The sun rose rapidly as she scampered around the house to the kitchen entrance. Valmont had been at the reins waiting for her for much too long. Andre dressed, insisting to go with her. Lips against her temple, he’d wrapped her close for their journey from the heights of Montmartre butte down to the City proper and the Hannifords’ house on Rue Haussmann.

Painful to leave him with her body so deliciously tender, she’d kissed him deeply and stepped down from the coach. Valmont assisted her out, and waited until she turned at the corner of the block and gave him the signal that she was in sight of the kitchen door.

As she pushed it open, she imagined the coachman was still there. He and his master took no chances that harm would come to her.

Inside the back entry, she heard voices in the kitchen. All the servants were awake and to their duties by now. Most, she expected, were taking their breakfast in the kitchen and she tiptoed to the back stairs. Up she flew, light as air, proud of herself, delighted with her night, her lover and her future.

At the second floor, she breezed down the hall toward her suite.

Her uncle’s door opened and she froze, afraid his valet or some other servant might discover her.

But her uncle stepped out, securing the belt of his dressing robe around him. His silver gaze flashed over her. “You’re well.”

“I am,” she said, hearing in his tone not a question so much as relief that she was indeed well.

“That’s all I wanted to know. Good morning.” Pivoting, he returned to his bedroom.

Inside her suite, she ran to the sitting room window and threw back the drapes. She twirled the latch and pushed open the double casement. In rushed the morning breezes, fragrant with springtime and rebirth.

She undid her cloak, letting it drop to the settee. She pulled open her desk drawer, fishing for her most recent sketchbook. It was lodged in the back and she tugged at it. Out flew two bound notebooks.

They dropped to the floor and she went down to pick them up. Then froze. Both had fallen open. One was her newest book, the other older. Frayed. She recognized it and shuddered.

Why had she saved it?

Her mind reeled backward to months, years, a decade ago. The drawings were old. Sixteen years old. She’d kept them purposely for many years to remind her of all she was determined to forget. But most of those from the period of the war and immediately afterward, she’d burned. Ashes to ashes.

This book she had saved.

She clenched her jaw. The man who stared up at her, his black eyes small, his nose thin, the nostrils pinched, his mouth wide, capable of lies and deceptions. Nothing like Andre.

She snatched it up and marched to the fireplace. Late July and there was no need for a fire. She looked for tinder, a match. No, no, there was nothing.

She ripped it, tore it like a determined, angry animal. Thousands of pieces, as small as her fingers could render, destroying his image. Innumerable bits of a man she’d not thought worthy of a moment’s notice. Not for months had she recalled his sneers, his insults, his cruelty.

She marched to her waist basket, opened her fingers like fans, the bits of him discarded, floating away.

Pacing, she fumed at herself that she’d found him amid the fabulous drawings of Andre. Why had she not destroyed them? Him? Why bring him to Paris? He didn’t deserve it. He was buried in Gettysburg. That was where his body laid, in the last place he took breath, the last place he’d failed others.

I will not draw you again.

Ever.

Ever ever ever.

To scrub him from her vision, consign him to hell, she strode back to her desk and yanked the drawer wider. There lay her other sketch books. There. There were the good ones, the new ones. Visions of Andre.

She opened one, riffled the pages, flipped to the recent pages and grinned. She did have him to rights. Here was heroic Andre. Andre, the gentleman. Andre, the artist. Andre, her lover. Except for a little more hollow to his cheeks, a few more emphatic shadings of his nose—his hawlike Gallic nose. Caught by memory of how he’d regarded her last night, she grabbed a stick of graphite and shaded his jaw the way it ought to be. Corrected the arch of his brow. The admiration shining in his eyes. She sat down on her chaise longue and refined the portrait of the man she’d always thought was perfection in the flesh.

Two hours later, that’s where her maid found her. Dressed in last evening’s attire, sketch pad and graphite in hand, sound asleep in her chair, the drawings of Andre all around her.

“Pardon, Madame,” her maid said, awakening her and dropping a small curtsy. “I did not want to disturb you.”

“No apology is necessary.” She was refreshed, her husband gone as he should be, and would now forever be.

“Would you like a bath, perhaps?”

“Oui, merci beaucoup.” She would make nothing of the woman’s discovery of her in her day dress, from the night before. “And then I’ll dress for breakfast.”

