Count Toussaint's Baby [NOOK Book]


French count Jean-Luc Toussaint had never seen such a beauty! Under the glare of the spotlight, the spirited performance of the waiflike pianist mesmerized him. He wanted to taste that passion for himself!

Swept off her feet by the count, Abigail Summers naively thought she'd be forever wined and dined at his château. Instead, the unassuming starlet found herself abandoned, penniless, pregnant… and waiting with bated breath for the brooding Frenchman to read the newspaper ...

See more details below
Count Toussaint's Baby

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 7.0
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK 10.1
  • NOOK HD Tablet
  • NOOK HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK eReaders
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$4.03 price
(Save 5%)$4.25 List Price


French count Jean-Luc Toussaint had never seen such a beauty! Under the glare of the spotlight, the spirited performance of the waiflike pianist mesmerized him. He wanted to taste that passion for himself!

Swept off her feet by the count, Abigail Summers naively thought she'd be forever wined and dined at his château. Instead, the unassuming starlet found herself abandoned, penniless, pregnant… and waiting with bated breath for the brooding Frenchman to read the newspaper headlines and come thundering back to take what was his….

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781426864377
  • Publisher: Harlequin
  • Publication date: 8/1/2010
  • Series: Harlequin Presents Series , #2937
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 192
  • Sales rank: 140,913
  • File size: 385 KB

Meet the Author

Kate Hewitt discovered her first Mills & Boon romance on a trip to England when she was thirteen and she's continued to read them ever since.

She wrote her first story at the age of five, simply because her older brother had written one and she thought she could do it, too. That story was one sentence long--fortunately, they've become a bit more detailed as she's grown older.

Although she was raised in Pennsylvania, she spent summers and holidays at her family's cottage in rural Ontario, Canada; picking raspberries, making maple syrup and pretending to be a pioneer. Now her children are enjoying roaming the same wilderness!

She studied drama in college and shortly after graduation moved to New York City to pursue a career in theatre. This was derailed by something far better--meeting the man of her dreams who happened also to be her older brother's childhood friend.

Ten days after their wedding they moved to England, where Kate worked a variety of different jobs--drama teacher, editorial assistant, church youth worker, secretary and finally mother.

When her oldest daughter was one year old, she sold her first short story to a British magazine, The People's Friend. Since then she has written many stories and serials as well as novels. She loves writing stories that celebrate the healing and redemptive power of love and there's no better way of doing it than through the romance genre!

Besides writing, she enjoys reading, traveling and learning to knit--it's an ongoing process and she's made a lot of scarves.

After living in England for six years, she now resides in Connecticut with her husband, an Anglican minister, her three young children and the possibility of one day getting a dog.

Kate loves to hear from readers.

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

The applause had ended and a hushed silence came over the concert hall, a wonderful expectancy that gave the room—and Abigail Summers—an almost electric excitement.

She took a breath, her fingers poised over the keys of the grand piano on the centre stage of the Salle Pleyel in Paris, closed her eyes, and then began to play.

The music flowed from her soul through her fingers, filling the room with the haunting, tormented sounds of Beethoven's twenty-third sonata. Abby was not conscious of the audience who sat in enthralled silence, who had paid nearly a hundred euros simply to listen to her. They melted away as the music took over her body, mind and soul, a passionate force both inside her and yet separate from her. Seven years of professional playing and a lifetime of lessons had taught her to completely and utterly focus on the music.

Yet, halfway through the Appassionata, she became… aware. There was no other word for the feeling that someone was watching her. Of course, several-hundreds of people were watching her, but this—he, for she knew instinctively it was a he—was different. Unique. She could feel his eyes on her, even though she didn't know how. Why.


Yet she didn't dare look up or lose her focus, even as her cheeks warmed and her skin prickled, her body reacting with sensual pleasure to a kind of attention she'd never experienced and couldn't even be certain was real.

She found herself longing for the piece to end, all twenty-four minutes of it, so she could look up and see who was watching her. How could this be happening? she wondered with a detached part of her mind even as the music rippled from under her fingers. She'd never wanted a piece to end, had never felt the attention of one person like a spotlight on her soul.

Who was he?

Or was she just being fanciful, thinking that someone was there? Someone different. Someone, she felt strangely, for whom she'd been waiting her whole life.

