by C. J. Archer
Lincoln's hand on my cheek startled me. He'd not displayed much tenderness toward me since the kiss in his room back at Lichfield, so his gesture was a surprise, though not an unwelcome one.
But instead of kissing me, or stroking my cheek, he withdrew. He began to pace the small room, his hands at his back.
"I know what you're thinking," I said, also rising.
He stopped and looked at me. "You do?"
"You think I'll raise my mother's spirit. And since she's a necromancer, she might know the same spell that Estelle Pearson knew and override my power. You're worried she'll escape and I won't be able to send her back."
The memory of Estelle Pearson's decaying body getting away from me in Highgate Cemetery still haunted me. I'd gone against Lincoln's wishes and summoned her, but she'd been a witch and spoken a spell to override my commands. Knowing that she could have caused great harm to others still sickened me. I wouldn't summon a spirit again unless I knew they had been powerless in life.
"No," he said quietly. "That is not what I was thinking."
"Then what is it?" I touched his face as he had touched mine. He'd shaved that morning, but dark stubble already shadowed his jaw and roughed my palm. I stroked the smooth skin above it with my thumb. "What troubles you?"
He placed his hand over mine and drew it away. He kissed my wrist, but not passionately, and let me go. "Now is not the time. You're tired and your mind is occupied with thoughts of your mother. I'll have some supper sent up for you. Goodnight, Charlie. Tomorrow we will talk."
"But we're meeting Monsieur Fernesse, the decorator, tomorrow."
"After that." He kissed my forehead. "I will not be far away."
"Will you come to me if I have bad dreams?"
"Of course."
I smiled. I thought he'd be more concerned about someone seeing us. It was one thing to come to my room at night at Lichfield, where it was only us and our three friends, but now we were in public at an exclusive hotel. Perhaps being in a strange city, surrounded by strangers, eased his conscience. I was glad of it. I liked that he didn't care about propriety. Liked it very much.
* * *
Monsieur Fernesse occupied a gallery sandwiched between a wine shop and a cabaret on a sloping Montmartre street. Seth had told me all about the artists’ corner of Paris before we left, describing its freedom, creativity and madness as if those three things could not be separated. On a frosty November morning, however, there was no sign of the previous night's revelries. Aside from a few souls braving the icy wind that swept down the hill, we were the only ones about.
"I hope he's in," I said to Lincoln as we waited for his knock to be answered.
He knocked again, and this time a man dressed in a long purple and gold smoking jacket unlocked the door. He barked out a string of French words I suspected weren't terribly welcoming, from the way Lincoln went very still beside me. He spoke back to the man in that quiet yet commanding tone he used when he was angry, then handed him Seth's letter of introduction.
The Frenchman read it. Then he burst out laughing and ushered us inside. I lifted my brows at Lincoln, and he held out his hand for me to go ahead of him. Seth must have been quite popular with Monsieur Fernesse to change his response from savage to solicitous with a mere letter.
It was just as cold inside the gallery as out, thanks to its cavernous nature and high ceiling. A staircase at the back led up, and an alcove beneath the stairs was occupied by a table covered in swathes of colorful fabrics, sewing tools, and a lamp. The rest of the gallery was set up like a crowded drawing room. Sofas, armchairs, wing chairs, tables, cushions, vases and artwork filled every space, allowing only a narrow path for walking. Each piece was unique and displayed to exquisite perfection. A flash of gold beading, a delicate tassel, a heavy strip of elaborate embroidery…nothing looked ordinary, simple.
"Come, mademoiselle," Monsieur Fernesse said, taking my hand in his long, slender fingers. He led me through the maze to a sofa. He plumped the cushions then insisted I sit. "I will warm your cold hands, mademoiselle. Please, a moment."
He set about lighting the fire. Once it blazed to his satisfaction, he summoned Lincoln. "Help me, young man. My knees, you know, they are old, like me."
