“Marianne?” Lily knocked at Marianne’s bedroom door. “Are you ready to go down to dinner?”

“In a moment!” She clapped her hands together, standing back to admire her work, a thrill of success rippling through her. She’d done it. She’d created him. Him. Exactly as he should be. Big and bold and handsome as sin. “Give me a chance to wash my hands.”

She closed her sketchbook and placed her stick of light grey graphite carefully in its little tray in her boudoir drawer, then shut it tightly. As if that seals away my attraction. She shook her head, suppressing her smile and chastising herself for her naïveté. Even Lily knew how she admired the man. Her cousin had detected her interest in the huge Frenchman within seconds. How could she hide it? Why should she?

The answer to that had her pausing.

But it was time for dinner not for dreaming.

She rushed to her washstand, poured water into the pretty china bowl and submerged her tired fingers in the cooling water. Traces of the black substance floated away. She rubbed soap over her hands, picked up a towel, rubbed her skin dry and hung the cloth on the rack. With a check of her mirror, she secured the pins in her coil and examined her pink day gown.

“Oh!” She mustn’t forget to remove her apron. Untying the protective leather covering, she tossed it to the back of her chair and headed for the door.

“What are you doing?” Lily asked, mischief in her blue eyes.

“I’d say you know.” She closed her bedroom door and headed for the marble staircase beside her cousin.

“Drawing him, I would bet.” Lily speculated, gathering up her skirts and grinning.

“It’s alarming that you know me so well.”

Lily chuckled. “As if you can’t say the same of me.”

“So true.” Marianne shrugged. “Lord Chelton is a dashing creature.”

“And Papa knows him. What will I say?”

“Say you liked him.” They had given Uncle Killian a short summary of the accident in the Rue de la Paix. He’d been intrigued but they had escaped his questions about meeting his business rival Lord Chelton and a mysterious Frenchman who was the Englishman’s friend.

Lily nodded. “That is no crime.”

“Not at all,” Marianne confirmed.

“The same can be said about your interest in Monsieur le duc.”

“He is a charming specimen. I will not deny. But you well know, he is not for me.”

“No? Why ever not?”

“We know why.”

“Money is no object. Papa says so.”

“For you, my dear.” Marianne readily defended herself against any hint of marriage for herself. “Not for me.”

“Ah. Here you are. Finally.” Uncle Killian greeted them in the hall and extended a hand toward the dining room. As they filed in, the footmen advanced to pull out their chairs for them. “I despaired we would ever dine tonight.”

“Fiddle-faddle, Papa,” Lily said to him with a coy smile, and sat down.

As the servants poured the wine and offered the first courses, Lily began a discussion of the gowns they ordered from Worth.

Marianne hid her smile. Lily was adept at diverting her father from discussing topics she didn’t wish to touch. But her talents lasted only so long and Marianne could bet that today’s chance meeting of Lord Chelton was on her uncle’s mind. Chelton was his quarry, and once sited, he never lost track of his mark.

He looked at ease, drinking his brandy and smiling at them both.

Marianne was not deceived, but bit her lip, waiting for his pursuit of topics that gratified him.

“What will you wear this evening?” Uncle Killian asked them both as the footmen removed the last of the dishes.

“I have the pale blue gown and the sapphire cape, Papa.”

“Appropriate. And you, Marianne?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” she told him. That was true. This afternoon, to her dismay, she’d thought of little other than Remy.

Her blue eyes twinkling, Lily sent her a disparaging look. “We’re delighted to go to the opera. Especially Marianne.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she confessed. “Going to the Opera Garnier has been one of my fondest ambitions.”

“A good one, too.”

“I wish we could arrive at the beginning. Waiting until the ballet is so silly.”

“Parisians are funny.” Her uncle shook his dark head, his expression rueful. “They conduct business with leisure and if they wish to drink champagne while they do it, all the merrier.”

“Not everything is an amorous adventure,” Marianne said.

Her uncle and cousin barked in laughter.

She pressed her argument. “Why not use time to your advantage, hmm?”

Uncle Killian snorted. “Tell them that, would you, please, my dear?”

“I will.” She laughed but didn’t feel gay. Not yet. But she would tonight. She’d yearned to see the glories of the building ever since she had first read about it two years ago in the Baltimore Sun. The glorious architecture of the new civic opera building, the shining marble, the glittering chandeliers, the creme de la creme of society in their silks and tails. She knew of Garnier’s extravagances of decor. She’d heard of Parisians who had rendezvous in the private boxes, even upon the divans in the cloakrooms. She’d hoped to hear strains of Bach and Brahms and Offenbach drift up from the orchestra pit. She’d wished to taste the champagne served in the refreshment room. The Glacier, they called it. “Why arrive late simply to prove that your social calendar is full?”

