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Chapter Five

‘How are you this morning?’ Amethyst asked Fenella, noting that she still looked rather wan and shamefaced.

‘Much better,’ she said, sliding into her place at the breakfast table and pouring herself a cup of chocolate with an unsteady hand. ‘Yes, much better.’

What Fenella needed was something to take her mind off herself, Amethyst decided. She could not possibly still be feeling the after-effects of drinking too much. She was just indulging in a fit of the dismals. Since offering her sympathy had done so little good, perhaps an appeal to her deeply ingrained sense of duty might do the trick. A reminder that she was supposed to be a paid companion.

‘I hope you do not think I am being strict with you, but I really must insist you get back to work today.’

Fenella sat up a little straighter and lifted her chin. Amethyst repressed a smile.

‘I need you to double-check any correspondence that Monsieur Le Brun may have written regarding the trade opportunities we’ve come over here to secure.’

At Fenella’s little gasp of dismay, she held up her hand. ‘My grasp of the French language is only very basic, so I need you to keep an eye on everything he does. It is bad enough having to rely on him to represent me at meetings,’ she grumbled. ‘Anyway, I have to spend some time reading the packet of mail which has caught up with me...’ she sighed ‘...before we can take Sophie out anywhere. It shouldn’t take me long, but I must just make sure there is nothing so pressing it cannot wait until my return. Jobbings already thinks I am flighty, because I have come jauntering off to foreign parts, as he put it. He fully expects me to fail in this venture,’ she said gloomily. ‘He doesn’t think I have a tithe of my aunt’s business acumen.’

‘You do not have a high opinion of him, either, do you?’

‘He is honest and diligent. Which is more than can be said for most men.’

Fenella cut a pastry into a series of tiny squares, her expression pensive. ‘What is your opinion of Monsieur Le Brun, now that you have got to know him better? Sophie said that you did not seem so cross with him yesterday as you usually are.’

‘Well, although he looks far too sour to have ever been a child, let alone remember what one would like, he did take us to a whole series of places which were exactly the kind of thing that a lively, inquisitive child like Sophie would really enjoy,’ Amethyst admitted.

‘Yes. Sophie told me all about it,’ said Fenella, lifting her cup and taking a dainty sip of tea.

‘I confess,’ Amethyst continued, ‘I had my doubts when he said that he did not mind having a child form part of our party. I got the distinct impression,’ she said with a wry twist to her lips, ‘that he would have said anything to get the post, so desperate was he for work. Even the testimonials he provided were so fulsome they made me a bit suspicious.’

‘So why, then, did you take him on?’

‘Because he was desperate for the job, of course. I thought if he would say anything to land the job, then he was likely to work harder to ensure he kept it. And so far, my instincts have not failed me. He has worked hard.’

‘Then you do not...’ Fenella placed her cup carefully back on to its saucer ‘...dislike him as much as you did to start with?’

‘I do not need to like the man to appreciate he is good at his job. So far he has proved to be an efficient and capable courier. And though his manners put my back up they have a remarkable effect on waiters on both sides of the Channel. He always manages to secure a good table and prompt service. I attribute that,’ she said, digging into her own plate of eggs and toast, ‘to that sneer of his.’

‘Oh, dear, is that all you can say? Is that really...fair?’

Amethyst raised her brows, but that was not enough to deter Fenella. ‘You did make a good choice when you employed him,’ she said stoutly. ‘He is...’ She floundered.

‘Arrogant, opinionated and overbearing,’ said Amethyst. ‘But then he is a man, so I suppose he cannot help that. However,’ she added more gently, noting from the way Fenella was turning her cup round and round in its saucer that her companion was getting upset, ‘I am sure you need have no worries that he may take his dislike of me out on you. What man could possibly object to the way you ask for his advice? For that is what you do, isn’t it? You don’t challenge his dominance by giving him direct orders, the way I do, so he has no need to try to put you in your place. You just flutter your eyelashes at him and he does whatever you want, believing the whole time that it was all entirely his own idea.’

To her astonishment, Fenella flushed bright pink.

‘I am sorry if that unsettles you. I meant it as a compliment. You handle him with such aplomb...’

Fenella got to her feet so quickly her chair rocked back and almost toppled over. ‘Please, I...’ She held up her hand, went an even hotter shade of pink and fled the room.

Amethyst was left with a forkful of eggs poised halfway to her mouth, wondering what on earth she had said to put such a guilty look on Fenella’s face.

* * *

It took Amethyst less than an hour to run her eyes over the latest figures and tally them in her mind with the projected profits. At home, in Stanton Basset, she had always started her day by doing exactly this, and before she’d set out she had seen no reason why she shouldn’t keep up with the latest developments as assiduously as ever.

But she’d never felt so relieved to have got through the columns of figures and the dry reports that went with them. She couldn’t wait to put on her hat and coat, and get outside and start exploring Paris again.