Finally the last notes died away into the stillness of the hushed hall, and Abby looked up.

She saw and felt him immediately. Despite the glare of the stage lights and the sea of blurred faces, her eyes focused immediately on him, her gaze drawn to him as if by a magnet. There was something almost magnetic about it, about him. She felt as if her body were being irresistibly pulled towards him even though she remained seated on the piano bench.

He gazed back, and in the few seconds she'd had to look upon him her buzzing brain gathered only a few details: a mane of dark, slightly raggedly kept hair, a chiselled face, and most of all blue eyes, bright, intense, burning.

Abby was conscious of the rustling of concert programs, people shifting in their seats, the wave of speculative concern that rippled through the room. She should have started her next piece, a fugue by Bach, but instead she was sitting here motionless, transfixed, wondering.

She didn't have the luxury of asking questions or seeking answers. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to focus once more, to think of nothing but the music. The beauty.

Yet even as she began the piece by Bach, the audience seeming to sit back in their seats with a collective sigh of relief, she was still conscious of him, and she wondered if she would see him again.

Jean-Luc Toussaint sat in his seat, every muscle tense with anticipation, with awareness, with hope. It was an emotion he hadn't felt in a long time—months at the very least, most likely years. He hadn't felt anything at all. Yet when Abigail Summers, the world-renowned pianist prodigy, had come onto the stage he'd felt hope leap to life inside him, had felt the ashes of his old self stir to life in a way he had never thought to experience again.

He'd seen pictures of her, of course; there was a rather artistic photograph of her outside the Salle Pleyel, a graceful silhouette of her at the piano. Yet nothing had prepared him for the sight of her coming onto the stage: her head held high, her glossy, dark hair pulled into an elegant chignon, the unrelieved black evening-gown she wore swishing about her ankles. Nothing had prepared him for the response he'd felt in his own soul, for the emotions—hope, even joy—to course through him.

He'd tried to dismiss the feelings as mere desperate imaginings, for surely he was desperate? It was six months since Suzanne had died, and little more than six hours since he'd discovered her letters and realized the truth about her death. Had felt the blame and the guilt, corrosive and consuming.

He'd left the chateau and all of its memories for Paris, avoiding his flat or any of the remnants of his former life. He'd come to this concert as an act of impulse; he'd seen a billboard advert and he'd wanted to lose himself in something else, to not have to think at all, or even feel.

He couldn't feel; he was poured out, empty, barren of emotion… until Abigail Summers had crossed the stage.

And when she'd played… Admittedly, the Appassionata was one of his favourite sonatas; he understood Beethoven's frustration, the inevitability of the composer's disability and his own inability to stop its relentless development. He felt that way about his own life, the way things had spiralled downwards, out of his control… and without him even realizing it until it was too late—far, far too late.

Yet Abigail Summers brought a new energy and emotion to the piece, so much so that Luc found his hands clenching into fists, his eyes burning as he gazed at her, as if he could compel her to look up and see him.

And then she did. Luc felt a sudden jolt of recognition, which seemed impossible, as he'd never met or even seen her before. Yet as their eyes met he felt as if something long-missing had finally slid into place, as if the world had righted itself, as if he had finally righted himself and been made whole.

He felt hope.

It was a heady, wonderful, addictive feeling. It was also frightening, feeling so much, and yet still he wanted more. He wanted to forget everything that had happened, all the mistakes he'd made in the last six years. He wanted that blissful oblivion, to lose himself in this look, this woman, even if only for a time. Even if it couldn't last.

Their eyes met and locked, the moment stretching and spiralling between them. Then, as the audience grew restless, she looked back down, and after a tense moment—he didn't think he imagined that hesitation—she began to play.

Luc sat back and let the music wash over him. That one look had caused a deep hunger to open up inside him, a restless longing to connect with another person, with her, as he never truly had with anyone. Yet even as the hunger took hold of him he felt the more familiar hopelessness wash over him. How could he want someone, have someone, when he had nothing, absolutely nothing, left to give?