“It’s expected to be late,” her uncle said. “This is not Knickerbocker Manhattan. Besides, shouldn’t I take these moments to hear more about this meeting of Chelton and you, Lily?”

“No, sir. You should not.” Lily gave him a blithe look and put her napkin to the table. She was ready to escape her father.

“And what of the Frenchman, Marianne? Was he so handsome you must flee without explanation, too?”

“Yes, sir. He was. But you mustn’t worry, Uncle Killian.”

“No? Why not?”

“He is too—” She paused, unusually stumped for words, one hand dancing in the air.

“Well? What?”

“Overwhelming. He is huge. A giant of a man.”

“And? So?” her uncle urged.

She blinked, her gaze suddenly dreamy. “His blond hair hangs to his shoulders and his hands are callused and scarred.”

“Chelton has a friend who’s a laborer? Yet he offered you his own carriage?” He arched his brows high. “Damned intriguing.”

“No, sir.” Marianne objected.

Lily caught her eye and shook her head in warning.

But Marianne, brave in many ways, said anyway, “He’s a duke.”

Hanniford laughed.

Lily rolled her eyes at Marianne.

Marianne shot from her chair, came round the table and hooked her arm in Lily’s. “Escape with me.”

“Tell him no more,” Lily pleaded as the two of them hurried from the dining room.

“I heard that!” he called out, but they raced up the circular staircase up to their suites. “I need details.”

“We’ve no time, Uncle.”

“We don’t want to be late, Papa,” Lily called down.

“We don’t want to change the fashion.” He came to the foot of the stairs.

Lily took hold of the hall banister and peered over the side. “Not on your life. It’s a small soirée and then the opera, dear Father. And you’ve paid good money for it.”

“I have not paid a penny. We’re guests!”

“All the more reason. Get dressed yourself,” Lily told him, whirling into Marianne’s sitting room and shutting the door behind her.

“Oh, Marianne, you realize that now he knows Remy is a duke, Papa will investigate his family all the way back to the dark ages.”

“He can do what he wants,” Marianne said, feigning indifference. Her uncle wanted her settled. Married. Safe, he called it. He’d said so, a thousand times. And she had refused him a thousand times. Married and settled and safe were not synonyms. She had experience to prove it. “I’ll not have another husband, ever.”

Her vehemence about the subject of taking a husband was not new. And she wished she might appear less adamant about such a thing. But she couldn’t.

Yet Lily had seen her interest in the French nobleman and she knew she’d never before displayed any attraction to a man. But taking a lover was a different story. And this Remy was so enticing that she might consider him a candidate.

In that, the risks were high. Social censure. Her family’s disgrace. Even if she had the courage to be so risqué, she was not made from such cloth. She could not chance it.

She turned away from Lily and strode to her dressing room. “Besides, I most likely won’t see him again.”

“And if you do?” Lily was quick to ask.

“It won’t matter. Your father cannot persuade me to receive him.”

“Or buy him for you?”

Marianne whirled to face her. “No. Not at any price.”

* * *

Remy checked his watch, tucked it back inside his waistcoat and cursed.

He was so late. His mother’s latest attack of breathlessness was his excuse. Julian would understand that. But his friend expected him to assist him tonight socially. Julian was to escort his mother and younger sister, Elanna, to the opera and he’d planned not to arrive until the third act or later. Remy had estimated the time to be approximately eleven, perhaps later. But his mother’s delicate heart had palpitated too quickly tonight and he would not leave her until she assured him she felt calmer. That, thankfully, had occurred an hour ago and he’d donned his evening attire as quickly as his valet Pierre could assemble him into a presentable picture.

Climbing out of his town coach, he strode to the doors and through the lower rotunda. He swept off his top hat and undid the leather clasps of his opera cape. The ticket master bowed to him, recognizing him immediately. Good thing. He’d held season’s tickets to the Opera Garner since its opening two years ago. His mama had often come with him, but last season, she’d refrained. He’d agreed that it was best she keep her strength for her frequent afternoon champagne luncheons with her friends. Amalie Sabine Marceau, Princesse d’Aumale et Duchesse de Remy was a pillar of Parisian society and she would not fail to appear, unless she were lying in her coffin.

