The Place du Tertre bustled with people in the heat of the August sun. The main plaza of the Montmartre suburb of Paris sat amid a mélange of stately limestone buildings and a few tumbledown wooden houses. Cheap housing attracted the artists plus dancers, the singers and the laborers of the suburb. Andre’s house and atelier was one of the few substantial edifices in the growing arrondissement.

Marianne had stepped down from her public hackney near the huge construction site of the church of Sacre Coeur. Workers heaved heavy stones, directing pulleys to deposit the huge blocks to the walls. They sweat profusely in the heat. A few stopped to watch her, a woman alone and frankly, more fashionably dressed than many others up here on the Butte.

Her walk to the square cleared her mind of her concerns about coming here alone. She should be home directing her maid for packing for the family’s trip to Cherbourg. The lure of Andre and her curiosity about his method of revealing his opinion of her work drew her on, though. To be honest, she welcomed the escape. To be with him in the light of day and to make a choice for herself that was solely for her own enjoyment filled her with a new and welcome confidence.

A few café owners had wheeled out their awnings to shield their patrons from the baking heat. In the square, men with their easels and toolboxes of paints and brushes sat beneath the few trees. Many had brought their umbrellas and lashed them to their easels. Squinting in the sun, they worked and measured their visions against their products. Two women sat among them, painting as well.

Music spilled out in to the plaza, pianos and violins rippled in counterpoint to guitars and concertinas. The artists seemed not to notice. They did not sing or dance. No one tapped his feet or snapped his fingers. Each was intent on his work. Some slathered a background onto a canvas in broad brush strokes. Others refined more finished works with their own techniques, some of delicate dots, or heavy daubs of impasto.

Marianne strolled along, caught by an artist’s landscape of the plaza, done in peaches and greens, the illusions of the bustle around her gay and palpable. She walked on, to pause at last before a portrait of a little girl. The child was two or three years old, with intent blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks, the world she surveyed simple and jolly.

“Does Madame wish to buy this?” A painfully thin man with the avid look of an ascetic stood before her.

“I do like it. Oui, Monsieur. But I cannot carry it now. Perhaps if you are here in an hour, I could return?”

“I would remain here for you, Madame.”

“Merci beaucoup.”

“Do you not wish to know the price?”

“Oui. Certainly.”

“Ten francs.”

“Oh, Monsieur. Ten is much too little. Your work is worth more than that.”

“That is precisely what I have told Monsieur de Salle for many years.” Andre bid his friend hello. He took her arm with one hand. In the other, he held her portfolio. She’d forgotten it this morning and was relieved he’d brought it for her.

“You are so right, Monsieur le duc. Quote me another price,” she begged de Salle.

“Twenty.”

Andre arched his brows at her. In the brilliant sunlight, his long waves glistening. Today, he was casual, loose shirt and linen trousers, sans hat. She was so proud of who and what he was. In any light, in any room, in any landscape, to her he was irresistible.

She opened her reticule and her tiny leather purse. She took out three bills and placed them in de Salle’s hand. “I will return for the painting later.”

“She will indeed, De Salle. She lunches with me in the Purple Cow.” Andre motioned across the square.

“But Madame,” de Salle said and frowned at the money in his hand. “This is too much.”

“I believe a work of art has its value for the artist, but another for the admirer, Monsieur. I like your little girl. Please keep those francs.”

He bowed. “As you wish, Madame.”

Andre led her away, a grin gracing his lips. “Madame Roland, you have made that man very happy.”

“I make myself happy.” She walked with him into an intimate cafe that smelled of garlic, fish and beer. “When does one meet this Purple Cow?”

“He arrives after you’ve had a few pints of Flemish beer.” He caught the eye of the garçon and the man appeared at their side. “Two beers, Paul, s’il vous plait. And to eat, what will you have, Madame?”

Rustic meals were simple affairs she’d rarely enjoyed since arriving in Europe. Stripping off her gloves, she noted most in the dark restaurant ate mussels from a steaming pot. “The same as those patrons there.”

Their waiter hurried away, his shouts to the cook at the rear of the bar, ear-piercing orders that had Marianne flinching. “Is he angry?”

“No. He’s nearly deaf. Once an artillery officer in the French Legion. He thinks he speaks in a normal tone.”

“How does he get the orders if he can’t hear?”

“He reads lips.”

