Diane Gaston – A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake (страница 7)
They left the Palais-Royal.
‘I will escort you home, then,’ Oliver said.
‘It is not necessary.’ She did not want him to know that she lived in a small room near the theatres, casinos, gentlemen’s clubs and maisons closes or houses of prostitution.
He frowned. ‘I would feel remiss to merely send you on your way alone.’
‘I was alone when you met me,’ she reminded him.
‘Still, I would not forgive myself if any harm came to you.’
She made a face. ‘How would you know? You leave tomorrow. We will never see each other again.’ Her throat tightened at her words and she feared tears would sting her eyes.
He gave her an imploring look. ‘All the more reason not to say goodbye so soon. Stay with me to watch the sunset.’
Those captivating eyes seemed to pull her in.
What harm would it do? Besides, she wanted to stay with him; she wanted to keep this lovely illusion that such a kind, handsome, charming man existed, a man who wanted nothing from her but her company.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will stay with you to watch the sunset.’
They walked through the Paris streets to the stairs leading to the Seine. There were walkways on both sides of the river with other couples strolling, street vendors plying their wares, other men and women hurrying to and fro.
‘I am glad to walk off my meal.’ He patted his stomach.
‘It was delicious.’ The best meal she’d had since Brussels three years ago when Duncan had taken her to fine restaurants.
Then Duncan received the letter from her father saying he would never provide her dowry or any money at all. After that everything changed.
But it had not changed in a day. Certainly not in an evening. So, perhaps she could pretend Oliver could be trusted to be a gentleman for one evening.
As the sun dropped lower in the sky, the evening took on a magical quality.
Oliver seemed to catch the magic as well. ‘I had been told of the beauty of Paris, but I confess I did not believe in it...’ He paused and looked down at her. ‘Until this day.’
She fingered the pearl that nestled almost between her breasts. ‘You have more than paid me back.’
He touched her arm and made her face him. ‘This was not a gift for recompense, but for remembrance.’
As if she would be able to forget him. A man who behaved as a friend and stirred her like a lover.
They resumed their stroll. ‘I have been here almost three years and I cannot tire of its beauty.’
The conversation that had come so easily to them when they were sharing the sights lost its ease. There was too much she wished to conceal. Let him think she was an English lady living on a small income here in Paris. Sometimes she felt that was exactly what she was.
She did not fit into this Parisian world any better than he must fit into the British aristocracy. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to him.
‘You told me earlier a little of India, but do you remember what it looked like?’ she asked, truly wanting to know about the distant foreign land that was in his blood. ‘I have read it also is a beautiful place.’
He took several steps before answering. ‘I remember lush gardens filled with fragrant flowers and pools of water. My mother’s house was filled with colour, woven carpets, fragrant sandalwood, and soft cushions instead of chairs. My father’s house, on the other hand, was typically English. He wore his jama when with my mother, but on the other side, he dressed like he’d come from his tailor on Bond Street.’
‘What is a jama?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘A bit like a dress, actually. I wore a jama as well. They were cooler than British clothes.’
She threaded her arm through his and rested her head against his shoulder. All the wine they’d consumed made her languorous—and loosened her control. ‘Tell me something else about India.’
‘I remember the streets of Calcutta being crowded and noisy and alternately perfumed and putrid.’ He paused. ‘I remember elephants and camels and scantily dressed men charming snakes.’
‘Snakes.’ She shuddered.
He went on talking about spices and tigers and Hindu gods. His voice lulled her and her eyes grew heavy. It was so comfortable to hold his arm, to lean against him.
To not be alone.
He stopped and put his arm around her. ‘You are falling asleep. Time to take you to your home.’
Leave him? She should never have agreed to walk along the river with him. The alchemy of the setting sun turned the sky into yellows and oranges, making the water appear to sparkle with gold. She felt its riches and dreaded going back to the emotional deprivation that was her life.
‘Not to my home,’ she murmured.
‘Where to then?’ His voice vibrated inside her.
‘To your hotel.’
Cecilia knew precisely what she was saying to him. What she was offering. She wanted to pretend a little longer. She wanted everything that she thought she’d have with her husband, even if for only a night.
‘Are you certain?’ he asked. ‘This is not the wine speaking?’
The wine had given her courage. ‘I do not want our night to end, Oliver. I want all it can offer us.’
She did not want the magic to end.
They crossed the Place Louis XV, which had been called the Place de la Concorde after the Revolution, and walked to Rue Saint-Honoré to where Oliver’s hotel, Le Meurice, was located. A doorman opened the huge wrought-iron door for them and the attendant in the hall greeted Oliver by name. Other guests passed them without comment.
In London, a gentleman would have had to sneak a woman up to his room or risk being asked to leave the hotel. In Paris, no one took any notice.
Oliver led Cecilia up the three flights of stairs to his room. It was a comfortable space with a sitting area and a separate bedroom and dressing room. His valet stayed in a room next door and would come only if Oliver summoned him.
Oliver opened the door and stepped aside for Cecilia to enter. She walked to the centre of the room and stood as if uncertain she wanted to be there.
He closed the door and removed his hat and gloves. ‘Are you wishing I had walked you home instead?’
She turned to him, looking surprised.
He softened his voice. ‘It is not too late, Cecilia. I will take you home if that is what you desire.’
She pulled off her own gloves and removed her bonnet. ‘I do not desire you to take me home.’
He stepped forward to take her shawl. His fingers skimmed her determinedly squared shoulders.
‘Then tell me why you suddenly seem as taut as a bowstring.’
‘Do I?’ She attempted a smile, which disappeared as quickly. ‘I was remembering something...unpleasant.’
He put his arm around her and guided her to the sofa. ‘Come sit and do not think of unpleasant things. I will pour us some champagne.’
He was filled with desire for her, which had surged when she proposed coming to his hotel. He’d been on fire ever since. But she was different from other women he’d pursued. She was not a conquest; he liked her too much.
She was mysterious and sad, but strong, as well. He wanted to know why. He wanted to know everything, so he could make her smile again.
She gazed around while he opened and poured the champagne. ‘This is a lovely room.’
He recognised, after this whole day, that she relied on typical society conversation when her guard was up. He knew many women who knew of no other kind of conversation, no matter what.
How was he to put her at ease?
He handed her the glass of champagne. ‘It looks remarkably like a room in the Clarendon Hotel on Bond Street, but then, Le Meurice is known to cater to British visitors.’
‘It is quite comfortable.’
Oliver felt as if he was losing her.
He sat next to her on the sofa. ‘Cecilia, nothing will happen here that you do not want. I have enjoyed this day with you. I will not spoil it now.’
She smiled wanly. ‘You must think me very absurd. To offer myself so blatantly, then to act like the silliest ninnyhammer.’