“And that, mon cher,” she’d said earlier, shooing him off, “I will not permit until I have no breath left. Do go now. I will live. You must enjoy the music for me and come with tales of the horrors of the tenor’s cracking voice. I live for that. Go, go!”

He chuckled as he took the flight of the rose marble steps to the grand circle. Julian, his sister Elanna and his mother, the Duchess of Seton, would be eager to take their places in their seats. As he rounded the assembly area, he saw them in a group not far from him. He smiled in greeting, but no one saw him.

Then he halted in his tracks.

Julian was there. His mother, too. His sister Elanna a young beauty of verve in frothy pink, was overly polite to an older hawkish-looking creature who was quite obviously interested in her. Beside that man stood another. Tall, dark with angular features that implied brute strength, this man was impeccable in black formal tails and white cravat. With him stood two young women. The dark-haired beauty of this morning’s accident in the Rue de la Paix, Lily Hanniford, was beside him, a vision in a sapphire and silver fox cape. Next to her stood Remy’s own compelling fascination, the ethereal willow in royal purple sateen trimmed in white mink. The glorious widow. His unforgettable blonde.

The sentiment warmed him, head to toe.

Julian spied him and welcomed him to the gathering. “We’re delighted you’re here.”

“Bon soir. Forgive me my tardiness.” He decided not to discuss his mother’s health. The subject was delicate, alarming perhaps, and not a note he wished to strike here in the presence of Madame Roland. He chose the less personal subject. “There was another accident in the Rue de la Paix. I fear we have a contagion on our hands. ”

The Duchess of Seton picked up her lorgnette on its gold chain, peered about and introduced him to the rest of the party. The Setons he knew. The gentleman who was so attentive to Elanna was the Earl of Carbury, whom he’d never met before. He bowed to Lily Hanniford and her cousin, then tore his gaze away to meet Killian Hanniford, the famed rebel blockade runner whose inglorious reputation proceeded him in polite society.

His duties accomplished, Remy gave a slight bow to the lady whose image had teased him all day. The jewel-like purple of her gown contrasted with the faint pink in her skin and highlighted the beauty of her large green eyes. “Madame Roland, I am delighted to see you again.”

“Monsieur le duc, merci beaucoup.” She dipped in a small curtsey, much too formal for his taste. “I too am pleased to see you.”

“I hope you have recovered from this morning’s troubling incident.” Now that I see you again, I fill with exuberance.

“We were but by-standers. Of course it is Madame Chaumont who suffered more than I. She was noble throughout. But it is to you and Lord Chelton whom we owe all our thanks.”

He suppressed a naughty grin. She was being so polite, so proper. But the very way her lush lips formed words heated his blood. Her mouth was quite exquisite and much more sensual, erotic really, than his poor memory had allowed. What she could do with that mouth would be worth a thousand days of his life. She was precise in her language, even if she had that odd drawl that denoted she came from one of her southern states. But she was also soft spoken. Was that a trick perhaps to lure him closer? Ha. He did not mind. He gladly drew nigh. She smelled of some flower. Not roses. Peonies? Sweet but not cloying.

He longed to inhale her fragrance more closely, capture it as it wafted up from her bare skin.

He grinned at her.

“What did I say?” she asked him, her remarkable eyes wide with humor. “You smile at me. Did I commit a faux pas?”

“Oh, no, Madame. I enjoy your words.” He had to keep her talking and yet ameliorate any fears she might have that he was laughing at her. On the contrary, he wanted to impress her, seduce her, claim her before his enchantment with her evaporated. Such addictions to women did happen to him. Rarely. But when they did, he knew enough to seize the moment and attempt to imbibe them before sharp reality splintered the image and broke the fantasy in a thousand shards. “You have that accent that denotes you are from the South. I find it soothing.”

“Do you?” she asked with a skeptical glance. “Most don’t.”

“They lose then.”

“Lose?”

“The chance to hear the melody in your heart.”

Her cheeks flushed. “You are poetic.”

“Your reaction tells me that few have been poetic for you.”

“None, Monsieur.”

“Then you have not yet met the right people.”

She lifted her perfect chin and took him in fully with those incomparable emerald eyes. “Do the right ones speak as eloquently as you?”

“They try.” But I hope to keep them at bay. He offered his arm. “May I take you in to the theater, Madame?”