“Inventive. Thank you for returning my drawings.” She put out her hand.

But he shook his head. “At the end of lunch.”

“You’ll give them back?”

“I have a plan for them.”

Anxiety crept into her good morning. “What is it?”

“You’ll see. Ah!” He leaned back so that Paul could place their beers before them. “Merci.”

“What plan?”

Another man appeared at their table. Dressed in a gentleman’s afternoon walking suit, he appeared quite businesslike.

“Madame Roland.” Andre got to his feet. “May I present a friend of mine, Monsieur Edouard Montand.”

“Enchante, Madame. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Andre pulled out the chair next to him. “I’m delighted you’ve joined us.”

“My curiosity was announced by your note to me. Of course, I would come.”

Monsieur Montand was a white-haired gentleman of middling height, ample girth, with a substantial winged mustache, pointed goattee and the sharp eyes of a man about town. Why had Andre invited him here?

“Do you live close by, Monsieur?” she asked him.

“No, Madame. I live above my gallery in the Rue de Provence.”

Not far from Rue Haussmann. A very respectable part of town. “A gallery?”

“Monsieur has a very profitable business, Madame,” Andre told her, then hailed the waiter to attend them.

“What sort of gallery do you own, Monsieur?”

Paul appeared at once and their guest ordered a German beer. “The Flemish is too weak for my taste,” he explained. “I buy many paintings and sell them for a commission. Do I detect that Madame is an American?”

“I am.” She tried to smile at him, but nerves were crawling up her spine. She could tell precisely why Andre had invited Montand here—and she worried at the result.

“I have many American patrons. English, too. But Americans are more liberal in their approach to art. They have a willingness to look beyond the classical to see la vie douce.”

“The sweet life,” she translated the term she’d read in the newspapers. “We’ve lived through war to prosper.”

“Much as we have in France, Madame.”

“Would I know any of the artists whose work you buy for your clients?”

“I wonder. Monet? Manet? Sisley?”

“Those ‘impressionists’, yes. I’ve heard of them. I’ve seen a few of their works.”

“And?”

“I like them.” She didn’t hold back her grin. “They improvise. They are inspirational.”

The agent tipped his head. “How so?”

“I draw.”

“Well, then you appreciate the new, the avant garde.”

“She does,” Andre said with nonchalance. “She, too, is an artist.”

She held her breath. If this man appraised her pieces and found them wanting, she would recoil from the blow. “I have not shown my work to anyone. I do it for myself.”

“She has,” Andre said to Montand, “but she needs an opinion that is not mine.”

Montand was quick to glance from one to the other. He smiled, the glow in his eyes giving her to understand he knew the two of them were connected by more than appreciation of art.

“I have a sample of her sketches here with me, Montand.” Andre glanced at her briefly.

“You think them worthy of a look?”

“I do.”

Montand reached inside his coat and extracted a tiny leather glasses case. “Shall I assess them, Madame?”

She must employ new boldness. “Please.”

Flipping open his case, Montand extracted a folding pair of spectacles and perched them on his nose. He grasped the portfolio, removed the sketchbook and turned the pages. Silent, he examined one than another. Occasionally, he returned to a previous sketch. Once he compared an older rendering of Andre to another she’d finished last week.

Marianne drank her beer. Gripped her fingers tightly together. Looked away, bit her lip and took another sip of beer. Her spine tingled. Her eyes watered.

Paul came with Monsieur Montand’s beer. The agent did not drink, but continued his perusal of her works.

At last, he closed the book, rearranged those pages that escaped the confines and handed the book over to her.

“Tell me, Madame, how long have you been drawing?”

“Since I was very young, three, four years old. It was a pastime for an only child.”

“What did you sketch then?”

“People. Men and women. My parents. Our servants. Our field hands. Our dog. The barn cats. Occasionally, flowers.”

“No landscapes?”

She shrugged. “They do not interest me as much as human beings.”

“I wish to see more of every subject.”

That shocked her. “I have few of those with me here at home. I came to Europe with my family last autumn and I did not pack my older works.” Or most of them. The inclusion of those of Frederick was a gross mistake.

“You are abroad with your family?”

She shifted in her chair. To reveal that she was one of the Hanniford family might mean this man could repeat the fact in society. She’d be talked about. Her work discussed. “I am.”

“I detect a need for discretion,” he said.

Marianne heard the clipped efficiency of a businessman. So like her uncle’s. “You do, Monsieur.”