“Were you out late last night, Marianne?” Pierce stood at the sideboard, filling his plate with croissant, bacon and omelet. “You usually eat earlier.”

“Yes, very late.” She was caught off guard by his question, her fork halfway to her lips. Had Uncle Killian mentioned to Pierce her plans to meet Andre? “And you too.”

“As you can see. We weren’t the only ones.”

“Oh?” Her concern for her own reputation evaporated. Unless he referred to his father, she was at a loss.

“Ada came in late.” Pierce was a tall, dark elegant man with all his sire’s devil-may-care looks and ruthless ambition. At twenty-six years of age, he also possessed a keen devotion to his family. “Tipsy, if you ask me.”

Alarm rushed through her. “She was supposed to be with Ezzie Moore and Francine Lang last night.”

“Hmm. Yes, well.” He came round to sit opposite her. “They were at Ezzie’s house last night. Doesn’t mean they can’t get into her daddy’s stash of cognac. I asked Foster to ask the coachman. He confirms that’s where our man drove her and where he went to fetch her at eleven. He waited, however, more than an hour for her to emerge.”

“Not good of her to keep him out on the box like that.”

Pierce met Marianne’s gaze, anger mixed with concern. “I haven’t seen Papa yet this morning but I plan to tell him. I’ve got a meeting or I’d give her what-for myself. But Ada should have more care for those who care for her. Especially our own servants.”

“I agree. I’ll speak with her.”

He tucked back into his eggs. “Where’s Chaumont lately?”

“She’s been ill.”

Pierce shook his head. “Must be a terrible malady. It’s been weeks since we’ve seen her. Don’t you think?”

“I’ve been worried and sent a few notes over to her, but she says she’ll soon be up to par and be ready to join us for our trip to Cherbourg.” Uncle Killian had decided that all of them would adjourn to the seaside resort on the western coast. They’d leave at the end of the week. Most of his business associates were off themselves either to their country chateaux or to catch the breezes off the Atlantic. He thought it best to vacation, too. Conduct business nonetheless.

“Cherbourg,” Pierce sounded like he was mourning. “She’ll come too? I’m not happy about that.”

“Oh?”

He frowned and took a bite of his omelet.

“Why?”

When he rolled his eyes, she had to chuckle.

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me she likes you, Pierce.”

He squinted. “Shall we say, a lot?”

Marianne laughed at his challenge to disenchant the lady. But she pitied the woman. Poor Chaumont, she’d tried to entice Andre with her charms and failed. “She’s a widow.”

“As she is fond of telling me.”

“And she’s lonely.”

He locked his gaze on hers. “How very lonely she is. And so grateful to all of us for giving her a position which is respectable. She wants me to know that her home is always open to me. Day or night.”

Marianne giggled, a napkin to her mouth. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes! She’d like to show me her chateau. A day’s ride, merely that, no less. And a lovely bit of stone, from the eleventh century when a tyrant named Folk Black raided and murdered his rivals. Butchered them, she told me happily.”

Marianne cringed. “Folk Black?”

Pierce feigned amusement. “Oh, you know me. Awful French. That’s what it sounded like.”

“His name—” announced Ada as she waltzed into the breakfast room like a queen, “—was Fulk Nerra. Fulk the Black. And he built fortifications that became lovely chateaux. We should be grateful to him. He unified the nobles of the Loire valley, preserved the chenin blanc grape and founded a few ecole.”

“And what in heaven is an ecole?” Pierce was laughing.

“A school, my dear illiterate brother. A school.” She sat next to Marianne and the footman appeared beside her to pour her tea. She urged him away. “Coffee, please, Maurice. It’s a school, Pierce.”

“I’m impressed with your French, Ada,” Marianne told her cousin.

“I’ve been studying, you’ll be happy to note. I like Ezzie’s tutor better than my own.”

Pierce shot Marianne a look that spoke of danger.

“What’s her name?”

“He is Monsieur Durant. Bernard Durant.” Then Ada sighed, her lashes fluttering. “He’s easy to work with. His pronunciation is…”

“Yes?” prompted Pierce.

“So—I don’t know—understandable. He’s kind and knows Americans speak in different ways.”

Pierce stopped, his knife and fork to his plate, as he stared at his sister. “Handsome, I guess.”

“Ohhh,” Ada gushed. “Blond and tall, refined.”

Pierce pursed his mouth and returned to his eggs.

