She eyed her bonnet in the mirror with dislike as she tied the frayed brown ribbons under her chin. It did nothing for her. She rather thought it wouldn’t do anything for anyone.
Well, while she was in Paris, she was going to treat herself to a new one. No woman visiting Paris could fail to come back with just one or two items that were a little brighter and more fashionable than she was used to wearing, would she? It wouldn’t exactly be advertising her wealth, would it?
And what was the point of having money, if all you ever did was hoard it?
‘I hope,’ she therefore said upon reaching the communal hall, where the others were waiting for her, ‘that we will be visiting some shops today. Or if not today,’ she amended, realising that she had not asked Fenella to make shopping a part of their itinerary, ‘tomorrow. I have decided that we should all have new bonnets.’
Fenella flushed and pressed her hand to her throat, but Sophie cheered.
‘Monsieur Le Brun has already said he is going to take us to the Palais Royale,’ she said, bouncing up to her with a smile. ‘He says it is full of shops. Toyshops and bookshops, and cafés like the one where we bought the water ice yesterday. I expect you could buy bonnets, too,’ she added generously.
The Palais Royale. Oh, dear. Well, at least she’d already come up with the notion of buying bonnets for all three of them. The prospect of getting something new to wear was bound to help take Fenella’s mind off returning to the scene of her downfall.
Though when she took another look at Fenella, it was to find that she still looked rather pink and more than a little uncomfortable.
‘A new bonnet,’ said Fenella. ‘Really, Miss Dalby, that is too kind of you. I don’t deserve—’
‘Fustian,’ she barked as she marched out of the front door. ‘You have both been ill. You deserve a reward for putting up so heroically with me dragging you and poor Sophie all the way out here.’
Fenella trotted behind her, twittering and protesting for several yards that the last thing she deserved was a reward.
* * *
When they finally reached the Palais Royale and caught sight of the shops by daylight, however, her final protest dwindled away to nothing.
The people thronging the gravelled courtyard were all so exquisitely dressed. It made their own plain, provincial garb look positively shabby.
And the shops were full of such beautiful things.
It occurred to her that Fenella didn’t often have new clothes. She couldn’t outshine her own employer, after all. But now Amethyst wondered how much she minded dressing so plainly, when she spent so many hours poring over fashion plates in the ladies’ magazines.
‘Oh, just look at that silk,’ sighed Fenella, over a length of beautiful fabric draped seductively across the display in a shop window. ‘I declare, it...it glows.’
‘Then you must have a gown made up from it,’ declared Amethyst. Before Fenella could come up with a dutiful protest, she interjected, ‘It is ridiculous to go about looking like dowds when I have the means for both of us to dress stylishly.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘Neither of us have had anything new for an age. And nor has Sophie. You have to admit, that shade of blue would suit you both admirably.’
‘Well...’ Fenella bit her lower lip, which was trembling with the strain of knowing quite the right thing to do in this particular circumstance.
‘I have made up my mind, so it is no use arguing. Both you and Sophie are going to return to Stanton Basset in matching silk gowns.’
Sophie’s face fell, predictably. She knew that visiting a modiste meant hours of standing about being measured and dodging pins.
‘But first, where are those toyshops Monsieur Le Brun promised us?’
Sophie’s face lit up again and she skipped ahead of them to a shop she must have already noted, so swiftly did she make for it.
The adults followed more slowly, glancing into all the windows as they went past.
Until they came to a shop that sold all kinds of supplies for artists, at which point Amethyst’s feet drifted to a halt. Did Harcourt buy his supplies here? Or perhaps, given the preponderance of tourists milling about, he would frequent somewhere cheaper, known only to locals. Although the money she’d given him for that quick portrait would ensure he could buy the best, for some time to come.
She frowned. She didn’t like the way her mind kept returning to Harcourt. It was a problem she’d struggled with for years. Every time his name appeared in one of the scandal sheets, all the old hurts would rise up and give her an uncomfortable few days. It was too bad he’d had to flee to Paris, of all places, when London grew too hot for him.
She heard Sophie laugh and turned to see that the rest of her party were going into the toyshop already. She chastised herself for standing there peering intently into the dim interior of the artist’s supplier. She’d actually been trying to see if she could make out the identity of any of the customers. There was no reason he would be there, just because she was.
Sighing, she tore herself away from the window and moved on to the next shop, which was a jeweller’s. Once more her feet ruled her head, coming to a halt without her conscious volition. As her eyes roved over the beautiful little trinkets set out on display, she heard her aunt’s voice, sneering that women who adorned themselves with such fripperies only did so to attract the attention of men, or to show off to other women how much wealth they had.
‘Wouldn’t catch me dead wasting my hard-earned money on such vulgar nonsense.’
She bit her lower lip as she silently retorted that it might very well be vulgar to wear too much jewellery, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to own just a little?