“I am not in the habit of discussing my clients’ private lives with those who purchase their works.”

“Monsieur?” She was not his client.

“Madame Roland, let me be plain. I want to see more from you. In what other mediums do you work?”

“Ink, occasionally chalk. Watercolors, now and again.”

“Do you have any I might view?”

“I do.”

“And those of Monsieur le duc? Have you more?”

“Oui, Monsieur.” She sat taller as invisible chains fell from her shoulders. “Dozens.”

“Newer? Older?”

“This collection is the latest set.”

Montand leaned forward and extracted her most recent portrait of Andre. “The last one here?”

She cocked her head. “What about it?”

“I want it.”

“Monsieur?”

“If you will allow me, I would sell it.”

“Of Monsieur le duc?” She did not understand.

“Remy becomes a rage. You must know this, friends as you are.”

She nodded.

Andre wrestled with a grin.

“Allow me to frame this. Sell it for you. Please bring me others, too. You could go to another agent. But I’d be happy to oblige you with the exposure.”

“I—I hardly know what to say except I am honored.”

“Permit me to be honored, Madame. And you, Remy?”

“Oui, Montand?”

“Nurture her.”

“Ah. Montand, if she will only permit me.”

Marianne listened but heard little.

Her entree came. She ate. Drank.

Andre and Montand spoke to each other. To her. They spoke of Andre’s latest commission for the City. Andre demurred and said the marble in his atelier was unformed in his mind. He had been, he said with a glance at her, preoccupied lately. Montand discreetly said nothing. She chatted with them about mundane, simple things. About her assessment of Andre’s works. The Samson. His Delilah. The laughing baby he’d carved.

All the while inside her, she noted the brewing of a storm. Winds of change ruffling her hair, showers draining away clouds of her own making.

Then Montand rose, kissed her hand, and hoped she would bring the portrait to him the next day.

“I will,” she promised. She’d do it before she left with the family for Cherbourg.

“Excellent.” Montand bid them both good day.

“Another beer?” Andre asked her as she watched the dealer walk away.

“No. Merci. How am I to thank you?”

“Oh, well.” He scanned the interior of the dark little cafe. “I need none.”

She grinned. “And if I insist?”

He wore a dashing smile. “I leave that for you to decide.”

Yes. Of course he would. She leaned closer to him. “I am not used to such largesse.”

“I know. But you should have it, learn its values.”

“You could have told me this morning that you thought my work…good. Suitable.” She lifted her shoulders and opened her arms. “Salable.”

“If I had told you, would you honor my words as much as Montand’s?”

“I do not think you capable of lying to me.”

“I thank god for that, ma cherie. But I could not risk your reaction.”

That took her aback. “You assumed I would take your approbation as my due because we sleep together?”

“I questioned if you would use it as a means to remain as you are.”

“What?”

He glanced away and pursed his lips. Then he examined her minutely, as if he chose his words carefully. “Working and living in the shadows of your own talents. Your own goals.”

Speech deserted her. His understanding of her roiled her. Even shamed her. But it stirred the storm inside her. She shot to her feet. “I must go.”

He pushed back his chair, scraping the wooden legs against the rough-hewn floor as he stood. “Why?”

“I need to pack. We leave day after tomorrow. It’s—it’s Cherbourg for the month.”

He took her hand. “Come to me instead. Live with me, Marianne. Here.”

Oh, how she wanted that. The freedom, the raw pleasure of his company. But to become his mistress, anyone’s mistress, was the very thing she’d promised herself she’d never do. Never tie herself to any man. Only physical pleasure was what she wished. Only lust. Never love.

“Forget Cherbourg, Marianne. Discover all we can be together. All you can be for yourself.”

“I could dare to be so bold, but—” She would break every wall of her haven. Destroy every barrier between her and the unknown.

“Decide, ma cherie. What life will you live, Marianne? The life you think you want? Safe, secure from the chaos of the world. Or the life you choose for yourself? Rich in ambition, vibrant in reward?”

Madame le Comtesse bustled about the luggage as the Hannifords’ footmen tugged it from the boot of their carriage. “I count only eleven. There were twelve, I am most certain.”

Marianne walked around to Ada, eyeing her own standing trunk and the smaller valise that contained her clothes for the four weeks at the seaside. She had gowns, tea dresses, walking outfits for strolling along the promenade. A navy bathing dress. All intended for Cherbourg. Without Andre.