With a twist of her head, she noted that the others in the party were indeed headed for the Earl of Carbury’s box. She looped her gloved hand through his. Her fingers loose upon his forearm, he welcomed their warmth. And to keep them there, he pressed his hand atop them. The gesture was improper, but he’d done it out of need to secure her to him.

She caught her breath.

“The threshold, Madame,” he said, indicating the carpet as they stepped into their box with the others.

“Oh, my,” she said, halting as she gazed at the cavernous theatre decorated in ruby and gold fittings. Everywhere the rich velvets and damasks, the heavy fringes around them, the box adornments seized the imagination. Even the red velvet expanse of the cloak room with its chaise longue, and the tapestry upholstered chairs in Carbury’s box assaulted the senses with sumptuous display. “This is quite overwhelming.”

The others were removing their cloaks. He gestured to help her with hers and she presented her back. His fingers touched her skin, a spark racing up his arm as he hung her cloak and his on the large hooks.

“It’s astonishing, isn’t it?” The innocent delight of her appreciation for the decor reached out to him like a hand to his heart.

Her gaze ran once more over the opulence. “Sublime.”

What was sublime was the angelic fascination on her face. “The loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Was this the expression she wore when she gazed at a man she adored? “Certainement.”

“So much of it,” she whispered. “All this red. Like passion.”

“The stuff of life.”

She spun to face him, her gaze searching his, afire with enthusiasm that mesmerized him. “Are they wonderful?”

“Who?” He was lost in her. How could she be this mature and find the beauties of this place so fresh? She was a child discovering sugared fantasies.

“The singers? The dancers?”

“Mais oui. As divine as the music. You will enjoy them.”

“I never thought I would have the opportunity.”

“No?” He tipped his head. “Why would you not?”

His question broke her enchantment. She frowned, turning away, seemingly embarrassed. “A trifle.”

“I don’t think so.” He put a hand to her elbow. “What did I say?”

She glanced up, her polite demeanor firmly back in place. “Nothing, Monsieur.“

“But I did. It made you sad and I do not wish that.” He pressed his fingers into her flesh. “Tell me please so I do not make the same mistake again.”

“It’s difficult to behold this and realize so many will never see it. So many starve or suffer illnesses and I—” She put up a hand. “I’m sorry. I’m maudlin. Very poor manners on my part.” She swept aside her skirts and sat down.

He took the chair beside her. “I apologize.”

She nodded. “Please do not, Monsieur le duc. I am the one who is not used to the grandeur of this.“

“That is refreshing, Madame.”

“Oh, sir. You need not humor me.”

“Ah, but I am used to those who would never exclaim over such richness. Never find delight in draperies or chandeliers.”

She cocked her head. “I could shock you more and say I enjoy full meals and blazing hearths.”

“As we all do and yet few who have such each day boast of them.” He leaned closer to her, wishing she’d share details of her past to draw them nearer to each other. A widow, she had lost her husband. Had she loved him? How deeply? Had he died in their war? And how had she fared in that conflict? “What is your reason for such admiration of the ordinary pleasures of life?”

She went quite still, her focus on the stage. “I lived without them for years during our civil war. When your stomach growls, when your enemy sets fire to your barns and eats your pig and your chickens, when you have no wood to burn in your own hearth, you value food and shelter for the rest of your life.”

He took her gloved hand and she did not pull away. “You may always share with me anything you appreciate, Madame.”

Her sweet green eyes met his and he watched her give in to a laugh. “Might you like old Flemish tapestries?”

“From the reign of Louis the Fifteenth, I do.”

“Hmm. Why?”

He lifted a shoulder. “He’s an ancestor.”

She gaped. “Am I to assume you own a few?”

He demurred. “Three.”

“A group. Oh, my.”

“Scenes of a stag hunt at Rouen. They hang in one of my homes.”

She clapped her hands together, eager. “Rouen. My grandfather fled Rouen to go to America. May I see your tapestries, perhaps?”

“Name the day.”

She giggled and stopped herself short like a child at play. “Do you like art?”

He warmed even more to her test. “Sculpture. Painting. And you?”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “Caravaggio?”

“Dark and dangerous,” he said. Sensing she disliked the painter’s work, he refrained from sharing that he owned two of that man’s works too.

“Agreed. Exactly like Goya. Do you own any of his paintings?”

“No. And I’m glad I don’t.”

“Too realistic?”

He acknowledged that with a wince. “One of my ancestors died in Spain with Napoleon. His passing was not pleasant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need. I know only of his trauma. Tell me instead if you like the works of any French artists?”