Lincoln assisted him to his feet, and the little man gave him a small bow of thanks. He stroked his hands over his gray hair but it remained a tangled mess that fell to his shoulders. He had a beard to match, and it was difficult to tell where beard ended and hair began. He rather resembled an aging lion with a mane of gray.
"You are friends of my boy, Seth, eh?"
His boy? "He's a very dear friend," I said. "When we told him we wanted to redecorate and were coming to Paris, he insisted we seek your advice. You're the best decorator in the world, he claimed." Those weren't quite his words, but close to it.
Monsieur Fernesse glowed. His grin split his face. "Ah, that boy. Always the sweet one, always so good to old Fernesse. Of course, I was not so old when I lived in London, not so gray." He stroked his beard. "They were good days, very good, but good days must end, no? How is my boy?"
"Seth's very well and sends his fondest regards."
"Fond?" He chuckled. "I do so wish to see him again, but alas, I do not like to travel now. You tell him, mademoiselle, to come to Paris and see me. Tell him I long to see his beautiful face again."
"I will."
He insisted on making us tea because, "You English cannot do a thing without tea first." Lincoln and I took the opportunity to inspect the items in the gallery.
"I do hope he's not too expensive," I whispered as I ran my hand along the curved back of a chair.
"The expense is not important."
I'd been brought up never to discuss money. My mother had claimed it was vulgar to speak about the cost of things or how much a man earned. I'd never asked Lincoln who paid him or where he got his money from. I assumed the ministry itself had funds. If that were the case, he must be in charge of finances, because he had not asked the committee's permission to spend it. They weren’t even aware we were in Paris.
Monsieur Fernesse directed us to sit again and handed us a cup each, served with airy little cakes that were as delicious as anything Cook made. We spent the next two hours choosing furniture, curtains and lampshades, to drag Lichfield's parlor and drawing room into a modern era. While I wanted to keep the parlor cozy, I allowed Monsieur Fernesse full reign in the drawing room. It currently stood empty and unused, but I wanted to turn it into a spectacular showcase. Lincoln was a gentleman, and the son of someone important, and he ought to take his place in London society. This could help launch him. All we would require would be some visitors other than the committee members. I wasn't yet sure how to go about encouraging callers, or if any would come to Lichfield, but there would be time to think about it back in London.
Monsieur Fernesse certainly had a lovely eye, and he was an excellent artist. He drew his plans for the rooms based on the dimensions Lincoln gave him.
We had everything settled for the two rooms when Lincoln suddenly said, "We also require the ballroom to be transformed."
"We're going to hold a ball?" I asked, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. I'd never been to a ball before, and the thought of hosting one was both thrilling and dreadful.
"In time," was all he said.
Once everything was settled upon, right down to the last tassel, Monsieur Fernesse assured us he would place orders for things he couldn't make himself and have it all shipped to England as soon as possible. We thanked him and left after promising to pass on his regards to "his dearest boy."
"He seemed very fond of Seth," I said as we walked away from the misty-eyed Frenchman.
"Very." Lincoln tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow.
"They must have been great friends, despite the age difference. I wonder why Seth warned me not to believe everything Monsieur Fernesse told us. Do you think he worried that his friend would regale us with the wild parties they attended
together when Fernesse lived in England?"
"Perhaps."
"Considering we know many of the escapades Seth got up to, and still does, his concern is baffling. What could they possibly have done that Seth is too embarrassed for us to find out?"
"I suggest you don't ask him for fear of offending him."
"Oh."
After a moment, he added, "The curiosity is going to torture you, isn't it?"
I glanced up to see mischief dancing in his eyes. "I'll manage, thank you. And if not, I'll see what I can learn from Gus. They tell one another everything."
I was about to ask him for his theories when he suddenly stopped and turned to me. We were outside the bulky stone gate of a cemetery. Why did cemeteries always seem to feature in my life?
"We need to finish the discussion we began last night." He sported a peculiar look on his face, one that I'd never seen before. It was a mixture of earnestness and something I couldn't identify.
"Yes, of course. Go ahead."