Her eyes snagged on a rope of pearls, draped over a bed of black silk. She’d worn a string just like it, for the few short weeks her Season had lasted. She’d been so happy when her mother had clasped them round her neck. She’d felt as if she was on the verge of something wonderful. The wearing of her mother’s pearls signified the transition from girlhood into adulthood.
Something inside her twisted painfully as she remembered the day she’d taken them off for the last time. They’d gone back in their box when her mother had brought her home from London and she hadn’t seen them again for years.
Two years, to be precise. And then they’d been round Ruby’s neck.
And her mother had been smiling at Ruby and looking proud of her as she’d walked down the aisle on her father’s arm to marry a wealthy tea-merchant she’d met at a local assembly. They hadn’t even had to splash out for a London Season for Ruby. No, she’d managed to get a husband with far greater economy and much less fuss. And she therefore deserved the pearls.
Amethyst might not have minded so much if any of her sisters had spoken to her that day. But it was clear they’d been given orders not to do more than give her a nod of acknowledgement. She’d pinned such hopes on Ruby’s wedding. She’d thought the fact her parents had sent her an invitation meant that she was forgiven, that they were going to let bygones be bygones.
No such thing. It had all been about rubbing her nose in it. Ruby was the good daughter. She was the black sheep. Ruby deserved the pearls and the smiles, and the bouquet and the lavish wedding breakfast.
Amethyst didn’t even warrant an enquiry after her health.
She dug into her reticule, fished out a handkerchief and blew her nose. That was ages ago. She didn’t care what her parents thought of her any more. They’d been so wrong, on so many counts. Why should she stand here wasting time even thinking about them, when they probably never spared her a second thought?
And then somehow, before she even knew she’d intended any such thing, her militant feet had carried her into the shop and over to a counter. Her mother had decided she didn’t deserve the pearls. And her aunt had held the opinion that want
ing such things was vulgar anyway. But neither her aunt nor her mother was in charge of her life, or her fortune, any longer. If she wanted to drape herself with pearls, or even diamonds, she had every right to do so. Why shouldn’t she buy something for the sheer fun of splashing out her money on something that just about everyone in her past would have disapproved of?
The shop was a veritable treasure trove of the most beautiful little ornaments she had ever seen. One object in particular caught her eye: a skillfully crafted ebony hair comb, which was set with a crescent of diamonds. Or possibly crystals. Since she had so little experience of such things, there was no way she would ever be able to discern whether those bright little chips of liquid fire were genuine or paste.
But whatever it was, she wanted it. It wasn’t as if it was a completely useless ornament, like a rope of pearls would have been. Besides, she sniffed, she didn’t want to buy something that would remind her of such a painful episode in her past.
She glanced warily at the man presiding over the shop, who was watching her with a calculating eye. For one fleeting moment she wished she had Monsieur Le Brun at her side. He wouldn’t let a shopkeeper chouse him. With that cynical eye and world-weary manner he would put the man in his place in an instant.
She shook the feeling off. She could manage this herself. She might have no experience with jewels, but she had plenty with people. Aunt Georgie had taught her how to spot a liar at twenty paces. She wouldn’t let him dupe her into paying more than she decided the item was worth.
She took a deep breath and asked how much the comb cost.
‘Madame does realise that these are diamonds?’
She couldn’t help bristling with annoyance. Why did Frenchmen persist in addressing her as madame? It made her feel so...old. And dowdy.
And all the more determined to dress a little better.
So she nodded, trying to look insouciant, and braced herself to hear they cost an exorbitant amount, only to suck in a sharp, shocked breath when he quoted her a sum that sounded incredibly reasonable.
Which meant that they couldn’t possibly be real diamonds. He was trying to trick her.
Like all men, he assumed she must be too stupid to notice. Her eyes narrowed. She stood a little straighter, but was prevented from saying anything when the door burst open and Harcourt strode in.
‘I had almost given up hope of catching you alone,’ he said, taking hold of her arm. Somehow she found him drawing her away from the counter and into the darker recesses of the shop, away from the window.
She ought not to have let him do any such thing. But then she wasn’t in the mood for doing as she ought today.
Besides, there was something in his eyes that intrigued her. It wasn’t the anger he’d displayed during their previous two encounters. It was something that looked very much like...desperation. And his words made it sound as though he’d been following her. Seeking an opportunity to speak to her alone. After the Frenchman’s attitude, she could help being just a little bit flattered.
‘When last we met, I should have said...that is...dammit!’ He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving furrows in the thick, unruly mass.
My goodness, but he was worked up. Over her.
‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I am in torment, knowing you are here, in Paris, so near and yet so...out of reach.’
A warm glow of feminine satisfaction spread through her, almost breaking out in the form of a smile. Almost, but not quite. She just about had the presence of mind to keep her face expressionless.
She hoped.
‘Would you consider leaving your Frenchman?’
Well, that put paid to looking cool, calm and poised. She felt her jaw drop, her eyes widen.
She managed to put everything back in place swiftly, but even so, he’d seen her reaction.
And he didn’t like it.
