by Anita Hughes
“I’m not the bride yet,” she said, feeling her body reach and tip.
He moved faster and she didn’t think about anything except the delicious glow and her body being wrenched apart. The endless waves carried her over the edge and she wondered how anything could be so good.
* * *
“WE HAVE TO practice for the wedding night,” he murmured, draping his arm around her waist.
Isabel thought of Rory’s lack of a job and moving to San Francisco. The emerald ring glittered in the afternoon sun and she thought she’d worry about it tomorrow.
* * *
NOW ISABEL GAZED at the tables piled with books at Shakespeare and Company and thought she really had to concentrate on Antoine.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” a male voice said. “Can I help you?”
Isabel looked up and blushed, as if the bookseller could tell what she was thinking.
“I’m looking for a book on the French aristocracy.” She smoothed her hair. “I need to know everything, from the Middle Ages to Napoleon. I took French in high school and at Bryn Mawr, but they never teach you anything except the French Revolution.” She paused. “There must be other interesting facts besides how many dresses Marie Antoinette wore every day and who was allowed in Louis XVI’s bedchamber.
“Though that period is fascinating. Have you ever seen Dangerous Liaisons? It’s one of my favorite movies. All those gorgeous châteaux with elaborate gardens perfect for clandestine meetings,” she sighed. “These days you can’t hide anywhere, we all have GPS on our iPhones.”
“We don’t have anything at the moment.” The man clicked through the computer screen.
“This is Shakespeare and Company, it’s the most famous bookstore in the world.” She pointed to the shelves that reached the ceiling. “Surely you have something on the feudal system or the court of the Sun King?”
“All our books are in English, and there is not a great demand for works on the French aristocracy.”
“That’s the problem with Americans, they’re only interested in themselves,” she sighed. “I learned about the Civil War every year from the fifth grade, but I never studied the Wars of the Roses.”
“Perhaps come back tomorrow, we get used books every day.”
“If you don’t have a single book on the aristocracy, one is hardly going to walk in off the street.” She frowned. “It’s very important, I met a French comte and he asked for my phone number.” She stopped and her eyes were huge. “But if I don’t know the difference between noblesse de lettres and noblesse d’épée, he might not be interested in me at all.”
“You seem to know a lot about French history.” He grinned. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”
“I always read the part of the textbook the teacher didn’t go over in class.” She nodded. “But it’s not enough, I have almost a thousand years to cover.”
Isabel was about to walk onto the street when she heard a voice behind her. She turned and saw an old man with gray hair. He wore a faded blazer and tan slacks.
“I overheard you saying you needed a book on the French aristocracy,” he said. “I think I can help.”
“How could you do that?” she asked.
“Come with me.” He led her to the back of the store. He climbed a ladder and pulled a thick book off the shelf.
“The Noble Regime was written by a professor at the Sorbonne and translated into English.” He handed it to her.
“How did you find it?” she gasped.
“Young people think the answer to everything is in a computer.” He shrugged. “But some things exist even if they’re not in a database.”
“This is wonderful.” She flipped through the pages and her face broke into a smile. “How can I thank you?”
He hesitated and then he looked at Isabel. “Can I tell you a story?”
“Of course,” she said. “You just gave me a wonderful gift.”
“Forty years ago I fell in love with an American who was living in Paris as an au pair,” he began. “She wanted to get married, but I was a struggling writer and had nothing to give her. The day she was supposed to leave she appeared at my door.
“She said she didn’t care if we lived in a two-room flat in Montmartre and could never afford a holiday, we had to be together,” he continued. “Our lives were no great success story, I became a teacher and she worked as a florist. She died six months ago, but she left me with memories that will last forever. If you found true love with this comte, hold onto it.”
“That’s a wonderful story.” Isabel’s eyes glistened. “I’m sure she was beautiful.”
He walked to the door and turned around. “I never even noticed.”
