Diane Gaston – A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake (страница 6)

Oliver knew she was not the only British expatriate to find living in Paris more affordable than London.

She turned her attention to her food, apparently consumed by her own thoughts, but it seemed that she was pulling away from him. Perhaps she’d regretted confiding this much to him. He would not press her for more, no matter how he yearned to know.

Finally, she spoke again. ‘But what of you, Oliver?’ Her tone was defensive. ‘I have said all there is to say about me.’

He doubted that. ‘There is little to say about me.’

She smiled, but he still felt she’d gone back into hiding. ‘Surely you do not expect me to believe that.’

‘It is true. I’m a simple man with simple tastes.’ He lifted his wineglass, filled with fine, expensive wine, in an ironic salute.

‘Come now, Lord Oliver.’ She wagged a finger at him.

He frowned. ‘I am not Lord Oliver.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘But you said your father was a marquess.’

‘He is, but I have no honorific.’ He was admitting himself to be a bastard.

Understanding dawned on her features. Understanding. Not distaste.

He went on. ‘My father was not married to my Indian mother, as you have no doubt surmised.’ He was a bastard son—his father’s only son. ‘But he brought me with him to England when he assumed the title.’

His mother had been an Indian bibi, a mistress. A prostitute. The love of his father’s life, his father had often said. But his father left her behind when he unexpectedly inherited the title, something his British wife had insisted upon. His wife had also promised to raise Oliver as if he were her own son—a promise she broke as soon as she could.

‘Did you ever see your mother again?’ she asked.

‘No.’ He poured himself more wine. ‘She died.’

Oliver’s mother died shortly after he left India. She died before the ship Oliver sailed on even reached England. His stepmother told him she’d lost her life giving birth to another of his father’s bastards. So he’d believed he’d lost a mother and a brother or sister.

It wasn’t until he was a young man that his father told him that story was not true. His father had to show him the letter he’d received from India for Oliver to believe him. His mother had died, but from a fever—or perhaps from a broken heart.

Cecilia’s face filled with sympathy. ‘I am so sorry! How very sad for you.’

He took a gulp of wine. ‘It was long ago.’

She had not commented on him being a bastard. She’d hardly blinked at that information. He was not sure why he’d even told her. He never spoke about that. Or about his mother.

He had the illusion that they were old friends who knew each other well and could trust each other. As he knew and trusted Frederick, Jacob...and Nicholas, wherever Nicholas might be. Not dead. He’d never believe Nicholas was dead. The fourth founding member of the gentlemen’s club had simply disappeared from Vitium et Virtus one night six years ago, leaving only a pool of blood in the alley and his signet ring.

‘I still miss my family.’ Her voice turned low. ‘Even though—’ She stopped abruptly and stabbed at her meat. ‘Never mind. It is foolish to wish for what one can never have.’

‘I could not agree more.’ He lifted his glass as if in a toast.

He turned the conversation to something less emotional for them both—the sights they had seen that day, their favourites and least liked.

Pretty soon the dessert was served, profiteroles and éclairs and finally coffee and liqueur.

When they left the restaurant, the shops were still open. To walk off the sumptuous dinner they strolled under the galleries and through the gardens. The Palais-Royal was filled with people and the shops were busy.

Oliver was accustomed to giving gifts to ladies whose company he enjoyed and all the ladies he knew received his gifts eagerly. He wanted something to commemorate this day, this companionship that had been unlike any other he’d experienced.

When they came upon a jewellery shop, he stopped. ‘Let us go in.’

She accepted the idea impassively and he was surprised. Most ladies would surmise they were about to receive a gift.

They gazed at necklaces and bracelets with diamonds, emeralds, rubies and garnets, but he could not discern any special interest on her part.

‘Beautiful, are they not?’ he tried, hoping she would give him a clue as to what she might like.

‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed dutifully. ‘Quite beautiful.’

He pointed out several other pieces, but she showed less interest than she had gazing at the paintings in the Louvre or at the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame.

Finally, he faced her. ‘Do you not realise, Cecilia, that I wish to buy you a gift? I am trying to discover what you would like.’

‘A gift?’ Her voice turned wary. ‘Whatever for?’

‘To commemorate our day together.’ So she might remember him as he would remember her.

She stepped back. ‘And what will you desire in return?’

He was startled. ‘In return? Why, nothing. It is a gift.’

Her eyes narrowed as if she did not believe him.

‘Heed me.’ He took a chance at touching her arm. ‘This has been a most special day. You’ve shown me sights I would not have seen nor would have appreciated had I been on my own today.’

He probably would have slept half the day and made his way to one of the dancing halls or casinos at night. In her company, he’d lost any interest in either.

One of the glass cases displayed gold lockets and other less expensive pieces.

He pointed to a necklace consisting of a single pearl on a long gold chain. ‘Let me buy you a token, then? In thanks for this day?’

She still looked leery, but she said, ‘Very well.’

He caught the attention of a clerk and purchased the necklace with the coin in his purse. As the clerk opened the glass case to remove the necklace, he turned to her. ‘Earrings to match?’

The corner of her lovely mouth quivered as if she was trying not to smile. ‘No. Do not say more or I will change my mind.’

No woman of his acquaintance would threaten to refuse a gift, especially such an inconsequential one. It was even less of a gift he might bring to Jacob’s sister or her young daughter.

Nothing about this fascinating lady was like other women he knew.

* * *

Cecilia glanced into Oliver’s hazel eyes, so unexpected paired with his darker skin, but so captivating she had to glance away again. He placed the gold chain around her neck, her skin tingling where his fingers touched as he worked the clasp. Stubble shadowed his cheeks, and his scent filled her nostrils. His face was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.

She knew this feeling, this attraction that made her want to run her hands over his stubble-roughened chin or plunge her fingers into his hair. She’d once felt a similar attraction to her husband as she felt now. This carnal aching inside her.

She’d forgotten that erotic sensation, but she had not forgotten that just because a man attracted her like a moth to a flame did not mean he was decent or honourable. It did not mean he would not change from loving to...hurtful.

‘Thank you for the gift,’ she managed.

‘My pleasure.’ His voice turned low.

He finished fastening the necklace and put an inch more space between them, enough that she could see his smile, which had its own power over her.

‘It looks fine,’ he said. ‘In fact, against your skin, it is even more pleasing than against the black velvet of the glass case.’

As compliments went this was a mild one. Did he know that a more flowery compliment would have driven her away even faster than an expensive gift would have done? Was he that clever to know precisely how to chip away at her defences?

For long moments during this day she had been able to believe he was just as he seemed—gentlemanly, kind, generous—but every once in a while her guard flew up again. Like when he asked about her husband. Like when he wanted to buy her jewels. Somehow, even in those moments, he managed to find a way around the walls she erected to keep from ever being at the mercy of a man again.

They left the shop and strolled out to the gardens, where it seemed there were many gentlemen and ladies engaged in flirtations. That only made her worry again. Was he merely charming her or was he what he seemed to be?

‘Do you know what I would like to do now?’ he asked.

Some wariness crept in. ‘What?’

‘I would like to walk along the Seine like early this morning. There is still an hour or so before the sun sets. I watched it rise there; it would be nice to see it set.’

What man desired walking? Duncan had once seemed to enjoy the strolls they took away from prying eyes when he was trying to ingratiate himself with her, but after she married him, he wanted nothing to do with walking. Just bedding.

But, then, that was all she’d wanted at first, too.

‘I should go home.’ Best she part from him while she could still think and before he did something to burst the illusion that he was a perfect gentleman.