“Delacroix?” she asked brightly.

“My father bought one of his landscapes.”

That took her aback, her thick blonde lashes fluttering in confusion. “My uncle wishes to buy his portrait of Frédéric Chopin.”

“Does he? Well. He’ll pay an outrageous price for that.”

“Money is no object to my uncle when he wants something badly.”

Remy wondered what might stand between him and this fascinating widow. If anything, it was not money. He had enough for the next century. And unlike Julian, he need not marry to acquire anything he wanted. Except the woman herself. “It’s for sale. He should buy it.”

Her plump lips parted and in her expression, he saw excitement. “Tell me about the singers. The dancers. The music.”

“The orchestra is accomplished. The singers are expert. You will enjoy them.” He watched her as she imbibed that. God, she was lovely. “Have you been to the opera in New York?”

“No. We live in Baltimore and often we’re at my uncle’s ranch in south Texas. Our entertainment consists of our own piano and neither Lily nor I am very good at that.”

“Have you lived with your uncle Killian and his children a long time?” He was being intrusive, but he had to take this chance to understand her. How else to draw her? Sculpt her?

“Almost thirteen years.”

“A very long time.”

“A very happy one.”

He did not understand why such a lovely woman remained cloistered and unmarried. “And your parents?”

“They died soon after I was married. During our war.”

He ached for her. “And your husband?”

She stiffened her spine. “He died in a battle in a small town in Pennsylvania.”

“My condolences, Madame.”

“I was fifteen.” She tried to smile and failed. “Half a lifetime ago.”

“Mon dieu. You were too young to endure such loss.”

She stared down into her lap. “My parents wished me to wed him despite my age. They were ill and had lost their land early in the war. My husband was a friend of my parents’, so it was natural that we wed.”

Remy reached out to take both her hands in his. “You have suffered greatly.”

“It was long ago, Monsieur. I made my way north eventually and my uncle took me into his home and his care. My aunt, his wife, was still alive and she was kind to me. When she died, I welcomed the chance to help my uncle. I’m grateful to him.”

“And so you helped your uncle with his small children.”

“I did.”

He wished to cup her fragile cheek, kiss her nose, her eyelids and wrap her close. “What have you done for yourself?”

That stumped her. She stared at him.

“You must have cultivated a part of yourself for yourself.”

“I have.” She pulled away once more.

Now was time to challenge her. “What is it?”

“I have nursed the ill and dying.”

“Pardon?” That was not what he expected.

She licked her lips, chanced a glance at the stage and turned back to him. “I worked as a nurse in a makeshift hospital during the war in Virginia. It was necessary. There were so very many who were wounded. I was whole and healthy and able.”

The orchestra took up their instruments, the rattle of bows and sheet music sending a ripple through the audience.

“They begin,” she said and dismissed their topic as she shifted around in her chair.

He could not take his eyes from her. To look upon her was to behold a beautiful creature. To speak with her, to learn her of her interest in tapestries and painters was to become intrigued with her turn of mind. But then to hear of her hardships and her reactions to them was to become astonished by her uniqueness.

He chastised himself for his inability to act the gentleman and look away. Crossing his arms, he forced himself to survey the audience, the stage, the painting on the domed ceiling.

Women of his own class whom he knew were well educated. Many cared for others, the downtrodden, the poor, the rabble. Most did it with contributions to charities. He understood compassion. He thought he had it for those less fortunate than he. And he thought he used it in his work. Emotion was the stuff of his art, carved from marble, poured into the bronze or baked into the porcelains. Yet he had never known poverty or hunger, fear or depravity. Not from others. Not from the state, not even during the horrors of the uprising of the Paris Commune six years ago. Even when the Prussians had been so beastly to so many during their occupation of France after they booted out his cousin, the second little Napoleon, Remy and his mother had not wanted for food or enjoyment or frivolity. His mother, gracious and giving had shared her staples from her cellars and clothes from her trunks. No one, especially children of the parish, had starved. Yet here in this pristine beauty was a lady who had labored in the catastrophe of war to aid others.

He was horrified that she’d seen bodies broken, bleeding, dying. He was smitten that she had done it and lived to tell of it.

He was proud of her.

He’d never felt his heart swell with so much pride. For his mother, in her largesse, for her grace and generosity, yes, he’d applauded it. So too, his applause for the peasant women who labored daily in his vineyards and farms was justified.