She’d never enjoyed being in business for its own sake, the way Aunt Georgie had. It had always been more about repaying her aunt’s faith in her by making her proud. And as for coming to France to expand the business...

The truth was that the end of the war had come at just the right time for her. Everyone with means was flocking to Paris. It was the perfect time to break away from Stanton Basset and all its petty restrictions. To do something different. Something that was nothing to do with anyone’s expectations.

So why had she justified her decision to travel, by telling Jobbings her motive for coming here was to expand the business she’d inherited? Why was she still making excuses for doing what she wanted? Whose approval did she need to win now her aunt had gone? Not Jobbings’. He worked for her.

Was she somehow trying to appease the ghost of her aunt? She’d thought that coming somewhere different would jolt her out of the rigid routine into which she’d fallen and stuck after her aunt had died. But it wasn’t proving as easy to cast off the chains of habit as she’d thought it would be. She was still looking over her shoulder to see if her aunt would approve.

She eyed her bonnet in the mirror with dislike as she tied the frayed brown ribbons under her chin. It did nothing for her. She rather thought it wouldn’t do anything for anyone.

Well, while she was in Paris, she was going to treat herself to a new one. No woman visiting Paris could fail to come back with just one or two items that were a little brighter and more fashionable than she was used to wearing, would she? It wouldn’t exactly be advertising her wealth, would it?

And what was the point of having money, if all you ever did was hoard it?

‘I hope,’ she therefore said upon reaching the communal hall, where the others were waiting for her, ‘that we will be visiting some shops today. Or if not today,’ she amended, realising that she had not asked Fenella to make shopping a part of their itinerary, ‘tomorrow. I have decided that we should all have new bonnets.’

Fenella flushed and pressed her hand to her throat, but Sophie cheered.

‘Monsieur Le Brun has already said he is going to take us to the Palais Royale,’ she said, bouncing up to her with a smile. ‘He says it is full of shops. Toyshops and bookshops, and cafés like the one where we bought the water ice yesterday. I expect you could buy bonnets, too,’ she added generously.

The Palais Royale. Oh, dear. Well, at least she’d already come up with the notion of buying bonnets for all three of them. The prospect of getting something new to wear was bound to help take Fenella’s mind off returning to the scene of her downfall.

Though when she took another look at Fenella, it was to find that she still looked rather pink and more than a little uncomfortable.

‘A new bonnet,’ said Fenella. ‘Really, Miss Dalby, that is too kind of you. I don’t deserve—’

‘Fustian,’ she barked as she marched out of the front door. ‘You have both been ill. You deserve a reward for putting up so heroically with me dragging you and poor Sophie all the way out here.’

Fenella trotted behind her, twittering and protesting for several yards that the last thing she deserved was a reward.

* * *

When they finally reached the Palais Royale and caught sight of the shops by daylight, however, her final protest dwindled away to nothing.

The people thronging the gravelled courtyard were all so exquisitely dressed. It made their own plain, provincial garb look positively shabby.

And the shops were full of such beautiful things.

It occurred to her that Fenella didn’t often have new clothes. She couldn’t outshine her own employer, after all. But now Amethyst wondered how much she minded dressing so plainly, when she spent so many hours poring over fashion plates in the ladies’ magazines.

‘Oh, just look at that silk,’ sighed Fenella, over a length of beautiful fabric draped seductively across the display in a shop window. ‘I declare, it...it glows.’

‘Then you must have a gown made up from it,’ declared Amethyst. Before Fenella could come up with a dutiful protest, she interjected, ‘It is ridiculous to go about looking like dowds when I have the means for both of us to dress stylishly.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘Neither of us have had anything new for an age. And nor has Sophie. You have to admit, that shade of blue would suit you both admirably.’

‘Well...’ Fenella bit her lower lip, which was trembling with the strain of knowing quite the right thing to do in this particular circumstance.

‘I have made up my mind, so it is no use arguing. Both you and Sophie are going to return to Stanton Basset in matching silk gowns.’

Sophie’s face fell, predictably. She knew that visiting a modiste meant hours of standing about being measured and dodging pins.

‘But first, where are those toyshops Monsieur Le Brun promised us?’

Sophie’s face lit up again and she skipped ahead of them to a shop she must have already noted, so swiftly did she make for it.

The adults followed more slowly, glancing into all the windows as they went past.

Until they came to a shop that sold all kinds of supplies for artists, at which point Amethyst’s feet drifted to a halt. Did Harcourt buy his supplies here? Or perhaps, given the preponderance of tourists milling about, he would frequent somewhere cheaper, known only to locals. Although the money she’d given him for that quick portrait would ensure he could buy the best, for some time to come.