“Oh! You see! Not a nincompoop like you.” Ada stuck her tongue out at him.

Pierce sighed.

“You must meet him.” This was directed at Marianne. “I want Madame le Comtesse to meet him, too. I know you will like him.”

No one responded to her.

She huffed and pouted. “What’s wrong with you two this morning?”

“Nothing,” Pierce said.

But Marianne perceived there was indeed something amiss. “Why should the Comtesse and I meet Ezzie Moore’s French teacher, Ada?”

She turned to Marianne full on and with her crystal blue eyes brimming with expectation, said, “I want him to become my teacher.”

“I see.” But what Marianne heard was that this tutor had more assets than his refined good looks and unusual ability to influence Ada to learn more French.

“Do you have his card?”

“I—what? Yes, his card. I do.”

“Give it to me after breakfast. I will speak to him today.”

“You will?”

Marianne tried to sound practical. “Why not?”

Ada’s mouth hung open. And try as she might, she couldn’t seem to close it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Chaumont and I have to meet him, don’t we?”

“Well, yes, you do. But today?”

The way she pronounced the last word put Marianne on guard. “Today is the best day.”

“Action,” Pierce said and sipped his coffee. “Best course.”

“But today I’m to go to Ezzie’s to finalize plans for her excursion to Rheims. You remember? We told you. At the cafe? Yesterday?”

Marianne did recall. “You can go to Ezzie’s. You should not be here for my interview of Monsieur Durant.”

“But I want to be.”

“Why?” Marianne put her fork to her plate. “Can he not speak for himself?”

“Yes. Certainly. I only thought that…I could, well,” she stopped to clear her throat, “introduce you.”

“Thank you. If he can arrive before you must leave, do that. But if he must come later, then I will muddle through myself. No matter what time he arrives though, you can go on to Ezzie’s as you planned.”

“But—” Ada was exasperated.

So was Marianne. “I want you to go. I’d think you have a lot of planning to do. The cathedral deserves your attention. I must confess, I’m curious though. Why did Ezzie choose to go there?”

“The Rose Windows. She wanted to see them. And now that I’ve read about them, I know they are absolutely ancient. Don’t you think it amazing that people seven hundred years ago had the ability to construct such large buildings and tinted glass?”

Marianne marveled at Ada’s new interests, the tutor and the trip. She picked up her fork again. “You like the idea of the excursion. That’s a change of heart for you.”

Ada nodded, pleased at the compliment. “I admit, though I’m sure you’ll both gloat, that it’s useful to speak good French and have a sound understanding of French history.”

“Pardon me while I fall off my chair,” Pierce said.

“Oh, pooh, Pierce. You’d never believe I could have half a brain in my head.”

“I’d love to try,” Pierce said. “And you’d benefit. When you return from absorbing all that fine culture, I’d like to hear your assessment of it.”

“Why?” Ada wrinkled her nose. “Do you want to put a new water system under the church?”

“You never know,” he said. “Everyone needs water.”

Ada rolled her eyes. “All you think of is making money.”

Pierce’s expression drained to a stark somberness. “I wish you were right.”

Surprised at his turn of emotion, Ada startled and presently directed her attention to her coffee.

Marianne had not seen much of Pierce these past few weeks since they’d arrived back in Paris. He’d thrown himself into his business ventures, securing funds for his public works ideas. If he still thought of Elanna Ash, who was now the married Countess of Carbury, he did not mention her name. But neither did he seem to take an interest in any of the French beauties who were pushed his way.

Ada sighed. “I wish you’d let me stay to introduce you, Marianne.”

She forced her attention to Ada. “Thank you, my dear. Please get me Monsieur’s card. I will send him a note and we shall see if he can arrive early. If not, do go to your planning for your trip.”

“But if you don’t like him—”

“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t?” she asked her.

“No. He’s perfectly respectable. A gentleman.”

“Well, then. If having a different instructor has brought about your new interest in learning French, I will give him my fullest consideration.” If he looks like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, then in short order, he will be shown the street.

“Monsieur Durant, welcome.” Marianne welcomed the slender young man with a polite smile and indicated the settee opposite her. “You may leave us, Foster,” she told the butler.

“Merci beaucoup, Madame Roland.” Bernard Durant was blond and tall, with bulbous brown eyes and the sinuous movements of an egret, bowing his head and sitting gracefully upon the red damask. “I am honored to be asked to call.”