But this woman had walked in a living nightmare and worked to ameliorate its worst horrors.

The orchestra played on and Mrs. Roland was rapt. If he could sketch her now, even in the half view of her profile, he would draw her and call it Rapture. But to mold her in clay….

The arch of her brow, pale and long. The curve of her cheek, sharp, feline, distinctive. The straight line of her nose, small, delicate, her nostrils flaring as she flowed with the music. She was quite perfect.

The music died. The conductor turned from his musicians and strode off to the wings.

Intermission had arrived and he must steal more minutes with her alone before she dissolved in the night.

Mrs. Roland slid her program from her tiny purse and examined it.

He leaned toward her and whispered, “Allow me to show you the promenade and take you to the glacier.”

She checked her uncle and Lily, both of whom were engaged in conversations with others. “I wonder if I should.”

“You can. It is acceptable. A glass of champagne and a view of the gold in the gallery are both necessary to truly say you’ve been to the Garnier.” He stood and extended his hand. “Come with me, Madame.”

A hint of humor passed her features as she put her hand in his, then got to her feet. “I’d like that.”

He wrapped her forearm against his and led her out of the box. They passed along the marbled circle and toward a long hall glowing with bright light from gold and crystal chandeliers.

“Oh, this is so lovely. We have grand buildings in New York, but nothing to compare to this.”

They strolled along the full length of the mirrored gallery into a circular room where waiters poured champagne. She peeled back one glove from her fingers and tucked the fabric inside near her wrist so that she might hold the glass.

Remy handed her a flute and took one for himself. “To you, Madame.”

She drank, blushing. “You’re kind.”

Am I? No. I am calculating how can I get you alone and hold you in my arms.

“Do you know Monsieur Garnier?”

“I met him years ago.” He told her about the architect Garnier and the interior designs. “This took more than a decade to build. Disputes over the funding and the decor delayed construction.”

“And the final price?”

“A mystery!” He laughed as he told her about the never-ending invoices from tradesmen and stone masons and carpenters. “Many claim they will never receive their full wages. But according to the bankers, we Parisians will pay for it until the next century.”

She took a long drink of her champagne and grinned. “Ah, but some items should bear no price.”

Like your smile. “Indeed.”

She finished her drink and placed her glass on a nearby tray. He disposed of his own.

He offered his arm and they walked toward the far end of the gallery where they’d begun.

She peaked out toward the street. “May we go to the terrace?”

That she would risk censure for being alone with him in the dark surprised him. He could face criticism himself for taking her there, but he would protect her good name. He would not advance his suit too much and shame her or kill his own chances of gaining her friendship.

“If you do not wish it,” she said with a hint of humor and staunchness in her spine, “I’ll protect you from my Uncle Killian.”

He barked in laughter. “Not what I fear most.”

She threw him a winsome smile. “I won’t ask what that is. As for me, I want the air. The champagne was far too wonderful.”

The heat in her eyes as she absorbed his features fanned his hopes of kissing her. “You drank it too quickly?”

“I like it too much,” she said with a gay air of confession. “So many things here draw me.”

He hoped to be one of those. “I understand.”

“Paris inspires me to—” She glanced away, her throat working at words. Then she stopped and faced him. “I am a creature used to ordinary means but here, I am…transported. I like the gaiety, the music and—”

Me?

“I like the Parisian night. The air, the melodies of people singing in the cafes. I love the smell of bread baking in the morning and the apple trees in blossom. My grandfather Duquesne came from Rouen but he had a house here. I think I must have Paris in my blood.”

“I would say so. When did he go to America?”

“During your Revolution.”

“He was an aristocrat?” he asked.

“Papa said he was a count. But he gave up his title and his land to leave here.”

“Many did. Even my own great-grandfather and his wife emigrated to England during the Terror. Wise of them to go.”

“We should be happy because otherwise we would not be here.”

He opened the first door to the upper terrace to lead her to overlook the confluence of three wide boulevards. By now, it must be midnight. Stars twinkled like diamonds in a black velvet sky and he prayed they conspired with him so that he might enchant her.

She shivered.

He unbuttoned his coat. “Are you cold? Here.”

“Thank you.”

“Your uncle would never forgive me if you became ill because of my carelessness.” He draped the garment over her shoulders and forced himself to remove his hands from the delicate line of her body.

She strode forward, out of his reach, toward the huge concrete balustrade and leaned over it. The carriages in the streets below made muffled sounds. The wheels rolling over cobbles, the horses’ hooves clopping and the shouts of the drivers combined to give sweet cadence to the night.