Abby sank onto the stool in front of the mirror in her dressing-room backstage. She let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes. The concert had been endless. She'd paced restlessly all through intermission, which had hardly benefitted her playing in the second half. If her father and manager had been present, he would have urged her to drink some water, to relax and focus. Think of the music, Abby. Always the music. She'd never been allowed to think of anything else; before tonight she hadn't known she wanted to.

Yet seeing that man—who was he?—had caused something inside her to shift, loosen, and she was aware of a need she'd never felt before. A need to see him, talk to him, touch him, even.

She shivered, a reaction both of longing and a little fear. Her father wasn't here, he was back at the hotel with a head cold, and for once she didn't want to think of the music. She wanted to think of the man. Would he come? Would he try to get backstage and see her? There were always several dozen appreciative fans who tried to meet her; some sent flowers, congratulations, invitations. Abby accepted the gifts and refused the invitations. That was her father's strict policy; part of her allure, he insisted, was her sense of remoteness. For seven years she'd been kept at a distance from her public, from life itself, in order to build her reputation as the talented and elusive Abigail Summers, Piano Prodigy.

Abby made a face at her reflection in the mirror. She'd always hated that nickname, a name coined by the press that made her feel like a trained poodle, or perhaps something a bit more exotic, a bit more remote, as her father had always wanted.

Right now she had no desire to be remote. She wanted to be found, known. By him.

Ridiculous, her mind scoffed. It had been but a moment, a single look. She hadn't dared look at him again; she'd been too afraid, fearful of both seeing and not seeing him again. Both possibilities seemed dangerous. Even so, the memory of those few shared seconds resonated through her body, every nerve twanging with remembered feeling.

She'd never felt that way before. She'd never felt so… alive. And she wanted to feel it again. Wanted to see him again.

Would he come?

A light, perfunctory knock sounded at the door and one of the Salle Pleyel's staff poked her head through. 'Mademoiselle Summers, recevez-vous des visiteurs?'

'I…' Abby's mouth was dry, her mind spinning. Was she receiving visitors? The answer, of course, was no. It was always no. Send them a signed program, Abby, and be done with it. You can't be just another girl. You need to be different.

Are there many?' she finally asked, in flawless French, and the woman gave a little shrug.

A few…a dozen or so. They want your autograph, of course.'

Abby felt a sharp little stab of disappointment. Somehow she knew this man would not want her autograph. He wasn't a fan. He was… what? Nothing, her mind insisted almost frantically, even as her heart longed for it to be otherwise. 'I see.' She swallowed, looked away. All right. You may send them in.'

The concert-hall manager, Monsieur Dupres, appeared in the doorway, a look of disapproval on his dour face. 'It was my understanding that Mademoiselle Summers did not accept visitors.'

A crony of her father, Abby thought with a cynical smile. He had them in every concert hall.

'I believe I know whether I accept visitors or not,' she replied coolly, although her palms were damp and her heart was thudding. She didn't question staff and she didn't make a fuss. That was her father's job. Her job was simply to play. And that had been enough, until now. At least she'd always thought it had. Right now she was hungry, anxious, craving more than the safe, ordered, managed existence she'd been living for as long as she could remember. She met the man's gaze directly. 'Send them in.'

'I don't think—'

'Send them in.'

His lips tightened and he gave a shrug before turning away. 'Very well.'

Abby smoothed her hair back with her palms and checked her gown. In the mirror the black silk made her skin look pale, almost ghostly, her grey eyes huge and luminous.

Another knock sounded at the door and she turned, smiling even as her heart sank.

It wasn't him.

None of them was, it was a cluster of middle-aged women and their sheepish husbands smiling and chattering as they thrust out their programs for her to sign.

What had she expected? Abby asked herself as she chatted back and gave the requisite signatures. That he would find her backstage, and come bearing a glass slipper? Did she think she lived in a fairy tale? Had she really expected him to find her at all?

Suddenly the whole notion seemed ridiculous, the moment when their eyes had met imagined and laughable. She'd probably made up the whole thing. The stage lights were usually so bright she couldn't make out any faces in the audience. Was he even real?

Abby felt her face warm with private humiliation. The crowd of well-wishers trickled away, followed by a glowering Monsieur Dupres, and Abby was left alone.


The word popped into her mind, and she forced it away. She was not lonely. She had a busy, full life as one of the world's most sought-after concert pianists. She spoke three languages fluently, had visited nearly every major city in the world, had legions of adoring fans—how could she possibly be lonely?

