Baroness

by Susan May Warren

  He seemed very much like one of Zane Grey’s hero cowboys.

  “Okay, Mister Dupree. You may walk with me.”

  “Rennie. Actually, it’s Reynaud, but the chaps shortened it during the war.”

  He scattered blue-feathered pigeons before him as they walked down the street. A little boy ran up, dressed in suspenders, and offered up a handful of tiny budded flowers. She shook her head, but the fragrance followed her.

  “Is this your first time in Paris, Miss Hoyt?”

  “Lilly, please.”

  “For now, perhaps.” He winked.

  She could, she supposed, just return home. But, even as she walked in the company of this handsome stranger, she felt Rosie’s tethers upon her loosen. Perhaps it was her too-brief stroll through the Palais Royal, perhaps the adventure that lurked inside her, fed by the pages of her Zane Grey novels.

  She’d walk to the footbridge, be done with him, and harbor this tiny excursion in her heart.

  “Your family is…,” he asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants.

  “Back home, in New York.”

  “I’m from just south of the province of Montreal,” he said.

  “You’re from Canada.”

  “Originally from Winnipeg, although my family hails from the eastern side of the country. But I haven’t been home since the war.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Too much life still to rescue, and nothing of obligation to call me home.”

  “What about your family?”

  “I have no one. My brother was killed in the war, and my mother died shortly thereafter. My father died years ago from hard work and a bad heart.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “He loved what he did. That’s enough, I suppose, for any length of life. What brings you to Paris?”

  “My mother sent me away with my cousin for the season—I think she hopes to knock the brooding from me.”

  “You’re too pretty a girl to brood.”

  She glanced at him, his comment jarring her off her gait. Pretty? He had a nice smile, however, and seemed suddenly abashed by his own comment as he looked away.

  Pretty.

  She allowed his compliment to find soft soil in her heart. “It’s just that, I don’t much like New York. Or Paris. I don’t belong here.”

  He made a face, shook his head. “Clearly, we’ll have to remedy that.”

  Vendors hawking the Chronicle called for her attention. Apparently, they also beckoned her tour guide, because Rennie veered to the curb and picked up a copy. She read her mother’s name on the masthead, along with Oliver’s.

  “I’d give anything for a novel in English,” Lilly said, picking up a dime novel written in French. She was sounding out the headline when he sidled up beside her.

  “Wild Bill Cody and Calamity Jane.” He translated the words. “The legends of the West. I wonder if they ever really existed.”

  “They’re real. I used to live in Montana. You’d be surprised—”

  He laughed. “Please. I grew up chasing prairie dogs and herding cattle. These stories are a bit more embellished.” He eased the book from her hand, his eyes warm, knowing. “How would you like to find some real books?”

  “In English?”

  He smiled. “Of course.” The little tuck in his cheek belied the mischief in his eyes. “If I promise to return you to the Café a la Paix, would you allow me to show you a bit of Paris? I believe you will find it not as wretched as you imagine.”

  His offer made her catch her breath. What if…what if she intentionally lost herself in Paris, just for a day? Tried to find the beauty, even her place in this world? Then she might happily return to Rosie’s keeping.

  No. Rosie might get into trouble without her.

  Except, that seemed to be exactly what Rosie wanted—to be rid of Lilly. And Rennie Dupree might be just the joie de vivre that Rosie hoped for her.

  At least for one delicious afternoon.

  She considered him. He had a woundedness about him, something broken in his eyes, and they tugged at her.

  Oh, how much trouble, truly, could Rosie find by herself for a day?

  “It’s becoming less wretched by the moment,” Lilly said softly and slipped her hand through his arm.

  Indeed, she might become Parisian after all.

  Chapter 2

  “Lilly isn’t going to show up, Rosie. Let’s go.”

  As she spoke, the smoke puffed from Blanche’s mouth, dissipating into the clutter of conversation and commotion of the Café a la Paix. A bright wind had bullied away the clouds, and the sun burned down from a cheerful azure sky. Around them, patrons read newspapers or simply watched street traffic along the Champs-Elysees, most of them nursing a cup of café noir.