“Have you always lived in Paris?” she asked him, wistful.

“I have an estate south of the city. It’s a day’s coach ride. Near a town called Tours.” He would not tell her how big the chateau was, for fear he’d seem pompous. “I spent my childhood there until I was twelve when my parents sent me to school here. I love the city. She is a curious creature, a blend of ancient and modern. Growing, improving. Raucous, dear and full of amusements.”

A few feet away, another couple—man and woman both in formal attire—appeared on the terrace. The man, murmuring husky phrases of desire to his companion, backed the lady up to the rail and, circling his arms around her, drew her close and kissed her.

Remy longed to do the same to lovely Mrs. Roland.

She saw the couple, her lips parting as she savored what she watched. Quickly she turned back to him. “The freedoms here are many.”

“We are more open about our affairs than, say, those in London or America.”

“Is there as much censure afterward for those who commit transgressions?”

He pursed his lips. Intriguing she should ask. “For Englishmen, there is much condemnation for those who are too liberal. I rely on you to tell me of Americans. But here, we understand certain human emotions more than others.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

“Perhaps we Frenchmen have condemned others too quickly, too easily and much more harshly than others. Perhaps our revolutions have been so many—or so violent—that our inhibitions are gone. Who’s to say?”

She turned around to face him, her large eyes luminous in the light from the street gas lamps. “I could spend my whole life here.”

Could you? “And what would you do with your days?”

She smiled at her own thoughts. “I’d take an apartment where I could walk out on the roof at night and chart the stars. I’d smell the air. The garlic and the shallots.”

He loved her like this, carefree and eager for pleasure. “The bread in the morning.”

“The flowers from the market,” she continued with a little giggle. “And I’d buy a ticket to come here every night to listen to the creations of others.”

She was so charmingly impetuous.

He placed a hand on the balustrade, drawing nearer to her. “Do you play the piano? Or sing?”

She threw her head back to laugh. “I don’t play a thing. But I do sing. Last night, I did. We were in a cabaret in the Rue des Abbesses.”

Last night, she sang and I missed it? “I would have loved to have heard you.”

“No. You wouldn’t. I was horrible with my poor French but no one shouted at me. So I was satisfactory. But I saw the dancers in a cafe in the Rue des Abbesses, doing their cancan. They were risqué but wonderful in their red skirts and black stockings and garters and— What?”

Had she seen him? Had she admired him as he had her? “What did you sing?”

She cast him a rueful glance. “A ditty about a milkmaid from Lyon. It was quite naughty.”

“Do you know where you were?” His voice was a rasp. His hope was absurd.

She held her breath. “A small cabaret. The Arabesque? The Ardennes?”

He nodded, winding one of his hands around her waist. She was small, delicate. His hand spanned her back. She was finely muscled, well proportioned and strong. “The Ardennes.”

“Yes, that’s it.” She breathed heavily. “I saw you there last night.”

Did you? And what did you think of me? He stepped forward and cupped her cheek. Her skin was warm silk.

She swallowed and flexed. Through his fingers, he could feel her confusion and her fascination with him. “You are a man women notice.”

This is a mutual magnetism then. “You saw me and I am content.”

“Oh, Monsieur,” she shook her head, from her tone ready to dismiss her enchantment with him. “This is not proper.”

He touched the tip of his finger to her luscious lower lip. “But very right.”

“This is too soon.“ She would have left him.

He put his leg between her own. Her gown swirled around them in a swish. His senses vibrated to touch her lips with his own. “Time is as immaterial as money when you see what you want and decide to have it.”

Arching backward over the balustrade, she panted as she grabbed for air. “We are to be friends, Monsieur. Friends.”

“Yes, friends, Marianne.” He withdrew slightly, not wishing to frighten her. “It is ‘Marianne’ is it not? And you must give me leave to call you that. Just as to you, I am Andre.”

She shook her head. “No, sir. That is too much.”

Or too good? That we should find each other time and again among throngs? “How then do you explain the coincidence?”

“What coincidence?”

“That I saw you when you entered the cabaret, Marianne.”

Her mouth fell open.

He slid his other arm around her and pulled her against him. She fit him, her long legs against his own, her breasts and hips against his torso, making him hungry to press her naked skin to his.

She squeezed shut her eyes and pressed her face to his cravat. The feather in her little evening hat tickled his nose.