Call? No. This is no call. “My cousin, Miss Ada Hanniford speaks well of you, Monsieur.”

“I have met her at her friend’s home. She is a lovely girl.”

“Thank you. I understand you met her in your capacity as tutor to Miss Esmerelda Moore.”

“I did.” He folded his long thin fingers together, his knuckles growing white with the pressure of his grip. “They are both excellent students.”

Never had any of Ada’s teachers said she was that. Flighty. Gossipy. Irreverent. Funny. Her most spectacular quality, her loyalty to her friends.

“I’m pleased you think so, Monsieur.” Marianne smiled at him to ease his tension. “Do please describe your credentials, sir.”

He launched into a well-rehearsed list of his schools, all Parisian, most names Marianne had heard of, culminating in the University of Paris. “And your decision to tutor young Americans comes from your love of language?”

“Oui, Madame. My teachers said I had a gift for it. I understand the formation of the tongue and lips, the functions of the muscles.”

“I see. And how is that, sir, that you know this?”

“I have worked with the deformed soldiers who live at the Invalides, Madame. I try to help them talk again. Many have suffered shock. They have a palsy of mind and heart. Two have partial tongues and lips. Bombs can do terrible things to a body. Even bullets can rip open a jaw, take the entire cheek, the muscles beneath are exposed and the question is how to surgically repair—”

She stared at him, her breath gone.

“Oh, forgive me, Madame. You grow pale.”

She clutched her hands together. “No, I am quite well.”

He frowned, unsure.

Such a raw description of the horrors visited upon soldiers she had not expected in this afternoon’s discussion. “That’s very noble work, Monsieur.”

“Madame, think of me differently, I beg you.”

“How do you mean?”

“I teach because I must earn my keep. I enjoy the challenge, but with Mademoiselle Moore, it is no burden. With your cousin, I would predict the same ease.”

“What will Mrs. Moore tell me of your work with her daughter?” Marianne tipped her head, the question quick and necessary.

“I do believe she is very happy with Miss Moore’s progress. She allows her to order for her in French when they go to a cafe.”

That was a point in his favor that Marianne could seek analysis from Ezzie’s mother. “With your work with Miss Moore and the veterans, have you time to teach my cousin?”

“Oui, Madame. I could insert her lessons into my days. No more than an hour each day is required to become expert.”

“I would demand a maid be present.”

“Of course, Madame. I would be happy to do so.”

He did not flinch at the prospect of a chaperone. “Very well. Let us begin in September.”

“Ah. Oui. You go to Cherbourg for the month.”

“We do, Monsieur. I will expect you here the second Monday in September at eleven o’clock. We will have you work with Miss Hanniford for a full four weeks and reassess her progress after that.”

“I would be most happy. Merci beaucoup.”

She stood.

He followed.

“At the end of each week you teach my cousin, please send an invoice for your services. I will give them to my uncle and his manager will promptly send you your fee. If at any point, should I not be pleased, I will terminate the lessons immediately, sir.”

“I agree. You should. Thank you, Madame. I am most pleased.”

So was she. He left her with an easier smile and a more graceful gait. Her instinct said he was no charlatan, no seducer of young women.

Her fears that Ada might be planning some antic dwindled. This man was as he said, a teacher, a technician. Charming too and for Ada, that was inducement to learn from him. All the better. But would he appeal as a lover?

Ada needed a man of discipline and drive. That was certain. She definitely needed a man whose looks arrested her. But she would never find appealing a man who was a scientist. A man devoted to the smallest fact, the finest tuning of a muscle or an engine. Monsieur Durant could teach Ada French, but that, Marianne was assured, was all he would do for her cousin.

* * *

“What time shall I come back, Monsieur le duc?” Andre’s maid pushed grey hair from her forehead, bewildered, that for the second night in a row, he’d given her enough money to take lodging in the best hotel on the Butte.

“Seven, eight? Whatever suits you, Nanette.”

“Sir? I’m not ashamed that you have a mistress. I was kind to your last lady, wasn’t I?”

“Nanette, you were. I send you to the Hotel de Tertre not because you’ve lost your manners but because my visitor wishes no one to see her.”

The maid tipped her head and squinted at him. “She shouldn’t be ashamed of you, sir.”

Andre should have laughed at that. He couldn’t. “That’s not her challenge.”