"Charlie…" The fingers of one hand tapped against his thigh and the other rubbed his thumbnail over and over.
I caught the tapping hand in mine and he stilled. Swallowed. Was he nervous? "Lincoln, what is it? What's wrong?"
"Yesterday, when we were discussing your legal guardianship, I don't think you quite understood the implications of Holloway retaining that power over you."
"What more is there to understand? I have no possessions to hand over to him. I suppose I ought to give him a portion of the wages you pay me, but since I'll no longer be a maid at Lichfield, what does that matter?"
"He can control more than your financial matters. He can legally separate us."
Is that what worried him? Being separated? The thought warmed my heart. I liked that he was worried about losing me. "We won't let that happen. If necessary, I will go into hiding until I turn twenty-one. He can't force me to live with him unless he finds me, and then he'll have to lock me in my room. I doubt a lock has ever defeated you."
"Two years is a long time. Two years and a month, if I'm not mistaken." He opened his hands and pressed his palms to mine. "I don't want to wait that long. It's torturous enough."
I narrowed my gaze. Was he referring to intimacy? "What do you mean?"
"Do I need to spell it out to you?"
My face heated. "I, er, no. But…we don't need to wait until I'm twenty-one to do that." I looped my arms around his neck. My blood throbbed when he enveloped me in return and held me close. I touched my lips lightly to his. "We can begin tonight," I murmured against his mouth.
He pulled back, leaving me with pursed lips, kissing the air. "No, we cannot. And don't ask me to take you out of wedlock again."
I choked on my gasp. "You're talking about waiting for marriage? Lincoln, do you mean to marry me?"
Chapter 2
Lincoln's brows crashed into a frown. "I thought I made that clear before we left London. I remember the conversation in your room the night we freed Buchanan from Bedlam."
"It wasn't entirely clear to me." My voice sounded more rigid than I intended. I was thrilled, and yet…was this real? It felt like something I'd dreamed up. "I thought that night you were talking about me becoming your mistress."
He bristled. "You…think that of me? That I would destroy your virtue?"
"I…no. I suppose you wouldn't. You're an honorable man."
He grunted. "If it were honor that drove me to propose, then I would have asked many women to marry me out of concern for their reputations. I haven't. Only you."
I arched my brow. "Many?"
"Don't change the subject. I thought you knew I meant marriage."
"No. You have not asked me to marry you."
His frown deepened. "You require a formal proposal."
"That is generally how these things happen, so I'm told. Otherwise, how am I to know that it's what you want?" Where did I get such audacity? My heart hammered so hard that I felt like my entire body throbbed. I should be a trembling, blubbering mess. He wanted to marry me!
"Do you not know how I feel about you?"
"Lincoln…" I drew in a deep breath in an attempt to settle my raging blood. It didn't work. "You are the most complicated person I've ever met, and you usually hide what you're feeling. It's almost impossible to know your thoughts at any given time."
"It is?"
I thumped him lightly on the arm. He caught my hand and drew it to his lips. He kissed only my glove, but I felt his warmth through to my skin.
"You understand me more than anyone I've ever met, Charlie." His dark gaze locked onto me, trapping me as thoroughly as his hand trapped mine. "You care for me when no one else does. You saw the good in me when I couldn't see it myself. You make me a better man."
"You do that all on your own."
He shook his head. "My life changed immeasurably when you tumbled into it, with your big eyes and fierce determination."
Those were hardly qualities that led to love. Indeed, he did not mention love at all. Perhaps it was too soon for him to express it. He had, after all, never known it in his life.
"I tried to fight my feelings," he went on. "I tried to set them aside, but it couldn't be done. You have occupied my thoughts almost constantly since then. You have changed how I work, what I think and do. You've changed everything. You have affected me in ways you may never know. The thought of giving you up or of seeing you with another man…" He shook his head and his deep, dark eyes shuttered but did not close. "I'm afraid of what will become of me if you're not there."