People eager to meet their trains bustled around them, headed for the station that took thousands each day from Paris to far corners of France and Europe.

“Should we send the carriage back for the other?” Madame Chaumont asked Marianne. The woman did not address Uncle Killian with such trivial issues. She knew better than to pester him so. “The maids should have checked the numbers.”

“They did. I was there in the foyer.” Marianne said, not caring about clothes or trains or trunks. She put a hand to her aching heart.

“We should have brought my maid and yours along,” Ada complained. “How do we know the servants we hire at the hotel will be worth their salt?”

“They are highly recommended,” Chaumont said, justifying her own recommendation to leave the personal maids in Paris for the month.

“I should have counted them myself,” Marianne said. She’d had no mind for such minutia, fretting about how Andre was taking her rejection of his invitation.

“Monsieur Hanniford?” Chaumont addressed Pierce with a flutter of her lashes. “What is your assessment?”

“I have one piece. Ada how many did you have your maid pack?” And on down the list, Pierce took a tally of what ought to be here.

Marianne heard only the voice of Monsieur Montand yesterday in his gallery. She replayed it in her head like a melody that obsessed her.

Over and over, she heard him. “Madame Roland, I am grateful to you. From this portrait of Remy, you will see a profitable beginning.”

A profitable beginning. A beginning.

“I never sought to sell any sketch of mine, Monsieur Montand.”

“Then I suggest you think of your art in new ways, Madame.”

“Why would anyone wish to buy my sketch of Monsieur le duc?”

Whether Montand could not believe she was that naive, or if he simply wished to educate her in the way of the art business, she had no idea. But he said, “Your view of Remy shows his character, Madame. Thousands hear of him, few know him, fewer still may ever meet him. And what we see in your sketch is more than a carte de visite could show. You care for him. And here, as he gazes back at us through the page, we see how he cares for you. You have captured him as a man of flesh and emotion. He is all too human.”

All too human. Real.

She’d glanced at her sketch once more and pulled back at the sight of Remy’s portrait. She saw him through Montand’s eyes.

‘You care for him.’ Montand had said.

I do.

“What’s the problem?” Killian strode round to the rear of their carriage.

Marianne stepped backward, away from Killian and Pierce, Ada and Chaumont.

Pierce told his father the summary of his tally of the luggage. “Madame le Comtesse thinks we have misplaced one item. I still count only eleven.”

“Does it matter that much?” Killian barked, sweeping off his straw boater and tucking it under his arm. He’d been in a terrible mood the past few days. Out late at night, surly with every one during the day. “If we’re missing clothes, we’ll go naked. Or buy what we need.”

Ada fidgeted. She’d been irritable since she’d returned from Rheims with her friends yesterday. “Oh, please. Let’s just go.”

Killian fished out his pocket watch. “The train leaves in fifteen minutes. The conductor waits for no man. Take in the bags,” he ordered the footmen.

Marianne stood, rooted to her spot, staring at Killian.

“What’s wrong?” her uncle asked her. “Do you remember what’s missing?”

“I do,” she told herself more than him. “I’m not going with you.”

“What?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?” Killian asked, skeptical.

She took his arm and led him a few steps away from the others. “I would like to take my vacation elsewhere.”

“Marianne—”

“Please don’t chastise me. Please don’t bargain with me.”

“I’m not. But—”

He peered at her. “You’re not going home to Rue Haussmann, are you?”

She shook her head. “To Remy’s atelier in Montmartre.”

He flinched, came closer and lowered his voice. “You’re a grown woman, my dear, but I fear for you, if this goes wrong.”

“I know you do. But I must go. I am ever grateful to you.”

Killian trained his gaze on the circle of carriages drawing up to the front of station. “Gratitude won’t save you from physical consequences.”

“I understand.” She hadn’t been careful about bearing children as a result of her intimacies with Remy, but what she’d never shared with anyone, what none of them knew was that she doubted she could become pregnant. During her married life, she’d never experience a halt in her monthlies. Frederick’s hasty, feral couplings with her were so fierce, she’d been glad of her barrenness. Believing herself incapable of bearing children, she’d never worried about it. Never had reason to worry…until now that she had a lover whose caresses drove her to a sweet oblivion. “But I must have this time to myself. If you wish to disown me, you may.”