‘I know I don’t look as though I am a good prospect,’ he said, indicating the scruffy clothes he was wearing. ‘But honestly, I am not as hard up as these clothes suggest. They are practical for when I am working, that is all. I get covered in dust and charcoal, and...but never mind that. The point is, you could do better than him.’
‘You...you said that before,’ she replied. And she’d been simultaneously flattered and insulted by his assumptions about what sort of woman he thought she was. Well, she might be flattered, but she wasn’t going to melt at the feet of a man who kept on delivering his flattery wrapped up in insults.
‘You have the unmitigated gall to stand there and criticise both my morals, and my taste, without knowing the first thing about my circumstances. And then have the cheek to say you think you are a better prospect for me?’
That hadn’t come out quite right. What she had meant to say was that Monsieur Le Brun was not, and had never been, her protector and that, even if she did need one, she would most certainly be far choosier about the man in question.
‘Try me,’ he grated. Then, before she had time to draw breath to make her retort, which would have been good and acidic, putting him neatly in his place, he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her. Hard. Full on the lips.
She froze, shocked into indignant immobility. But only for a moment. Because, amazingly, hard on the heels of her indignation came a wave of such sheer pleasure it made her want to purr.
Oh, but it had been so long since any man had kissed her. Since this man, her first and only love, had kissed her. And that time it had been nothing like this. Back then, his kisses had been almost chaste. Tentative. As though he hadn’t wanted to frighten her.
But just as she was starting to wonder if he was trying to punish her with the force of his kiss, his mouth gentled. He slid his hands down her arms and round her waist, tugging her closer to him. And she could no longer see why it was so important not to melt against him, into him. She’d never experienced anything so seductive as the feel of his mouth against hers, his arms tugging her close, the heat of his entire body pressed all along the length of hers. He kissed like a man now, she realised. That was the difference. He was an experienced man, not an untried boy.
But the most seductive thing about his kiss was his eagerness. The intensity of his yearning for her flowed off him in waves, making him shake with it. It was his passion, not his skill, which was so very irresistible. Because it made her feel so desirable.
When, too soon, he pulled back, she opened her eyes, stunned to discover that she’d shut them.
‘You see?’
What? What was she supposed to see? She hadn’t been aware of anything but him, for the entire duration of that embrace. An entire troop of Cossacks could have invaded the shop and she didn’t think she would have noticed.
‘You still want me.’
Her pleasure dimmed. Was he just trying to prove something by harking back to their shared past? And if so, what?
‘Why deny yourself, Amethyst? Come to me.’
Why deny yourself? He was talking as though taking a lover was nothing more significant than purchasing a bauble to decorate her hair.
When it clearly wasn’t. Not even for him. He was standing there, shaking with the force of wanting her.
It was flattering. But she wasn’t that kind of woman.
She shook her head.
His face hardened. ‘What are you afraid of? What hold does that man have over you? Tell me.’
‘He doesn’t have any hold over me,’ she said indignantly.
‘Then prove it.’
‘I do not have to prove anything to you.’
‘So, I repeat, what is holding you back?’
‘Can you not think of anything?’ Like the fact she might have some morals, for instance?
A look of complete exasperation flitted across his face.
‘Explain it to me.’
She glanced over his shoulder towards the door. At any moment Fenella might come in, looking for her, worrying about what was keeping her.
His face softened. ‘I forgot. The little girl. Very well. Make an excuse to get away from the others and meet me somewhere where we can talk. And you can tell me exactly why you are reluctant to yield to the passion that is burning between us.’
Talk. She supposed she could agree to that. And, oh, but she did want to see him again. Hear him say such things again. It was almost like the dream she’d had on her first night here, where he’d grovelled at her feet for a chance to kiss her and to beg her forgiveness for the way he’d treated her.
‘We are planning to visit the Louvre,’ she said. ‘I could easily break away from the others...’
‘I go there as often as I can,’ he said. ‘Can you arrange to be there tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ Easily. ‘Then I will be waiting for you.’
He seized her by the shoulders, kissed her again, then turned and strode out of the shop.
She raised one trembling hand to her lips. What had she done? Agreed to meet him and let him attempt to talk her into having an affair with him, that’s what.
She was shaking so much she needed something to lean on for support. Tottering to the counter, she laid both palms on it and took a deep breath. When the contents of the shop eventually swam back into view, she noted the proprietor pushing the comb, now nestled in a little box lined with silk, across the counter towards her.
She glared at him.
He promptly reduced the price by a further two francs.
With the pragmatism of the typical Parisian, he was continuing to haggle as though there was nothing untoward about men storming into his shop, grabbing potential customers, kissing them until their knees turned to jelly and then storming out again.
All of a sudden she felt like laughing.
‘I shall take it,’ she breathed. It would always remind her of this day, this moment. And the kiss that had tumbled her back to the kind of breathless wonder she’d felt as a girl, whenever he’d stolen a kiss from her in some secluded nook.
Portrait of a Scandal Page 7