I stroked his cheek and wished I could say something, but my throat ached and no words came out.
To my surprise, he continued on. The man who was usually so reluctant to express himself, seemed to have a lot to say, all of a sudden. "I no longer have it in me to resist you or my feelings." His lips kicked up into a crooked smile. "Besides, I want the world to know that you're mine. And I want to know you, in every way. So you see, there is nothing to be done except marriage. It's the only solution."
It wasn't the most romantic proposal. It certainly wasn't the way it had unfolded in the countless imaginary proposals I'd dreamed up. But it was honest and raw, and I couldn't tease him about it. He appeared anxious enough as it was, waiting for me to respond.
Anxiety. Yes, that was the expression I'd not been able to identify in his face when we stopped. He was worried that I would turn down his proposal, or perhaps mock him. That could be why he hadn't actually asked me directly, but decided for me.
I cupped his cheek, to capture that uncertain look, and stroked the tiny line bracketing the corner of his mouth until it smoothed away. "Yes, Lincoln. With all my heart, I will marry you."
"Good." He took my hand in his so hard that I sucked in a breath. He loosened his grip and said, "Good" again. "We'll purchase a ring after luncheon."
We strolled on, hand-in-hand, and I began to wonder if we would walk all the way back to Le Grand Hôtel. Perhaps walking was a good idea. I had dozens of things to say and the cold air helped clear my head so that I could make sense of them all. Yet, I suddenly felt shy. Too shy to say what was on my mind. We'd gone from the occasional stolen kiss to engaged in a matter of moments, and I'd not seen it coming. I felt like I'd been swamped by an avalanche.
His grip tightened on my hand, anchoring me at his side. "You wish to ask me something?"
"I…yes." I cleared my throat. "Forgive me, I'm somewhat stunned. I wasn't expecting this."
"It will take some getting used to. For both of us." His thumb stroked my hand. "Charlie…if it's not what you want—"
"It is!" I hauled him to a stop. "Oh, Lincoln, yes it is what I want, very much. But it has come so soon after you declared you wouldn't marry anyone. That's why I thought you wished to take me as your mistress."
He flinched, as if my words stung him. "I'm prepared to take a risk and see if marriage agrees with me."
A laugh bubbled out of me, even though I didn't find his words amusing. He was p
repared to take a risk? It was hardly a convincing argument. I supposed I should be glad that he thought me worthy of a risk at all. "Perhaps we should wait for you to become used to the idea of us being together."
He circled his arm around my back and drew me to his side as we continued to walk. It was very intimate, but I'd noticed the French cared less about such things than the English. I'd seen many couples walk together in this manner, and even seen them kissing without a care who saw them. If cities were people, then Paris was a dancer where London was a vicar's wife.
"I've waited long enough," he said. "As soon as we get permission from Holloway, we'll wed. I don't care where. I'll leave the arrangements to you. Leave Holloway to me."
The steely undercurrent in his tone chilled me. "I'm sure he'll give his permission," I said quickly. "He'll probably be glad to hand me over to someone else."
"Let's hope it's as simple as that."
We caught a hansom out of Montmartre almost back to the hotel, but alighted on the Rue de la Paix. We dined inside, at the Café de la Paix, since it was too cold to sit at one of the pavement tables.
The realization that I would marry Lincoln finally sank in after I finished the last of the delectable pastries. I felt positively giddy with the notion. Or perhaps that was the two glasses of champagne taking effect.
"Seth, Cook and Gus won't believe it," I told him, unable to hold back my grin.
"They will when they see the ring."
I stared at my fingers. I'd never worn a ring before, or jewelry of any kind. "Will we purchase one this afternoon?"
"If they have any in stock that fit and you like, otherwise we'll order it. I'm sure you'll have it by the end of the week, unless the diamond you want is too large."
Diamond! He wanted to give me a diamond ring!
"Expect some resistance from the committee," he said.
I blinked until his words sank in. "Oh, yes. I imagine they'll oppose the marriage quite vehemently."