Women of his own class whom he knew were well educated. Many cared for others, the downtrodden, the poor, the rabble. Most did it with contributions to charities. He understood compassion. He thought he had it for those less fortunate than he. And he thought he used it in his work. Emotion was the stuff of his art, carved from marble, poured into the bronze or baked into the porcelains. Yet he had never known poverty or hunger, fear or depravity. Not from others. Not from the state, not even during the horrors of the uprising of the Paris Commune six years ago. Even when the Prussians had been so beastly to so many during their occupation of France after they booted out his cousin, the second little Napoleon, Remy and his mother had not wanted for food or enjoyment or frivolity. His mother, gracious and giving had shared her staples from her cellars and clothes from her trunks. No one, especially children of the parish, had starved. Yet here in this pristine beauty was a lady who had labored in the catastrophe of war to aid others.
He was horrified that she’d seen bodies broken, bleeding, dying. He was smitten that she had done it and lived to tell of it.
He was proud of her.
He’d never felt his heart swell with so much pride. For his mother, in her largesse, for her grace and generosity, yes, he’d applauded it. So too, his applause for the peasant women who labored daily in his vineyards and farms was justified.
But this woman had walked in a living nightmare and worked to ameliorate its worst horrors.
The orchestra played on and Mrs. Roland was rapt. If he could sketch her now, even in the half view of her profile, he would draw her and call it Rapture. But to mold her in clay….
The arch of her brow, pale and long. The curve of her cheek, sharp, feline, distinctive. The straight line of her nose, small, delicate, her nostrils flaring as she flowed with the music. She was quite perfect.
The music died. The conductor turned from his musicians and strode off to the wings.
Intermission had arrived and he must steal more minutes with her alone before she dissolved in the night.
Mrs. Roland slid her program from her tiny purse and examined it.
He leaned toward her and whispered, “Allow me to show you the promenade and take you to the glacier.”
She checked her uncle and Lily, both of whom were engaged in conversations with others. “I wonder if I should.”
“You can. It is acceptable. A glass of champagne and a view of the gold in the gallery are both necessary to truly say you’ve been to the Garnier.” He stood and extended his hand. “Come with me, Madame.”
A hint of humor passed her features as she put her hand in his, then got to her feet. “I’d like that.”
He wrapped her forearm against his and led her out of the box. They passed along the marbled circle and toward a long hall glowing with bright light from gold and crystal chandeliers.
“Oh, this is so lovely. We have grand buildings in New York, but nothing to compare to this.”
They strolled along the full length of the mirrored gallery into a circular room where waiters poured champagne. She peeled back one glove from her fingers and tucked the fabric inside near her wrist so that she might hold the glass.
Remy handed her a flute and took one for himself. “To you, Madame.”
She drank, blushing. “You’re kind.”
Am I? No. I am calculating how can I get you alone and hold you in my arms.
“Do you know Monsieur Garnier?”
“I met him years ago.” He told her about the architect Garnier and the interior designs. “This took more than a decade to build. Disputes over the funding and the decor delayed construction.”
“And the final price?”
“A mystery!” He laughed as he told her about the never-ending invoices from tradesmen and stone masons and carpenters. “Many claim they will never receive their full wages. But according to the bankers, we Parisians will pay for it until the next century.”
She took a long drink of her champagne and grinned. “Ah, but some items should bear no price.”
Like your smile. “Indeed.”
She finished her drink and placed her glass on a nearby tray. He disposed of his own.
He offered his arm and they walked toward the far end of the gallery where they’d begun.
She peaked out toward the street. “May we go to the terrace?”
That she would risk censure for being alone with him in the dark surprised him. He could face criticism himself for taking her there, but he would protect her good name. He would not advance his suit too much and shame her or kill his own chances of gaining her friendship.
“If you do not wish it,” she said with a hint of humor and staunchness in her spine, “I’ll protect you from my Uncle Killian.”
He barked in laughter. “Not what I fear most.”
She threw him a winsome smile. “I won’t ask what that is. As for me, I want the air. The champagne was far too wonderful.”
The heat in her eyes as she absorbed his features fanned his hopes of kissing her. “You drank it too quickly?”
“I like it too much,” she said with a gay air of confession. “So many things here draw me.”
He hoped to be one of those. “I understand.”
“Paris inspires me to—” She glanced away, her throat working at words. Then she stopped and faced him. “I am a creature used to ordinary means but here, I am…transported. I like the gaiety, the music and—”
Me?
“I like the Parisian night. The air, the melodies of people singing in the cafes. I love the smell of bread baking in the morning and the apple trees in blossom. My grandfather Duquesne came from Rouen but he had a house here. I think I must have Paris in my blood.”
“I would say so. When did he go to America?”
“During your Revolution.”
“He was an aristocrat?” he asked.
“Papa said he was a count. But he gave up his title and his land to leave here.”
“Many did. Even my own great-grandfather and his wife emigrated to England during the Terror. Wise of them to go.”
“We should be happy because otherwise we would not be here.”