“If you say so, sir. But I shouldn’t be accepting such gifts from you. You pay me well enough, sir, and I—”

He held up hand. “Merci, Nanette. If anything changes, I will be sure to end your nights with those soft sheets that someone else washes.”

She scoffed. “Your mother would be proud you take such care of your lady.”

My mother is furious that I have not yet married my lady. “Go! Enjoy yourself!”

He waved her off through the back garden gate toward the square, where musical notes from the violinists and guitarists floated down the hill toward him.

The clopping of a matched pair on the street had him racing for the front door. He arrived just in time to open it for her and take her up high in his arms.

She laughed, more joyous tonight and the sound reverberated through him like chimes on a summer breeze. “You got my note!”

“Valmont was happy to retrieve you at an earlier hour.”

“He likes his rest?”

“He likes his snifter of brandy.”

“Ah. Put me down, you brute. Save your strength for your marble.”

“You are a feather, Madame Roland.” To demonstrate he hoisted her high, his hands holding her above him, noting the leather folio in her hand, and then catching her over his shoulder. Like a caveman, he strolled with her along the hall and up the few steps to his atelier.

She giggled, then tickled his backside.

Growling, he slid her to her feet and twirled her around to face the windows and the skylight. The sun was setting, a bronzed ribbon along the horizon, the roofs of Paris glistening like tarnished silver, the dome of Les Invalides shimmering like an upturned bowl of molten gold. He curled his arms around her as she looked her fill.

She wore the fragrance of camellias upon her skin, her little hat lost in the foyer, her white gold hair falling from her loose chignon, no jewelry, either. Beneath his fingertips, he detected she wore few layers. A simple gown, lavender cotton, buttons up the bodice. Perhaps only a corset, or a chemise. His cock jumped, eager, rushing past the enchantment of the moment and his intention to slowly seduce her into his bed.

“Do you know that Pierce wants to invest in Parisian sewers?” She allowed him the freedom of kissing her ear.

“A worthy enterprise,” he murmured, laughing at the topic and the addicting opiate of holding her in his arms.

“Paris seems so settled already,” she said, her voice catching as he slid his lips along the delicate cords of her throat.

“We grow, change, every minute.” He took her portfolio from her and placed it on his worktable. Then he sank his splayed fingers into the magnificence of her hair, turned her around and kissed her until he needed breath.

They broke apart with a gasp.

“I wanted you all day,” she whispered and pressed herself to his length. “Kiss me again.”

Her invitation ravaged every polite restraint he’d schooled in himself. He took her lips, his tongue invading, seizing from her all the passion she would give him.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, breathless, attempting to be a gentleman and not a satyr.

“Yes.” She went up on her toes, her strong fingers cupping his cheeks so that she put her mouth to his again. Her kiss was sweet, short.

He hugged her and chuckled. “I have supper. Vin blanc, a veal of—”

“No, no, Monsieur. It’s only you I want. Feed me that.”

He secured her to her feet, his lips twitching. Urgency propelling his hands to unbutton her gown. Her own fingers unwinding his leather belt. His trousers purling on the floor. Her lovely lithe form, her lush breasts pushed up by the corset, her petticoat, cream and lace, untaped, gone to the floor as well. No stockings tonight. Only slippers. Pink satin that she stepped from. Her arms reaching around his neck, looping there as he picked up her, naked to his naked heart and loins and legs. Naked and his.

His cock probed her cleft. She was hot and very wet. He picked her up, tilted her hips and in one sweet slide, he sank inside her. Mindless and sweet. Where did he begin and she end? He could not say.

She gasped as he moved inside her, backed her to his worktable and set her there.

Glancing down, her eyes went wide and then closed. “Oh, Andre. Andre. Give me more. I am so greedy to have you.”

And when he drove inside her to the hilt, his own rapture dissolving reason, he inhaled and withdrew to take her once again, deeper, faster, harder.

She clung to him, her skin his. Her cries, his own.

Their mutual satisfaction, one, wild, and vibrant.

But not enough. Each minute that passed meant the sooner she’d leave him. He had to treasure the seconds, forget the future.

He scooped her from the table and strode quickly to lay her to his bed. The two of them panting, the minutes rolling past, he caressed her throat and breasts as their bodies cooled and the sun sank on a hot August night.

He pushed her wild hair back from her face. “I think you need food now.”

“Cheese and bread.” She traced the whorls of hair on his chest. “Some of that wine and veal. Where is your maid? She’ll think we are animals.”