  Rosie turned away from her, her own café au lait long finished, along with a plate of strawberry crepes, and scanned again the crowd that perched at the street-side tables. “Certainly we didn’t miss her. We’ve been here for two hours.”

  “I told you that she’d probably gone straight home. I’ll wager she’s sitting in the alcove of her window, rereading one of those horrendous dime novels. I promise you that she won’t mind an afternoon off.”

  “What if she’s lost?”

  Blanche switched her long, pearl-handled cigarette lighter into her other hand. “And what of it? She’ll find her way home. Perhaps it might do her well to find a day to herself in Paris. Imagine if—”

  “Imagine my mother packing us all up and sending us back to New York. That’s exactly what will happen when she discovers I’ve abandoned Lilly. No, I need to go home, make sure she’s arrived safely.”

  And then what? Rosie had no trouble seeing Lilly just as Blanche described her—tucked with her knees up under her skirt, reading in the sunlight. She’d be content for hours.

  She wouldn’t even miss Rosie, most likely.

  “Dash and Pembrook have a tennis match this afternoon. Please don’t tell me you’d rather retrieve your interminable cousin than see Dash be walloped by Pembrook.”

  “Dash will most undoubtedly triumph.”

  Blanche smiled, the sun touching her nose despite her hat. “Lilly is fine. It’s Dash and Pem who need us. Who else do they have to show off for?”

  Rosie found a grin.

  Dash was up by two games by the time they threaded their way onto the bleachers at the Tennis Club de Paris. Pembrook looked smart and British in a pair of white flannel pants and a cardigan, his brown hair loose in the wind, his eyes darting to the stands long enough to lose the return from Dash.

  “Rosie! Already my good luck charm!” Dash yelled into the stands, earning a glance from others in the gallery. He didn’t seem winded in the least, his raven-dark hair slicked back, looking fit in a vest and dark flannel pants. He might stand shorter than Pem, but he had the shoulders of a football player. Rosie had heard rumors that he’d played the sport at Harvard last year.

  The men’s league filled up the courts today, although the official games had already occurred. It seemed Dash and Pem waged a gentleman’s game as no linesman stood at the net for accountability.

  “Trounce him, Pem,” Blanche shouted, not caring what glances she drew. “Then he can owe us dinner.”

  Dash shook his head, pointing at Blanche with his racquet. “And if I win, you will owe me a dance.”

  She giggled, and Rosie refused to encourage her. But then Dash glanced back at her. “And the rest will be for you.”

  Oh, Dash.

  However, “Only if you win,” she shouted back.

  He grinned, a row of perfect white teeth, and heat curled inside her. Rosie tucked her hands together as she watched Dash take the next point.

  “I wish you knew how to play,” Rosie said to Blanche as one of the men’s courts opened up. The women’s league started later in the day, and before her mother left for Belgium, Rosie had considered joining one for the summer. “We could
have our own match.”

  “What about Lilly?” Blanche said.

  “She tried, but the sport seemed too mundane for her.” Rosie winked at Blanche. “No bucking broncos, no wild herd of buffalo. She does, however, long for the outdoors. Perhaps I could persuade her to take lessons.”

  With the wind rustling the chestnut trees towering over the clay courts and the sound of the racquets swatting the ball, the birds warbling around them, an afternoon game of tennis might aptly resemble a walk in the park.

  Maybe Rosie could convince Dash to teach them both.

  He backhanded his shot neatly into the far corner of Pem’s court.

  “Out!” Pem shouted.

  Dash whirled around, another ball already in his grip. “Out? Pem, are you blind? That was in by a half-mile.”

  “Out,” Pem repeated.

  Dash glanced at the girls. “Rosie? You saw it, right?”

  “Looked in to me.” The voice came from behind her, and Rosie turned to see Lady Frances standing behind them. She carried her racquet, secured in a square, and wore a white linen dress that showed her ankles. A headband and a quaint blue-and-green checkered sailor’s tie at her neck marked the colors of the club. She grinned over Rosie’s head at Dash.