“Disown?” Killian gripped her hand. “Never think it. You are my darling child as much as my other three. My sister would disown me on Judgment Day if I ever did that. For what she did for me, my girl, how she never disowned me, do you think I’d have the heart to do it to you?”

Tears sprang up.

“Don’t cry, please.” He took a handkerchief from his vest pocket and tucked it in her hand. “Take the carriage.”

“No. People will know where I go. The scandal could affect you—”

He put two fingers beneath her chin and raised her face to smile at her. “We’ll hold our heads up and laugh at them.”

She put a hand to the brim of her hat, so she could see him more clearly. As he truly was, generous. Kind. “You are an extraordinary man, sir.”

He barked in laughter. “Tell that to my rivals, will you?”

“Why, sir, I did not think you had any.”

“Get on with you, you minx. Take the damn carriage. Remember the door to Rue Haussmann is open to you, if you need or want to return before we do. We are your family, come what may.”

“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Hanniford.” She gave him a small curtsy and bussed his cheek. “I will return to the house at the latest on the day you return from Cherbourg.”

“Go, before I change my mind!”

With great thanks for his solicitude to drive her to Montmartre before returning to Rue Haussmann, Marianne bid the Hanniford coachman adieu. He’d offered to wait for the owner of the house to open the doors so that he could take her trunk and valise inside for her. But she had not wished to cause him any delay.

A thin young man opened the broad blue door for her, then stood there bewildered. He pointed to a sign hooked to the knocker. ‘Ferme!’ “We receive no one, Madame. My master is at work.”

This must be Carré, Andre’s apprentice, about whom she’d heard little, save his existence.

“Monsieur, I do believe if you tell Monsieur le duc that a Madame Roland is here, he will permit my entrance.”

The youth’s gaze traveled over her with curiosity. “He is not tolerant of interruptions, Madame.”

“Monsieur, I will tell him you bear no blame for allowing me to call on him.”

“That’s not the problem, Madame.”

“No?”

“He awoke late and he is…unpleasant. He does not receive anyone today. My strict orders are not to let anyone in.”

“Then would you give him a message for me?”

“Very well.” Carré glanced over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“Say to him, ‘Marianne did not take the train’.”

“I will tell him. Good day.” And he slammed the door shut.

She folded her hands and waited. Up in the square, a violinist was tuning his instrument. A huckster barked his wares. Mussels! Shrimp! An old woman appeared in the upper story window across the street to peer at her and shake out her bed linens, then drape them over the sash.

The blue door was ripped open.

“Marianne?” Andre stood in the portal, shirt askew, pants tied by one of his leather ropes, bare feet, hair on end and sky blue eyes bloodshot. “Mon Dieu. Carré, get her bags.”

He reached for her hands. “Come in. Quickly. Let me look at you.”

She smiled at his shock and dawning delight. “Good morning.”

The apprentice scurried about, grunting as he hauled the trunk over the threshold. “Where should I take—?”

“The bedroom along the foyer.” He pulled her near to him.

Andre meant her to sleep down here, away from him? “Andre, if you do not wish me here, I can—”

He had her in his arms. “I most certainly will have you here. The bedroom on this floor has a larger wardrobe than the one in my studio. A bureau, too. And I see you have brought enough clothes to show the petite bourgeoisie of Montmartre how a fashionable lady dresses.”

Wincing, she smacked a hand to his chest and turned her face aside. “And I can tell you had a bit too much wine last night.”

“Pardon e moi.” He stepped backward, still holding her hands. “I awaited a verdict. I could not work. So I drank.”

Carré disappeared down the main hall, dragging her trunk behind him.

She pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time. “Do you drink to distraction often, Monsieur le duc?”

He cast her a sideways look. “What do I detect in your tone?”

She’d come here today ready to be open with him about so many things. This too she’d impart. “I don’t like dealing with drunkards.”

“I’m not. Usually not. I had reason the past few days, if you give me leave for it.”

She tipped her head to and fro, testing him, forgiving him. “I can.”

“What else should you tell me about drunkards?” He lifted her chin, his fingertip tracing the swell of her lower lip. “There is more. I hear it. Tell me.”

“I saw what drink can do to men. One or two and they’re happy. Three or four and they’re mean. Five or six and they can be murderous.”

“I can drink five or six and I am still happy. Until of course, the next morning.”

“And the next morning, can you work?”

“After a bath and shave, I consider it.”