“Not here. Gone to the hotel in the Place du Tertre. I gave her the fee.”

“I am costing you good money.”

He caught her hand and kissed it. “Spent in good cause.” My love. He’d almost called her that. Which would never do. She’d run. Run far.

Clearing his throat, he rose.

She looked at him askance. “What did I say?”

“I have money for whatever I want in this world.” If only I could buy you, I’d beggar myself.

“You are a fortunate man, in so many ways.” She lay there, not a stitch on her, without a bashful hint of modesty. Letting him gaze his fill, as if he ever would have enough of her.

“I am. How is it that I can attract a beauty like you, hmmm?”

“You have what I want.” She wiggled her brows suggestively. Her eyes fell to his cock. “Even now,” she said on a raw whisper and let her gaze rise to his. “Every bit of you is inspiring. Strength and ardor, muscle and passion. Wit and compassion.”

Flattered, he fought for humility. “Did you come to this conclusion easily?”

“No. I was blind to it. Only seeing that you were the epitome of man for me. And I ran from it.”

Don’t you still?

She sat up, throwing her long white hair over her shoulders. “I brought my sketches for you.”

He strode to his wardrobe, pulled out one of his linen shirts and picked up his black robe. Walking to her, he said, “Lift your arms,” and he pulled the shirt over her body.

Shrugging into the robe, he said, “Now, show me your work.”

She’d not been shy to display her body to him. Her folio, however, she held in her fingers for a minute or more. Biting her lip, she slowly unwrapped the ribbon and extracted a notebook of foolscap. The edges of the pages were ragged. She’d not spent much money on it.

He strolled to his granite workbench, pulled out two stools and gestured for her to join him. Without looking at him, she came to him, sat near him and pushed the notebook unopened toward him.

He did not touch it. “How many years have you drawn?”

“Always. I cannot recall when I didn’t. I drew ants and bees, a kitten I had once. Then I tried drawing our horse, an old nag my father said would die soon.”

“And people? Did you draw them?”

“Once I began, I have never stopped. Our kitchen maid. Our porter. My parents. I drew them often and they encouraged it. I saved those. Most of them I did before I was married off.”

Married off. “Did you draw your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To remember that I must look to a man’s character first. Always.”

Her resolve, her sorrow gutted him. “Do you still draw him?”

One shake of her head. “No. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Her answer was too quick. “I see.”

“I learned by drawing him and many other men.” She swallowed. “During the war, the Yankees came south, headed to Richmond, which was the capital. My land, my husband’s and mine, was in their path. They took it, most of it, for their camp. Ate my chickens, slaughtered my pigs. Oh, they shared the spoils with me, but I couldn’t absolve them for it. They made my parlor and my dining room their hospital. I drew them all. The Yankees on my carpet. Bleeding on my floor. Their surgeons piling legs and arms in a ditch beyond my barns. I hated those drawings and I threw them away.”

Shock of what she’d witnessed riveted him to his stool. What he heard was her horror. “I understand.”

“Do you?” She challenged him, anger in her tone, the first he’d ever heard from her. “Have you drawn men in pain?” she asked him, the shadows in her green eyes resurrecting her own suffering.

“Only Samson.”

“Do no more. You don’t need to. To feel it is to know and wish to forget. And the relief when it’s gone is miraculous.”

“But to face its existence even when you can’t feel it, isn’t that wise?”

“Is that what art is? To summon the pain of the past?”

“Isn’t it to mark the human condition? After all, we are just flesh and blood.”

“No.” She shot up from the table. “I won’t do that. Look at those, if you like. I—I’m going to examine your garden.”

Hands at her sides, fists hard, she made for the far door. His garden had been a refuge for him when his work cast dark shadows on his ambitions and only the sun or the moon could shine a light into his energy and resurrect his insights. She walked out, a hand to her brow as the sun struck her. Through his unlatched window, he heard her muttering to herself and he knew enough of her anger not to follow her out or to ask, when she returned, what irritated her so. Some subjects were meant only for discourse with the soul.

Some. Yes.

He placed his hand on the notebook. Inside was the essence of Marianne Duquesne Roland. Once he looked at this, he’d know her more intimately whatever her skill. Her talent had never been a qualifier for him. She liked to draw. She did it often. His self knowledge told him that one who was compelled to draw or paint or sculpt was usually also obsessed to do it over and over again. Perfection was not the goal. Articulation was. And with the attempts to render came a polishing of the ability. Praise by the public or critics was not so much a goal as a nuisance. Many artists made a living by simply doing what they wished. God knew, he did.