  “See, Frankie says it was in,” Dash yelled to Pembrook.

  Rosie stood up. “I saw it. It was most definitely in. Dash’s point.”

  “That’s my girl,” Dash said, but Rosie couldn’t be sure to whom he might be referring.

  Blanche glanced back at Frankie, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Are you in the women’s league?”

  Frankie nodded. “But Dash said he’d give me some pointers after his match, help me with my backhand.”

  She waved again to Dash as she walked away, toward the ladies’ locker room. Rosie shot a look at her departing figure, slender and regal. “Where is she from, anyway?”

  “Belgium. She was married to some count, but they divorced last year. I hear she’s engaged to an Austrian of some nobility, but no one can track him down. She’s got a fix on Dash, it seems.”

  “It seems.”

  The gallery of straw-hatted men in the far bleachers watched Frankie waggle by as she rounded the court and disappeared into a private entrance door.

  “We’ll glue his eyes back on you,” Blanche said, leaning toward her. “Tomorrow at the pony races. You’ll have him all to yourself. Pem and I will make sure of it.” She followed her words with a wink, and Rosie wished she had Blanche’s gall. Blanche had no problem showing her knees to Pembrook, or shooting back a glass of Pernod, or even learning the Charleston, the newest craze to hit Paris.

  Rosie just wanted to keep up.

  “Service,” Dash yelled, and stretched as he threw his tennis ball in the air.

  No, she wanted more than to keep up.

  She wanted to win.

  “What time does the train leave tomorrow?” she asked as Dash aced Pembrook for the game.

  “Seven. I know it’s early, darling.” She leaned closer to her. “Perhaps we should simply stay up all night. Dance the night away at the Napolitain.”

  Dash and Pembrook met at the net and shook hands, although Pem wore a scowl.

  “Oh dear. I will have to be on my best cheery behavior tonight if I hope to get a smile out of Pembrook.” Blanche rose. “He is always so glum when he’s bested in tennis.”

  Dash picked up a towel and his bag and came over to the fence. Sweat streaked down his face, and he blotted his forehead. “Wait for me? We’ll dine at the Petite Rabbit tonight, near the Left Bank. It’s supposed to be uninhabited by the American étranger.” He used his terrible accent, but added a wink. “We’ll remedy that.”

  “I have to get home. I lost Lilly.” But as soon as the words left Rosie’s mouth, Frankie exited the locker room, swinging her racquet, heading back in their direction. Rosie didn’t miss Dash’s glance, then full attention upon the countess.

  Frankie waved. “Dashielle!”

  “Perhaps I’ll wait,” Rosie said. “Lilly is most likely at home, reading.”

  “I won’t be long,” Dash said, but Rosie caught Blanche’s rolled eye expression.

  “We’ll be in the salon, for lemonade. Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” Blanche slid her arm into the crook of Pembrook’s.

  “I’ll wait for Dash,” Rosie said, her voice tight.

  The sun seemed extraordinarily hot for March, bleeding into her skin, turning it slick, despite the afternoon breezes as she watched Dash instruct Frankie, who knew perfectly well how to manage the backhand stroke, Rosie guessed.

  It seemed that Frankie fit perfectly in his embrace. He had strong arms and even laughed once, the sound of it carrying across the lawn courts and simmering inside her.

  Finally Frankie scooted off for her game and Dash found his way back to Rosie. “You’re a good chap, waiting for me, Rosie.” He nicked her on the chin with his finger. “I’m famished. How about a refreshment?” He winked. Undoubtedly he meant something more bracing than lemonade.

  She got up and slipped her arm through his when he offered it. And glanced back at Frankie, lining up for her serve.

  Lilly would be accompanying Rosie to the pony races if she had to drag her cousin by her long, annoying braids.

  They found Pembrook and Blanche in the salon. Pem excused himself with Dash, and the pair retreated to the locker room to change.

  “Try this, Rosie.” Blanche handed her what looked like a lemonade. She took a sip and her lips puckered, the moisture sucked from her mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “A brandy smash. It’s very chic.”