“And this morning?” she pressured him.

“I can. Under one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You keep me company.”

She grinned at him. “That I can do.”

He smiled and then the joy drained from him. “You’re here for August? All of it?”

“All of it. They return from Cherbourg the first week in September.”

“Was your uncle angry with you?”

“He was more understanding than angry.”

“Thank God.”

“He wouldn’t have stopped me, I don’t believe. He was no angel himself. A scrapper on the docks of Baltimore. Winning with his fists and his wits. A gambler who bet that he could run the Union blockade and make money at it. Now, if he tries to burnish his reputation, I can’t fault him. He wants to buy the world for his family.”

“Including you.”

“He recognizes I am older and that I have…”

“What?”

“A different background than Lily or Ada, even Pierce.”

“They did not experience the war, did they?”

“They were children.”

“So were you, ma cherie.”

“Let’s not talk of that, shall we? I’m hungry and I need to get out of these hot traveling clothes.” She spread her arms to indicate the heavy walking dress, the cumbersome petticoats and bustle. The corset too.

“Shall I help you?” He wiggled his brows.

“You must.” She put up a finger. “Just don’t breathe on me.”

“Of course not.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her along the foyer. “Come with me.”

Within minutes she was released from her layers of petticoats and stays, the bustle and her corset. He had unbuttoned, unlaced, untaped all her garments and kissed bits of her revealed to him. Her loins flooded with wet desire as he slipped his hands over the welts from her corset, the straps of her chemise. And when he put his lips to her nipples and sucked her up into his arms, she moaned her approval. But he smelled and she smacked a hand to his chest. “A bath, please!”

He chuckled and left her to dress. Her old gingham gown was one she added to her collection for the seaside. But here in happy Montmartre it suited her with its yellow stripes and lime green trim. It had faded but pleased her. And it was cooler.

She buttoned up the front to the broad collar, but decided it was so warm, she’d leave it undone.

From afar, Andre had watched her pull on the gown. As she finished he pushed away from the bureau to cuddle her close, his smile at her reflection in the full length mirror one of chivalry and devilry. “Now we’ll go upstairs.”

In the studio, Carré bustled about, filling up a long porcelain tub in the far corner of the atelier.

“Does he do that every time you wish to take a bath?”

“Horrible, isn’t it? But we up here in the butte will get pipelines soon. Down in Rivoli, we have running water. A tub big enough for both of us, too.”

She blushed and sneaked a look at Carré. He did not seem to notice her discomfort. Instead, the tub full, he hurried away and closed the door.

“We’ll go down to the big house in a few days.” Andre stripped, climbed in the tub, naked, and submerged himself head, hair and all. He came up, sputtering, reaching for a thick bar of soap. “I have to check on the servants. My mother’s butler is aging and I must look to see if he’s taking his tonics.”

She strolled to the window and the view down into the City. In the heat, the skyline looked as if it misted in a mirage.

“What happened with Montand?” he asked her. “You did go, I hope?”

“I did.” She walked to the work bench were one of Andre’s sketch books lay open. Balls of paper scattered about indicated the frustration he had. “I gave him the portrait of you that he liked. He believes he can sell it. I remain utterly astonished.”

“You had no idea your skills were superb?”

“Does one hope for it? Of course. Can one compare one’s work to what one sees? Naturally. But to be so enamored with one’s abilities as to hope it is…what?…commercial? No. I did not.”

Andre was thoughtful, quiet as he washed.

“My uncle allows me use of Rue Haussmann, if I wish it.”

Her abrupt change in subject and tone had him pausing to meet her gaze. “Do you?”

She licked her lips and took a few steps to perch on a stool that faced him.

He sat forward, sloshing water to the floor. “Tell me, Marianne. I must know sooner or later. I thought you said outside that you wanted to stay here for the month. Now—”

“I have a favor to ask of you. A few, in fact.”

He rose. His glorious body sluicing bath water, his beauty touched her. Brought tears to her eyes. She would draw him like that. More impressive than any man she’d ever known.

He picked up toweling that Carré had draped over the lip of the tub. Running his fingers through his long hair, he hooked the cloth around his hips and climbed from his bath. “Well?”

“First, I must thank you for the introduction to Monsieur Montand.”

“You did once.” He picked up both her hands and kissed her fingertips. “You are welcome.”

“I know I would never have met him were it not for you.”