* * *
ISABEL STROLLED ALONG the Boulevard Saint-Michel and hugged the book to her chest. The rain had stopped and a thick mist settled on the roofs.
Paris really was a magical place. First she met the fortune-teller, and then the woman at Le Printemps suggested the perfect gown to wear at the ball, and now a complete stranger discovered a book about the French aristocracy.
Couples held hands on the sidewalk and Isabel inhaled the scent of cigarettes and fresh baguettes. All she had to do was go back to her suite at the Crillon and wait for Antoine to call. Then her future would begin.
chapter seven
Alec sat on the blue velvet sofa and tucked the napkin under his chin. The silver tray held waffles with maple syrup and strawberry jam. There was a fruit salad and warm brioche with melted butter. He ate a bite of poached Scottish salmon and thought nothing had ever tasted so good.
* * *
HE HAD WOKEN up early and sketched until lunchtime. Then he glanced at the rain falling on the Place de la Concorde and decided he wasn’t going to risk getting pneumonia for an overpriced crepe at a crowded café. The room service menu lay before him and he picked up the phone.
* * *
NOW HE FIDDLED with his fork and glanced at the sketch of Gus standing in a forest. A witch appeared with a basket of apples. Gus chose the green apple but realized it was poisoned and switched it behind his back. He handed the poisoned apple to the witch, and she took a bite and collapsed onto the forest floor.
He ate a bite of grapefruit and thought Bettina was probably on her way to 40 Rue de Passy right now. He couldn’t let her evict Claudia, but he didn’t know how to stop her.
If only Celine hadn’t run off to Australia, Claudia could be picking out new carpets instead of worrying how she was going to get her antique bedroom set into a fourth-floor flat. That’s if Bettina let her take her own bed—she probably would stand at the door with a checklist of items that belonged in the house.
It was his fault. If he had told Celine about his father’s will, she might never have left. But what if she thought he was marrying her to protect his mother? And families didn’t share their secrets; it wasn’t right.
The salmon got stuck in his throat, and he remembered when they received a dinner invitation from Bettina. It was a few days after the luncheon at his mother’s house and he and Celine were having breakfast in his kitchen.
* * *
ALEC GLANCED AT the ivory card stock and frowned. Bettina had never invited him to anything in her life, and now she was requesting his and Celine’s presence at an intimate soiree. He pictured making conversation about the prime minister and the plans to expand Disneyland Paris and choked on his coffee.
“Are you all right?” Celine looked up from her soft-boiled egg. “You’re quite pale.”
He stuffed the card in the envelope and tossed it on the table. It was rare that Celine stayed at his flat, and he hoped they’d spend the day eating berries and making love in bed.
“Bettina invited us to dinner at her town house.” Alec grimaced. “I’ve only been there once. She has a houseboy who takes your shoes, and after you leave she checks the artwork for fingerprints.”
“She was perfectly nice at lunch,” Celine said. “I don’t know what you’re wor
ried about.”
“Bettina is like a fox. She’d look good as a coat, but you wouldn’t want to meet her in the forest.”
“We should go.” Celine peeled an orange. “I want to get to know your family.”
He poured cream into his coffee and flinched. What if Bettina tried to cause a rift between them so they called off the wedding? But how could he admit his fears to Celine when he’d never told her his mother’s situation in the first place?
His falling in love with Celine and wanting to get married was just a lucky coincidence.
“I’ll RSVP that we’d be delighted,” Alec sighed, sipping the coffee and wondering when the cream went sour.
* * *
ALEC CLUTCHED HIS wineglass and glanced at the salon, with its white silk sofas and silver wallpaper. He should have asked Bettina for a Chardonnay instead of the Burgundy. If he got red wine on the white wool carpet, she’d drag him to the Bastille.
No wonder Édouard hadn’t proposed. He was probably afraid he’d track in a bit of dirt and Bettina would serve him divorce papers. The marble bar was set with silver goblets and Alec felt like he’d wandered into a restricted area of the Louvre.