  Rosie wrinkled her nose but ordered the drink anyway. Thankfully, by the time it arrived, Dash saved her by appearing in a suit and bow tie and smelling of some exotic spice. He offered her his arm and didn’t look back once at the courts as they left.

  She’d hardly dressed for dining when she left the flat that morning, but by the time the shadows sunk around them, and they’d had to wait for their table at le Petite Rabbit—apparently the word leaked out about no foreigners—she’d forgotten that she hadn’t colored her eyes or feathered her hair. Dash poured those smoky eyes into hers, however, and she barely tasted her roast chicken.

  Or, thought once of Lilly.

  They walked home along the Seine, Notre Dame Cathedral shining against the night, the stars above the bright lights of a grand performance.

  Accordion and banjo music floated out from the cafés as they walked up the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, the music mixing with the murmuring of voices of those dining on outdoor terraces. The moon came out to join them and hung low, peeking between the greening linden trees, the redolence of spring twining toward the blackened river.

  A sailor tottered by, his arm about the shoulders of a girl wearing the war years in her young eyes. He carried a bottle of wine in his grip and raised it to toast them as they walked by, saying something to Blanche in a curdled British brogue.

  “What did he want?” Dash said over his shoulder to Pem.

  “He asked if we knew the way to Scotland.”

  They laughed, and Rosie felt Dash slip his hand into hers. Warm and strong, he wove his fingers through hers and tucked her close to him.

  Pem and Blanche fell back, stopping at a wooden footbridge. It seemed as if Dash had no compunction to wait for them. He wandered down to a grassy patch and settled them on a bench. The Seine lapped against the shore, a whisper as the moon traced a finger down the middle.

  “A guy could fall in love with you, Rosie, if you gave him a little encouragement.” He ran his hand under her chin, drew her face to his.

  “He could?” Oh, too much hope in her voice, but she didn’t mind it when Dash smiled and leaned close.

  “Could be halfway there, already.”

  Then, just as she hoped, he slid his hand to her face and kissed her. He tasted of wine and sweet dark chocolate, and she let herself into his arms, returning the kiss. He ran
his arms around her and pulled her closer, deepening his ardor, and the adventure in it ignited something dangerous inside her. She curled her arms up around his shoulders and hung on.

  He finally eased away, left her hungry for more, and smiled down at her. “You are a lovely thing, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?”

  He tweaked her on the nose and winked, pressing another kiss to her lips as he caught her face in his hands. “Of course.”

  She leaned against him, settling into his arms, relishing them around her. “I went to Sarah Bernhardt’s funeral today. All of Paris turned out for it.”

  He had his lips against her neck.

  “Wouldn’t that be grand? To see your name on a marquee? To have strangers throw you flowers and weep over you?”

  He had his arm around her shoulders, drawing her back to him. She heard him chuckle, a low rumble in his chest. “Rosie. You have such fancy dreams.”

  She leaned away from him, turned. He met her eyes, humor in them.

  “Don’t you think I could be an actress? Maybe in the picture shows?”

  His gaze dipped to her mouth, back up to her eyes. “I think you are a pretty girl on the loose in Paris who’s had too much Pernod.” He tried to touch his forehead to hers, but she jerked away.

  “I haven’t had a drop to drink tonight. Besides, you’re one to talk, Dash. Fresh out of Harvard, your father’s millions in your back pocket, idling away your life in Paris. You’re the one who’s had too much Pernod.”

  “C’mon, Red, don’t be sore. Sure, you could be in the movies. It’s just that I think you’re destined for a different life. Your father has millions—”

  “He’s my stepfather—”

  “And he’ll want to marry you off to some wealthy duke who can give you a title and keep you in diamonds.”

  She wanted to slap him then, something brash and hot inside her. “What if I don’t want that? What if I think marriage is outdated and bourgeoisie? What if I don’t plan to ever get married?”

  The last thing she expected was his slow, languid smile. “Doesn’t mean you can’t fall in love, right?”

  When he kissed her again, she had already agreed. He confused her so, and her breath caught in her chest when he pulled away, kissed her forehead, her eyes.