your friend? I’ll need that info to determine the price.”

“I’ll be sure to get you that info within a day or two,” he says, before adding, “It must cost a small fortune to keep an estate like that.”

I nod. “Whoever buys this, had better have deep pockets. Or tap into the huge revenue potential of the estate.”

“Paying guests?”

“Yes, among other things,” I say. “If I were the owner, I’d immediately apply for permits to restore the chateau and convert one of the wings into a hotel.”

“You think the historic monuments committee would allow it?”

“If the request is vetted by a good architect and shows how the new income-generating activities will fund the preservation works and the return of the castle to its former grandeur, I’m sure they will.”

He gives me a sidelong look. “Do you have other income-generating activities in mind?”

“You bet!” I begin to unfold fingers on my left hand as I tick off ideas. “I’d rent out the great hall for receptions, and that huge central lawn for music festivals and events. I’d restart the winery. I’d set up a gift shop and hire a guide to do daily tours of the chateau—”

“We—,” he cuts in, “I mean, Sebastian already allows guided tours of the grotto.”

“Good,” I say. “But clearly not enough.”

We walk in silence for a few more minutes. The colors and shapes of this amazing estate regale my eyes. This place deserves so much more love than it’s currently getting. Delicate floral scents fill the hazy midafternoon air, which become more pungent when we reach the vines.

“How many hectares?” I ask.

“Err…”

“I’ll need that info, too.”

He smiles. “Oui, M’dame.”

We stare at the rows of trellised plants.

“Are the castle’s cellars big?” I ask.

“Very.”

“And the equipment, do you think it’s still there?”

“I’m sure it is.”

“That’s an additional source of income!” I grin, bubbling with enthusiasm. “The new owner could start a sort of cooperative winery. Small growers with no facilities of their own could rent space and equipment in the chateau’s cellars. Even amateurs could pay to get their bespoke wines. That’s how it’s done in the US, especially in California.”

Noah says nothing.

He’s crouching among the vines, stroking their trunks and running his fingers along the shoots. Reverently, he caresses the leaves and gently cups a bulging, vibrant bunch of ripe grapes, as if weighing it in his hand. When he snaps off a juicy red grape and tosses it into his mouth, his lids drop and an expression of rapture appears on his face as he savors it.

He opens his eyes and surveys the plot, mumbling, “I didn’t realize someone still tended these vines…”

“When were they planted?”

“Decades ago, by Sebastian’s grandfather.”

“Well, maybe your buddy Sebastian feels it’s his duty to keep these vines alive.”

Noah turns to me. “Maybe.”

“Do you know if this vineyard is rated grand cru?”

“It is.”

“Wow. Good for Sebastian—it adds huge value.” I blow out a sigh. “I think he’s mad to sell this.”

“He needs—” Noah begins.

“Money,” I finish for him. “I know, I know… But if I owned this estate, there’d be only one way it would change hands.” I pause for effect. “Over my dead body.”

He gives me a funny look. “How far would you go to get your hands on a property like this?”

“Far.”

“Would you marry its current or future owner, even if you’d never met him and didn’t have any feelings for him?”

“Feelings shmeelings.” I say what I always say when Mom or Sue become too sentimental. “All they do is cloud your judgment and lead to disappointments down the road.”

“Does that mean you’d marry him?”

Does it?

Oh, who cares—I’m just making a point.

“Duh,” I say, rolling my eyes. “In a wink.”