He opened the first door to the upper terrace to lead her to overlook the confluence of three wide boulevards. By now, it must be midnight. Stars twinkled like diamonds in a black velvet sky and he prayed they conspired with him so that he might enchant her.
She shivered.
He unbuttoned his coat. “Are you cold? Here.”
“Thank you.”
“Your uncle would never forgive me if you became ill because of my carelessness.” He draped the garment over her shoulders and forced himself to remove his hands from the delicate line of her body.
She strode forward, out of his reach, toward the huge concrete balustrade and leaned over it. The carriages in the streets below made muffled sounds. The wheels rolling over cobbles, the horses’ hooves clopping and the shouts of the drivers combined to give sweet cadence to the night.
“Have you always lived in Paris?” she asked him, wistful.
“I have an estate south of the city. It’s a day’s coach ride. Near a town called Tours.” He would not tell her how big the chateau was, for fear he’d seem pompous. “I spent my childhood there until I was twelve when my parents sent me to school here. I love the city. She is a curious creature, a blend of ancient and modern. Growing, improving. Raucous, dear and full of amusements.”
A few feet away, another couple—man and woman both in formal attire—appeared on the terrace. The man, murmuring husky phrases of desire to his companion, backed the lady up to the rail and, circling his arms around her, drew her close and kissed her.
Remy longed to do the same to lovely Mrs. Roland.
She saw the couple, her lips parting as she savored what she watched. Quickly she turned back to him. “The freedoms here are many.”
“We are more open about our affairs than, say, those in London or America.”
“Is there
as much censure afterward for those who commit transgressions?”
He pursed his lips. Intriguing she should ask. “For Englishmen, there is much condemnation for those who are too liberal. I rely on you to tell me of Americans. But here, we understand certain human emotions more than others.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
“Perhaps we Frenchmen have condemned others too quickly, too easily and much more harshly than others. Perhaps our revolutions have been so many—or so violent—that our inhibitions are gone. Who’s to say?”
She turned around to face him, her large eyes luminous in the light from the street gas lamps. “I could spend my whole life here.”
Could you? “And what would you do with your days?”
She smiled at her own thoughts. “I’d take an apartment where I could walk out on the roof at night and chart the stars. I’d smell the air. The garlic and the shallots.”
He loved her like this, carefree and eager for pleasure. “The bread in the morning.”
“The flowers from the market,” she continued with a little giggle. “And I’d buy a ticket to come here every night to listen to the creations of others.”
She was so charmingly impetuous.
He placed a hand on the balustrade, drawing nearer to her. “Do you play the piano? Or sing?”
She threw her head back to laugh. “I don’t play a thing. But I do sing. Last night, I did. We were in a cabaret in the Rue des Abbesses.”
Last night, she sang and I missed it? “I would have loved to have heard you.”
“No. You wouldn’t. I was horrible with my poor French but no one shouted at me. So I was satisfactory. But I saw the dancers in a cafe in the Rue des Abbesses, doing their cancan. They were risqué but wonderful in their red skirts and black stockings and garters and— What?”
Had she seen him? Had she admired him as he had her? “What did you sing?”
She cast him a rueful glance. “A ditty about a milkmaid from Lyon. It was quite naughty.”
“Do you know where you were?” His voice was a rasp. His hope was absurd.
She held her breath. “A small cabaret. The Arabesque? The Ardennes?”
He nodded, winding one of his hands around her waist. She was small, delicate. His hand spanned her back. She was finely muscled, well proportioned and strong. “The Ardennes.”
“Yes, that’s it.” She breathed heavily. “I saw you there last night.”
Did you? And what did you think of me? He stepped forward and cupped her cheek. Her skin was warm silk.
She swallowed and flexed. Through his fingers, he could feel her confusion and her fascination with him. “You are a man women notice.”
This is a mutual magnetism then. “You saw me and I am content.”
“Oh, Monsieur,” she shook her head, from her tone ready to dismiss her enchantment with him. “This is not proper.”
He touched the tip of his finger to her luscious lower lip. “But very right.”
“This is too soon.“ She would have left him.
He put his leg between her own. Her gown swirled around them in a swish. His senses vibrated to touch her lips with his own. “Time is as immaterial as money when you see what you want and decide to have it.”
Arching backward over the balustrade, she panted as she grabbed for air. “We are to be friends, Monsieur. Friends.”
“Yes, friends, Marianne.” He withdrew slightly, not wishing to frighten her. “It is ‘Marianne’ is it not? And you must give me leave to call you that. Just as to you, I am Andre.”
She shook her head. “No, sir. That is too much.”
Or too good? That we should find each other time and again among throngs? “How then do you explain the coincidence?”
“What coincidence?”
“That I saw you when you entered the cabaret, Marianne.”
Her mouth fell open.
He slid his other arm around her and pulled her against him. She fit him, her long legs against his own, her breasts and hips against his torso, making him hungry to press her naked skin to his.
She squeezed shut her eyes and pressed her face to his cravat. The feather in her little evening hat tickled his nose.