He opened the first page.

The second.

The next.

And next.

He considered the far wall, an expanse of white plaster. The only blank wall in his studio. His screen. His tabula rasa for his visions.

He shut his eyes.

There, as on the white wall, he saw her portraits. Her Uncle Killian, the rogue, laughing like a boy, one aspect Andre had never seen in him. Her cousin, Lily, now a duchess, waltzing on the wind, in love in the arms of his friend, Julian. Ada, the child with an adult’s intuition and a sharp tongue. Pierce, gazing sorrowfully at the back of a lady dressed in finery. Was that Julian’s sister, Elanna? A young woman Pierce had met briefly and who had tricked him into kissing her in a garden days before her wedding to an older man she despised.

Andre flipped another page. There he was, gazing at himself. A portrait in grey graphite. Another and another in ink. His torso swathed in a formal cravat, stickpin, waistcoat, cape. The attire he’d worn to the opera months ago when first he became enraptured by her. The expression on his face was one of wonder. He ran a fingertip over the bold india ink of her impression.

He turned another page. Here he was as he’d met her last night in the informal shirt and pants. Here he was at ease, his eyes wide and appreciative of what he viewed. Her. She had drawn him as he was when he looked at her. His was the look of love.

Did she recognize it?

Panic drummed through him.

Did she understand that how she saw him and how she’d drawn him where unique representations of the truth? Her own artistic truth? One she had the talent to use to make her life sublime?

No. That was the answer.

No.

He stood. Paced.

How to make her see her full potential? As an artist? As a woman? He had so little with which to bargain.

He had to show her…not tell her…

He could not ask her to marry him, half free as she was. If she said yes, she’d come to him thinking she could remain only half of herself. The woman, the lover, the wife of the sculptor Remy. Happy as that might make her, it would be only half of what she could become.

And if he did not offer soon, would she not end their nights together? Of course, she would. Fear of gossip and fear of pregnancy plagued their future rendezvous. And yet if she was not with him, night and day, how could he illustrate what was possible for an artist who lived to her full potential?

He stood, strode to his window. She walked among the roses, devoid of their blooms, bending to inhale the fragrances of his chrysanthemums, roots he’d purchased years ago from a Chinese man in a tugboat along the Seine. In the shade of his tall stone wall fence, the plants soaked up the heat of summer and grew like tall green weeds. She inhaled their perfume. He wished to create a new fragrance of life for her.

She lifted her face and across the grass, their gazes locked.

He smiled at her. She responded with a grin and strolled toward the house and him. She might have experienced loss and depravation, but she was not mean. Nor did she dwell on their differences. She knew how to fight for herself, else she would not have survived her war so well. But he bet that she wished never to fight again.

“I’m hungry now,” she told him when she pushed wide his garden door. “Can we have that veal chop and your wine?”

The next morning as the sun cracked the shell of night, she rose up on her elbows and stared down at him. Felling her gaze on him, he feigned sleep. He had loved her so well, so often last night, he was a bowl of mush. But he could rise again in an instant to show her how deeply he cared for her.

“You’re awake!”

He opened one eye, then grinned.

She cuffed his shoulder. “Oh, you deceive me.”

“I was letting you admire me.”

She laughed heartily. “Ah, so you didn’t like my sketches of the noble sculptor Remy?”

His failure to discuss her talents bothered her. She’d mentioned it often last night when he would not comment. He hooked an arm around her shoulders and drew her down atop him. “I did not say that.”

“You did not deny that.” She scowled at him. “What is your assessment of what you did see?”

He touched a fingertip to her nose. “Why?”

She twitched. Defensive and skittish, she sought to leave his arms.

“No. Stay with me.”

“You know what I ask for,” she told him, tense.

“I do.”

“Well?” she prodded.

“I will tell you in my time.”

That had her frowning. She pushed away and eluded his reach. “Time to go. Valmont will soon be here and I am not washed or—”

He shot from the bed and caught her around the waist. His hands stroking down her stomach to her neat little thatch, he pressed her back to him. “I will wash you.”

She strained to get away from him. “No.”

“Yes.”

She stomped on his foot.