'Yet I am,' she said aloud, and winced at the sound of her forlorn voice in the empty dressing-room. She only had herself to talk to.

Slowly, reluctantly, she reached for her coat, a worn duffel that looked incongruous over her evening gown. She could hear the sound of the night-janitor starting to sweep the hallway outside, the concert-hall staff trickling away into the evening and their own lives.

What would she do? Take a taxi back to the hotel, perhaps have a glass of hot milk while she went over the evening's events with her father, and then to bed like the good little girl she was. Her fingers fumbled on the buttons of her coat.

She didn't want to play out the staid script her life had become, didn't want the role her father had given her years ago. Seeing that man, whoever he was, had awakened in her a need to experience more, be and know more. To actually live life.

Even if just for a night.

She sighed, trying to dismiss the feelings, for what could she do? She was twenty-four years old, alone in Paris, the evening ahead of her, and she had no idea what to do, how to slake this thirst for life, for experience.

Monsieur Dupres knocked on her dressing-room door once more. 'Shall I have the night porter summon a taxi?'

Abby opened her mouth to accept, then found herself shaking her head. 'No, thank you, Monsieur Dupres. It's a lovely evening out. I'll walk.'

The manager's heavy brows drew together in an ominous frown. 'Mademoiselle, it is raining.'

Abby refused to back down. This was a tiny, insignificant act of defiance, yet it was hers. 'Still.'She smiled. 'I'll walk.'

With a shrug Monsieur Dupres turned away. With her fingers clenched around her handbag, Abby left the dressing room and the concert hall behind her, stepping out into the cool, damp night alone.

Alone; she was completely alone on the deserted Rue du Faubourg St Honoré. The pavement was slick with rain, the lights of the speeding taxis washing the road in pale yellow.

Abby looked around, wondering what to do. Her hotel, a modest little establishment, was half a mile away. She could walk, she supposed, as she'd told Monsieur Dupres she would do. A little stab of disappointment needled her. She wanted to experience life, so she was walking home alone in the rain—how ridiculous.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
( 15 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star


4 Star


3 Star


2 Star


1 Star


Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation


  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 15 Customer Reviews
  • Posted August 15, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Penniless and pregnant!

    Kate Hewitt has written a soulful book with two tortured lovers in Count Toussaint's Baby.

    They met at Abby's concert, went to dinner and then to his hotel. It was magical their feelings even in light though Jean-Luc Toussaint blamed himself for his wife's death. However, for a brief moment in time, he felt alive and that was because of Abby.

    Talk about guilt Luc was feeling for his dead ex-wife. And then there was the beautiful and talented Abby who lived her life as a prodigal pianist for her father. Now due to his mismanagement of her funds, she was penniless. As for Jean-Luc he blamed himself for his past, for hurting his ex-wife and for hurting Abby.

    Abby had lived her life for her musical parents. Piano and music was her life and nothing more. She had definitely never felt this way about a man and she was determined that this very special night would be one she would have and that she would give herself to this man even if it meant only this one time. However, it didn't happen. And then months later he found her in a small seaside town and they made love.

    Now months later, he finds out from a newspaper that she was pregnant with his child. Of course, being the rich and successful alpha he was he came after her and brought her home with him to France but there was no emotion shown and I couldn't even imagine how this sweet young woman could endure not being loved.

    There were so many secrets between them. Their only emotional bond between them was their baby. It was a one sided love and Abby really loved him. And when Abby learned his secrets and the mystery of his Chateau and his past I wondered if they would get a chance to make it right. However, it only took Luc to realize that he couldn't run from his past and that instead of protecting her, he was protecting himself. It was about taking a risk and choosing love.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 23, 2014

    Beach read

    Soft read. For laying in the grass or on the beach. Decent plot. Although short, 156 pages- it dragged and it was repetitive. Sometimes repetitive thoughts or dialogue was used emphsis, yet it annoyed me.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 26, 2013

    So so


    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 11, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted April 7, 2012

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted September 23, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted September 4, 2014

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 14, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 10, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted December 24, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted May 13, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted August 19, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted October 31, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted November 18, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 15 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)