The Brooding Duke of Danforth
Page 24
‘I am never serious, unless it’s regarding something trivial.’
‘Estelle, my twin, does that,’ Phoebe said. ‘Resorts to sarcasm when she’s embarrassed, I mean, or when she’s talking about something that she cares deeply about.’
‘My problem is that I don’t care very deeply about anything.’
‘That can’t be true!’
‘No less an authority than John Bull magazine described me as “a dedicated hedonist with a penchant for death-defying dares, who cares for naught but funning.”’
Was he teasing her? There was an edge to his smile though. ‘Save that you are bored with having fun and have come to Paris to—I’m sorry, I still don’t know what specifically you hope to gain from your visit?’
‘No more do I, Miss Brannagh, save that it is a very different city from London, and I am already glad that I decided to visit, since I have made your acquaintance. If only you lacked the funds for your restaurant, I would offer to go into business with you, but sadly for me, you can already finance your dream.’
‘Then fund your own dream. You must have one, Mr Harrington. Everyone has a dream.’
‘Do they?’ He threw the contents of his glass down his throat in one gulp. ‘I am living most people’s dream, and it bores me rigid. I am carefree and I couldn’t care less. I’m an ungrateful over-indulged, arrogant narcissist, for there is a part of me that wishes I had not been so blessed, then I may have had something to live for.’
‘You should be careful what you wish for, Mr Harrington,’ Phoebe retorted, ‘and grateful for what you have.’
‘Well said, Miss Brannagh. You are quite right, of course. I need a purpose in life. Though what form that will take, and whether I will discover it in Paris, or Venice, or St Petersburg or Vienna, I have no idea.’
‘Why look so close to home? If you are as rich as you claim, you could try the Antipodes, or Brazil, or Argentina.’
‘Or China, perhaps? I’ll tell you what, why don’t we meet here in—say, a year’s time, and I shall unveil the new, improved Owen Harrington to you, and you can then invite me to dine at your new restaurant, which by then will be the toast of Paris.’
‘I’m not sure that a year will be sufficient for either to have happened.’
‘Two years then. Are we agreed?’
His smile was infectious. ‘Two years to the day,’ Phoebe said, smiling back. ‘You have my word, Mr Harrington.’
He took out a gold case, handing her a card from it. ‘And you have mine. Take this, in the unlikely event you need to get in touch before then, to break our assignation, which I sincerely hope does not happen. Otherwise I look forward very much to seeing you again.’
She put the card in her reticule, smiling at the absurdity of it. He poured the dregs of the wine. They raised their glasses in a toast, and their eyes met, and the oddest thing happened. It felt as if time stopped. As if the room and the people in it melted away. And there was only the two of them.
‘Phoebe!’
She leapt to her feet, spilling her wine. ‘Pascal!’
‘Who the hell is this?’
Mr Harrington was on his feet, making a bow. ‘Owen Harrington. I met Miss Brannagh quite by accident, but it was a happy coincidence, for I was able to bring her news of her sister, the Countess of Fearnoch, with whom I am acquainted. How do you do, Monsieur Solignac.’
Pascal gave a short bow. He was frowning suspiciously at Mr Harrington. ‘Mr Harrington didn’t like the idea of my sitting alone so late at night,’ Phoebe said. ‘He was kindly keeping me company until you arrived.’
‘I am grateful to him, but I am here now.’
Mortified by his aggressive tone, Phoebe would have remonstrated, but Mr Harrington was already taking his leave. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, making a brief bow. ‘Miss Brannagh,’ he said, pressing her hand briefly. ‘Adieu.’
He threw some notes on to the table, enough to have paid for all the wine for the entire room for the evening, then with a curt nod, he left.
Despite her lover’s arrival, Phoebe was suddenly despondent, and disappointed to have her encounter with Mr Harrington cut short in such a brusque manner. ‘I am tired,’ she said. ‘It’s very late, I’ve had more than enough wine and I want to go home.’
Copyright © 2019 by Marguerite Kaye
ISBN-13: 9781488047305
The Brooding Duke of Danforth
Copyright © 2019 by Christine Merrill
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