He’d have to drink three glasses of wine to get through the evening, and he’d wake up tomorrow with a pounding headache. But then he glanced at Celine in a yellow silk dress and sapphire earrings and his heart lifted. Nothing terrible could happen while she was sitting beside him.
“I want you to meet our friends Gil and Elaine.” Bettina brought out a platter of spinach canapés. “Gil is the head of the neurology department at Édouard’s hospital, and Elaine works at the Swiss embassy.” She paused and her smile was bright. “She doesn’t speak as many languages as Celine, but I think you’ll have a lot in common.”
“What do you do?” Elaine turned to Alec.
“Alec draws pictures of dogs for children’s books,” Bettina explained, handing Alec a plate.
Alec opened his mouth, but he caught sight of Celine chatting with Édouard and gulped. He promised himself he wouldn’t respond to Bettina.
“His name is Gus.” He stuffed a canapé in his mouth. “And he’s a cocker spaniel.”
They moved into the dining room and sat at the long mahogany table. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and the chairs were purple velvet. Alec peered at the framed Matisse and cabinet filled with Lalique crystals and wondered why a single woman wanted a dining room that belonged in Versailles.
“Tell us about the wedding,” Bettina said, ladling cream of asparagus soup into porcelain bowls.
“The ceremony will be at Cathédrale Notre-Dame, and the reception will be in the Salon Louis XIII of the George Cinq.” Celine tore apart a baguette. “Did you know that during World War II the hotel built a secret wine cellar and kept it safe from the Nazis? Now they have almost fifty thousand bottles and the oldest is a 1792 Madeira.” She stopped and laughed. “I had to convince my father we didn’t need a two-hundred-year-old bottle of sweet wine at our wedding.”
“Celine and I both studied history at the Sorbonne,” Bettina said to Elaine. “Higher education is so important. When we have children, we might send them abroad to St. Andrews or even Oxford.”
Alec almost blurted out that both universities would be even more ancient by the time Bettina and Édouard had children, but he took a long gulp of wine.
“We would like to host an engagement party,” Bettina said, turning to Celine. “Nothing fancy, we’ll take over a private room at Tour d’Argent. Perhaps you could give us a guest list.”
“How thoughtful, we’d love to,” Celine beamed.
“It’s important to be a family, especially since our father died.” Bettina smoothed her hair. “When will you move into 40 Rue de Passy?”
“Why would we move there?” Celine asked. “I’m fond of Claudia, but I can’t imagine living together.”
“Celine works long hours, she doesn’t want to come home to a big house with cracked plaster and temperamental heating.” Alec gripped his wineglass so tightly he thought it would shatter. “The apartment on the Rue Saint-Honoré has a lovely garden and the location is so central.”
He reached for a baguette and caught his sleeve in the soup tureen. The bowl teetered and splattered green soup on the floral rug.
“God, I’m terribly sorry.” He crouched down and dabbed the green stain with his napkin.
“Now I remember why our father made us eat in the kitchen during dinner parties.” Bettina appeared beside him. “You were always clumsy.”
“You can hardly see it,” Alec said hotly, staring at the rug. “It looks like an extra leaf.”
* * *
“THAT WAS WORSE than sitting through a Truffaut retrospective,” Alec said, sipping a glass of scotch.
They had finally gotten through the roasted duck with aubergine and strawberry flambé for dessert and were sitting in Celine’s living room.
“Bettina’s apartment is beautiful.” Celine took off her sapphire earrings. “And the peach sorbet was delicious.”
“If you like living inside a Fabergé egg,” Alec snapped. “I knew we shouldn’t have gone. She handpicked Gil and Elaine to belittle me.”
“What do you mean?” Celine asked.
“Elaine is not as pretty or as accomplished as you, but she is dating the head of the neurology department. With your looks and qualifications, you should be engaged to the minister of health,” he spluttered. “And she never lets me forget she attended the Sorbonne and I went to arts school.” He paused. “As if we sat around coloring with crayons.”