He sank his fingers into her coif. Her hair was satin. Her scalp perfectly formed. Like every other part of her, she was sublime. Christ, he’d never wanted a woman so urgently.

“Forgive me,” she said and raised her head to peer at him with trepidation and a smack of bravado. “I’ve been very forward.”

Fearful she’d fly from him, he held her gently. A tendril of her hair had escaped her pins and he curled it back over her ear. “You have?”

“You as well.” She tipped her head toward the door. “Now we must go inside. I’m cold.”

Beside them, the other couple moaned as they continued their love play.

“Marianne—” he beseeched her.

“Please, sir.” She stepped aside, her chin up, valiant and yet vanquished. “I saw you too last night. I couldn’t believe my eyes today when I saw you again in the street.”

I felt the same. He could tell her of his own surprise, but then he might not learn why she recounted it with breathless unease. “And so?”

She flowed against him. “I thought you magnificent.”

He’d been described in many ways. Huge. Rough. Inelegant. But her word infused him with incredulous joy. If he were a woman, he’d have said his knees went weak. His mind certainly did. But his hope to have her bloomed like an arbor long denied rain.

She put one hand to his jaw, her thumb outlining the edge of his lower lip. “All this might deserves…”

“What?” he asked in a whisper of his desire.

“Applause. An audience. Beauty is rare in this world.”

He bent and dropped a kiss into her bare palm. “Marianne, the beauty is in you.”

She opened her mouth, her gaze rapt on his mouth. “Monsieur—”

“Andre.”

She clamped her eyes shut, but when she opened them, she was adamant. “Andre, you are too complimentary.”

“No, ma petite, the compliment you gave me is a treasure.” He drew her closer still. “I am quite honored.”

“Oh, don’t be. After all, who am I? No equal to you.”

He urged her nearer.

“No, please, Mons—. Andre, let us go in.” She stepped backward.

And he would not compel her.

“We are of two different worlds. We would not—must not ever suit.”

He noted sorrow and despair in her countenance. And he pitied her that. Why she should think them so ill matched, appalled him. Certainly, he did not. But then, she had her reasons and he wagered they were sound to her. Whatever the particulars of her past, she had suffered. Perhaps from the brutalities of war, perhaps from loneliness or feelings of inferiority to her uncle’s household. But he could not cure such challenges with a kiss.

He would be patient. Kind. Draw out her reasonings. He perceived she’d had no one who really listened to her. And he would be that person. That confidant. That friend.

Perhaps, then he might merit becoming her lover.

That particular joy he would not do without. Not in this life nor the next.

“Come. We’ll speak of this another day.”

“No. We won’t.”

“I may call upon you, surely, if—”

“No. We will not speak and you will not call upon me.”

* * *

How Marianne endured the rest of the performance without screaming in frustration, she could not say. Stupidly, she’d foiled herself, robbed herself of a joy—an escapade—she’d dearly desired.

Gentleman that he was, Andre had not argued, but escorted her back to Carbury’s box. Like two statues, they had sat beside each other until the bitter end.

Minutes later when the lights came up, the two of them rose and conversed, mingled and laughed with the rest of their party. Nothing seemed amiss. Andre was a good actor and she pretended so easily. Chastising herself for lying to them all, she wished she could sprout wings to fly away.

Andre rose, his expression hopeful as his blue eyes met hers and held. “Shall we adjourn to a café for refreshments?”

Marianne almost applauded him. Charming man, he was not deterred by a woman’s rejection.

“Forgive me.” Lily was first to respond. “I’ve enjoyed this tremendously, but I fear I must return home. It’s been a very long day. Excuse me, please. But Papa, if you wish to continue the evening, do.”

Marianne breathed more easily when Uncle Killian made his own excuses. They would leave, thank heavens.

The party reclaimed their coats and made their way down the massive staircase, into the rotunda and on to the portiere where the carriages lined up.

Andre and his friend, Lord Chelton, were perfect gentlemen, seeing them into their carriage and bidding them a polite good evening.

From her vantage point in Uncle Killian’s town coach as they drove off, Marianne had a long view of Andre Claude Marceau. It must be the last time she saw him. For a very long time, at least.

Because if they met again, she must be stronger. More careful. Less irrepressible. She must have learned to school her interest in him. How to do that, she was not aware. But she would. Must.

For when they met again, she must not fall once more under his spell. She would not permit it. He was so much man. Too much for her. And though she yearned for a lover, she never would take one who would seek to control her.

Never.