“Ow!” But he clamped her tightly to him. “Meet me at noon at the Purple Cow in Place du Tertre. I will introduce you to friends of mine.”

“No, I can’t come. I have errands to do.”

“It won’t take long. An hour. And I promise you, you will enjoy it.”

“Why?”

He found the center of her seam, the tight nub that could unlock her petulance and make her the agreeable girl he adored. Circling her flesh, he heard the liquid sound of how her body flowed for him. All that she was betrayed her intentions to leave him.

She sighed his name. “You are not fair.”

“I play to keep you.” He let his lips slide along her bare shoulder. “I’ll brush your hair, wash you everywhere, everywhere.”

She made a feral sound and swayed with his touch. “You can’t.”

“I can.”

She sank in his embrace, sweet surrender.

He caught her up and placed her back in their bed. “Don’t go. I promise to reward you.”

“You are devious,” she accused him.

“And to your benefit,” he said with a wicked arch of his brows. “I’m getting warm water and cloth and then your hairbrush.”

“Evil man.” She huffed, then spread herself out on the bed, arms out, legs parted, an indelicate goddess for his appreciation.

He chuckled and ran an open palm over her throat, her diamond hard nipples, her belly, her hot wet folds. She made him weak with want. Delilah to his Samson. How little he’d known of the power of a woman when he’d hacked that man from the marble. Understanding that, he tore himself away from her beauty.

He had the need to show her what she lacked in life.

“You’ll return?” she asked, anxious.

“I will. Only a few minutes. Stay where you are.”

When he returned, he had all his strengths in hand. Siren that she was, he had a point to make here and she would benefit from his reluctance to tell her what he truly thought of her talent. He rinsed the cloth in the warm water he’d boiled and cooled. He soaped it, beginning with her throat, the fragile clavicles that spanned her chest, her shapely arms and elegant fingers. He rinsed and soaped the other side of her. He returned to her breasts, each a firm mound topped by large chiffon nipples the color of peaches. He drew each into his mouth and sucked her until she whimpered and bucked. Then he scrubbed her with the cloth and made her groan in joy. He moved on. Her belly was concave, smooth as glass. One day, please god, she’d carry their babies there. And if she never did, he’d need her as desperately as he did today. He’d love her and keep her, delving inside her with his fingers and his tongue. He’d part her and kiss her tender little clitoris and make her squirm and beg and demand, as she did now, to have her, put his cock inside her, and cry to never leave her.

“Never,” he whispered as she sank to the mattress her orgasm this time as fiery as ever before.

“Come inside me,” she begged him, her hands sliding down his ribs to take him by the cock and drive his mind blank as she stroked him. “You must enjoy us.”

He must. He certainly must.

The feel of her around him, soft as down, sleek, burning him, branding him, making him hers was once more his finest ecstasy.

She laughed. “You see, you can’t wash me without making it necessary to wash me again.”

“Who is the fiend now, eh?” he asked as he quickly washed from her thighs the traces of their raptures. He pulled her up and sat her in his chair. Naked, the sight of her lush body nagged at him. Have me again. Kiss me there. And there. Put your fingers there. Oh, yes.

But restraint was necessary. He left her, rubbed his hands together and returned to do justice to her hair. He took her long silken mane and flowed it over his forearm. Separating the mass into skeins, he brushed the waist-length waves until they shown and shimmered in the rays of dawn.

Beneath his ministrations, she had sat silent, flowing with his strokes, limp, mesmerized by his rhythm and his care.

He lifted her by her shoulders. He dressed her, lacing her corset, taping her petticoat, putting down her slippers for her to step into. “Time for Valmont to appear and take you away from me. Look at me.”

She stared at him with languid wonder in her gaze. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now tell me you will meet me at noon.”

“How could I refuse?”

That warmed him. This woman was no coward. “You won’t regret it.”

She looked away.

He caught her chin. “Now tell me you will return to me here again tonight.” Every night. For all our lives.

“I’ve no way. Everyone would know.” She fell into his arms, clutching him tightly. “I have obligations. A reputation to uphold. Ada to supervise.”

“Think on it.” He ran his open palm over the smooth wealth of her hair, down her back. The lovely lady who must let down her golden hair and leave the security of her castle for the life she should have. “I will see you at noon.”

When she climbed up into his brougham, she did not look back at him. Did not wave goodbye.

“Noon,” he repeated as if he were drilling it into her mind. Noon. Come.