“It’s what friends do for each other. Colleagues who share the same challenges.”

She liked that. “Friends and colleagues.”

“And lovers, ma cherie. You are my talented lover.” He winked, and strode to his shave stand where he took tooth powder and brushed his teeth. When he was done, he sat on a large stool on the opposite side of the room. Far away.

“What do you wish to negotiate, ma petite?”

“I want to enjoy you here. That means I must tell you a few facts.”

His good humor died. And he waited.

“I want you to know that I doubt I may ever get with child. I had no fear of it when we began our affair the other night and I have none now. I don’t want you to worry that I would become pregnant and use it as a means to trap you.”

Andre glared at her. “That would be no—”

“Stop.” She clamped shut her eyes. “Please. Let me finish. I want you to understand that I know I am incapable. I was married for nearly a year before Frederick took his commission and went off to fight. We were intimate. He was…frequently attentive. He wanted a child. A son. Badly. Still I didn’t ever show signs I might have been pregnant. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have wanted his baby.” She clamped a hand over her mouth.

Andre’s expression turned mellow. But he remained silent.

“That was awful to say. But it’s true.”

“I’m sure you had a reason.”

“Reason? Oh, yes. Many. First among them, he was a terrible lover. I suspected it but affirmed that five nights ago here with you. He knew nothing about tenderness or rapture like you do. He was crass and quick and—” She swallowed deeply, loudly. “I was glad there was no child. Glad. If that makes me a monster, so be it.”

Andre narrowed his gaze on her, as if he concentrated on what she said beyond her words.

“I have had no lovers. Only you. So I am unable to tell you, if there is something wrong with me. If I am deformed or—”

In a second, he was on his knees before her, his fingers wrapped around her wrists. “My darling, you are perfectly formed. There is nothing wrong with you.”

“But…but inside? It’s possible.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I—he—”

“Go on.”

“He was cruel. He was clumsy. Crude. He liked doing it harshly. Often. On a whim. Anywhere. I was his property, he said. Just like his slaves.”

Andre stood and attempted to take her in his arms.

But she pushed away. “After that wedding night, he took me so often, so quickly that I bled. I think I was torn. It was painful to have him inside me.”

“Marianne—”

She put up a palm. “I was glad he went to war. Glad? No, that’s too mild. I rejoiced when he was gone. So did our slaves. The field hands that he whipped until they bled and could not walk. The maids and our cook were liberated from his lewd attentions. He had them too, you see. Had them over and over, so often that they bore his children. Five of them. Five, I counted. Maybe there were more by the time he rode off to join General Lee. I could see they were his children. They looked like him. Every one. Blue-eyed. Sharp noses. Distinctively his.”

Andre still stood, arms folded, his gaze full of sympathy.

She must be blunt. “You cannot expect any children from this.”

“I want only you.”

She bit her lower lip. He could and would say that. He wanted her that much. She felt it in his touch. Good thing then that this interlude was just that. Temporary. Fleeting. A love affair that would be an elusive butterfly, quick, charming, borne on a lightness of air. “I must have something else.”

“Name it.”

“You must not to do anything as you did with Monsieur Montand to introduce me to anyone who will advance me.”

“Very well.”

“If I have any talent, I want others to see it as they will. Not because you promote me.”

“As you wish.”

“And finally, I would ask that when our four weeks are over, you let me go without argument.”

He set his jaw, the cords in his throat working in strain. “Why?”

“I cannot stay.”

“You can if you wish, Marianne.”

“No. I do not wish.” A lie. And yet not one.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked her, his voice rough with anger and hurt.

She put two hands to her chest. “I am not afraid!”

“No?” He challenged her.

“This was not a good idea. It couldn’t work.” She rose and stepped toward the door.

He caught her back against him. “I don’t know yet how to kill the demons that haunt you, my darling, but someday you will show them to me.”

She shook her head and to her shock, tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“Stay. Live with me. Let me buy you wine and feed you chocolate. Let me watch you sketch. Let me give you the freedom you have never known and need to grasp. Let me make love to you at night and in the morning sun, in the garden on the dewy grass and on the floor.”

She gave a laugh in spite of herself. How alluring was the life he offered as if it were her due.

He turned her around and thumbed the cascade of tears from her cheeks. “Stay. Don’t leave me. I need you, mon étoile. The night is long and day is sharp. But love makes it a miracle.”