“She is planning our engagement party.” Celine smiled.
“That’s another thing. She knows I don’t have any friends besides Mathieu. And she still thinks of him as the grungy teenager who smoked my father’s Gauloises.”
“What do you mean you don’t have friends?” Celine asked.
“Men don’t have friends,” he explained. “They don’t talk when women aren’t around, they just grunt at the television.”
“You’re imagining things. You are not children anymore, you’re both adults.” Celine took off her stockings. “But why did she ask if we were moving into 40 Rue de Passy?”
Alec gulped and thought he should tell Celine the truth. She would understand his sister was poisonous and they would stay away from her. But was it any way to start a marriage to show his own family’s imperfections? And how would she feel about him if she knew his sister was a wolf in sheep’s clothing?
He put the scotch on the side table and crossed the room. He drew Celine to her feet and kissed her.
“We’ve talked about Bettina enough.” He slipped his hand beneath her dress. “There are more important things to do.”
“Like what?” Celine said and laughed.
He brushed her inner thigh with his fingers and kissed her collarbone. She clutched his shoulders and murmured his name, and suddenly he felt like he could do anything.
He unzipped his slacks and let them drop to the floor. He picked her up and laid her on the sofa.
“Somebody will see us,” she whispered. “We should go to the bedroom.”
But he stroked her nipples and didn’t care about anything except her luscious breasts and smooth thighs.
She leaned against the cushions and guided him inside her. The sensations built up and he pushed so fiercely he was afraid she might break. Then she cried out and her body shook and he collapsed beside her.
Celine stood up to grab a robe, and he waited until his breathing was even. He had been acting like a child. From now on he would be a man.
* * *
THERE WAS A knock at the door and Alec got up to answer it.
“You look like the king of Spain during his exile.” Mathieu entered the suite and shook out his umbrella. “A roaring fire in the marble fireplace, brandy snifter on the coffee table, selection of international newspapers laid out on the sideboard.”
“The hotel maids are excellent,” Alec a
dmitted. “I’ll recommend them for a Christmas bonus.”
Mathieu glanced at the plate of Scottish salmon and sliced kiwi and whistled.
“A three-course room service meal instead of crackers and jam?”
“It’s pouring rain and I’m going to get scurvy if I only eat crackers,” Alec protested. “It wasn’t that expensive. The basket of pastries was no extra charge.”
“Good, I’m starving.” Mathieu selected a croissant. “You are allowed to spend money. In a week you’re going to inherit a third of your father’s estate.”
“Why do you think I didn’t take any allowance from my father when I turned twenty-one? I’d never be a kept man.” Alec bristled. “Anyway, I live perfectly well off Gus’s earnings.” He glanced at the silver coffeepot. “And coffee tastes the same whether you drink it in a porcelain demitasse or a paper cup.”
“You don’t want the French government to eat it up in taxes,” Mathieu said. “You could give some to Claudia.”
“My mother is British. She’d rather sell her vegetables at the market than take money from her son.” Alec paused. “Did you ever hear Churchill’s speech to the House of Commons when World War II broke out: ‘I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind.’” He paused and ate a bite of salmon. “Now that was a leader. Our Vichy government spent the war smoking cigars and drinking cognac with the Nazis.”
“That’s very noble, but it’s not going to help Claudia stay in 40 Rue de Passy,” Mathieu mused. “Are you sure you can’t find a girl to marry? That would solve everything.”
“I told you, I’m never getting married.” Alec poured a cup of coffee.
“You’d be surprised how enjoyable it is.” Mathieu walked to the window. “I come home to baked chicken and roasted potatoes every night. And Helene is marvelous at the laundry, she never mixes up the colors or loses a sock.”
“You sound like something out of a Flaubert novel,” Alec gasped. “No wonder the French inheritance laws are despicable, if that’s how French husbands think of their wives.”