He sank his fingers into her coif. Her hair was satin. Her scalp perfectly formed. Like every other part of her, she was sublime. Christ, he’d never wanted a woman so urgently.
“Forgive me,” she said and raised her head to peer at him with trepidation and a smack of bravado. “I’ve been very forward.”
Fearful she’d fly from him, he held her gently. A tendril of her hair had escaped her pins and he curled it back over her ear. “You have?”
“You as well.” She tipped her head toward the door. “Now we must go inside. I’m cold.”
Beside them, the other couple moaned as they continued their love play.
“Marianne—” he beseeched her.
“Please, sir.” She stepped aside, her chin up, valiant and yet vanquished. “I saw you too last night. I couldn’t believe my eyes today when I saw you again in the street.”
I felt the same. He could tell her of his own surprise, but then he might not learn why she recounted it with breathless unease. “And so?”
She flowed against him. “I thought you magnificent.”
He’d been described in many ways. Huge. Rough. Inelegant. But her word infused him with incredulous joy. If he were a woman, he’d have said his knees went weak. His mind certainly did. But his hope to have her bloomed like an arbor long denied rain.
She put one hand to his jaw, her thumb outlining the edge of his lower lip. “All this might deserves…”
“What?” he asked in a whisper of his desire.
“Applause. An audience. Beauty is rare in this world.”
He bent and dropped a kiss into her bare palm. “Marianne, the beauty is in you.”
She opened her mouth, her gaze rapt on his mouth. “Monsieur—”
“Andre.”
She clamped her eyes shut, but when she opened them, she was adamant. “Andre, you are too complimentary.”
“No, ma petite, the compliment you gave me is a treasure.” He drew her closer still. “I am quite honored.”
“Oh, don’t be. After all, who am I? No equal to you.”
He urged her nearer.
“No, please, Mons—. Andre, let us go in.” She stepped backward.
And he would not compel her.
“We are of two different worlds. We would not—must not ever suit.”
He noted sorrow and despair in her countenance. And he pitied her that. Why she should think them so ill matched, appalled him. Certainly, he did not. But then, she had her reasons and he wagered they were sound to her. Whatever the particulars of her past, she had suffered. Perhaps from the brutalities of war, perhaps from loneliness or feelings of inferiority to her uncle’s household. But he could not cure such challenges with a kiss.
He would be patient. Kind. Draw out her reasonings. He perceived she’d had no one who really listened to her. And he would be that person. That confidant. That friend.
Perhaps, then he might merit becoming her lover.
That particular joy he would not do without. Not in this life nor the next.
“Come. We’ll speak of this another day.”
“No. We won’t.”
“I may call upon you, surely, if—”
“No. We will not speak and you will not call upon me.”
How Marianne endured the rest of the performance without screaming in frustration, she could not say. Stupidly, she’d foiled herself, robbed herself of a joy—an escapade—she’d dearly desired.
Gentleman that he was, Andre had not argued, but escorted her back to Carbury’s box. Like two statues, they had sat beside each other until the bitter end.
Minutes later when the lights came up, the two of them rose and conversed, mingled and laughed with the rest of their party. Nothing seemed amiss. Andre was a good actor and she pretended so ea
sily. Chastising herself for lying to them all, she wished she could sprout wings to fly away.
Andre rose, his expression hopeful as his blue eyes met hers and held. “Shall we adjourn to a café for refreshments?”
Marianne almost applauded him. Charming man, he was not deterred by a woman’s rejection.
“Forgive me.” Lily was first to respond. “I’ve enjoyed this tremendously, but I fear I must return home. It’s been a very long day. Excuse me, please. But Papa, if you wish to continue the evening, do.”
Marianne breathed more easily when Uncle Killian made his own excuses. They would leave, thank heavens.
The party reclaimed their coats and made their way down the massive staircase, into the rotunda and on to the portiere where the carriages lined up.
Andre and his friend, Lord Chelton, were perfect gentlemen, seeing them into their carriage and bidding them a polite good evening.
From her vantage point in Uncle Killian’s town coach as they drove off, Marianne had a long view of Andre Claude Marceau. It must be the last time she saw him. For a very long time, at least.
Because if they met again, she must be stronger. More careful. Less irrepressible. She must have learned to school her interest in him. How to do that, she was not aware. But she would. Must.
For when they met again, she must not fall once more under his spell. She would not permit it. He was so much man. Too much for her. And though she yearned for a lover, she never would take one who would seek to control her.
Never.
Chapter 3
February 20, 1878
Ile de la Cite, Paris
“Enjoy yourself,” Marianne told Lily. They stood at the entrance to Lily’s favorite book store near the Conciergerie. “The other day when we were out, I spied a milliner’s shoppe whose hats I rather liked.”
“But don’t you want to come inside and browse?” Lily pushed up her fur collar against the chill wind along the Seine. “You’ve finished your latest Trollope. You said so last night.”
“I didn’t care for it as much as his last few.” Marianne made a face, then patted her green plaid toque. “And I do need a new chapeau.”
Daring Widow: Those Notorious Americans, Book 2 Page 5