She frowned. She didn’t like the way her mind kept returning to Harcourt. It was a problem she’d struggled with for years. Every time his name appeared in one of the scandal sheets, all the old hurts would rise up and give her an uncomfortable few days. It was too bad he’d had to flee to Paris, of all places, when London grew too hot for him.

She heard Sophie laugh and turned to see that the rest of her party were going into the toyshop already. She chastised herself for standing there peering intently into the dim interior of the artist’s supplier. She’d actually been trying to see if she could make out the identity of any of the customers. There was no reason he would be there, just because she was.

Sighing, she tore herself away from the window and moved on to the next shop, which was a jeweller’s. Once more her feet ruled her head, coming to a halt without her conscious volition. As her eyes roved over the beautiful little trinkets set out on display, she heard her aunt’s voice, sneering that women who adorned themselves with such fripperies only did so to attract the attention of men, or to show off to other women how much wealth they had.

‘Wouldn’t catch me dead wasting my hard-earned money on such vulgar nonsense.’

She bit her lower lip as she silently retorted that it might very well be vulgar to wear too much jewellery, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to own just a little?

Her eyes snagged on a rope of pearls, draped over a bed of black silk. She’d worn a string just like it, for the few short weeks her Season had lasted. She’d been so happy when her mother had clasped them round her neck. She’d felt as if she was on the verge of something wonderful. The wearing of her mother’s pearls signified the transition from girlhood into adulthood.

Something inside her twisted painfully as she remembered the day she’d taken them off for the last time. They’d gone back in their box when her mother had brought her home from London and she hadn’t seen them again for years.

Two years, to be precise. And then they’d been round Ruby’s neck.

And her mother had been smiling at Ruby and looking proud of her as she’d walked down the aisle on her father’s arm to marry a wealthy tea-merchant she’d met at a local assembly. They hadn’t even had to splash out for a London Season for Ruby. No, she’d managed to get a husband with far greater economy and much less fuss. And she therefore deserved the pearls.

Amethyst might not have minded so much if any of her sisters had spoken to her that day. But it was clear they’d been given orders not to do more than give her a nod of acknowledgement. She’d pinned such hopes on Ruby’s wedding. She’d thought the fact her parents had sent her an invitation meant that she was forgiven, that they were going to let bygones be bygones.

No such thing. It had all been about rubbing her nose in it. Ruby was the good daughter. She was the black sheep. Ruby deserved the pearls and the smiles, and the bouquet and the lavish wedding breakfast.

Amethyst didn’t even warrant an enquiry after her health.

She dug into her reticule, fished out a handkerchief and blew her nose. That was ages ago. She didn’t care what her parents thought of her any more. They’d been so wrong, on so many counts. Why should she stand here wasting time even thinking about them, when they probably never spared her a second thought?

And then somehow, before she even knew she’d intended any such thing, her militant feet had carried her into the shop and over to a counter. Her mother had decided she didn’t deserve the pearls. And her aunt had held the opinion that wanting such things was vulgar anyway. But neither her aunt nor her mother was in charge of her life, or her fortune, any longer. If she wanted to drape herself with pearls, or even diamonds, she had every right to do so. Why shouldn’t she buy something for the sheer fun of splashing out her money on something that just about everyone in her past would have disapproved of?

The shop was a veritable treasure trove of the most beautiful little ornaments she had ever seen. One object in particular caught her eye: a skillfully crafted ebony hair comb, which was set with a crescent of diamonds. Or possibly crystals. Since she had so little experience of such things, there was no way she would ever be able to discern whether those bright little chips of liquid fire were genuine or paste.

But whatever it was, she wanted it. It wasn’t as if it was a completely useless ornament, like a rope of pearls would have been. Besides, she sniffed, she didn’t want to buy something that would remind her of such a painful episode in her past.

She glanced warily at the man presiding over the shop, who was watching her with a calculating eye. For one fleeting moment she wished she had Monsieur Le Brun at her side. He wouldn’t let a shopkeeper chouse him. With that cynical eye and world-weary manner he would put the man in his place in an instant.

She shook the feeling off. She could manage this herself. She might have no experience with jewels, but she had plenty with people. Aunt Georgie had taught her how to spot a liar at twenty paces. She wouldn’t let him dupe her into paying more than she decided the item was worth.

She took a deep breath and asked how much the comb cost.

‘Madame does realise that these are diamonds?’

She couldn’t help bristling with annoyance. Why did Frenchmen persist in addressing her as madame? It made her feel so...old. And dowdy.

And all the more determined to dress a little better.

So she nodded, trying to look insouciant, and braced herself to hear they cost an exorbitant amount, only to suck in a sharp, shocked breath when he quoted her a sum that sounded incredibly reasonable.

Which meant that they couldn’t possibly be real diamonds. He was trying to trick her.

Like all men, he assumed she must be too stupid to notice. Her eyes narrowed. She stood a little straighter, but was prevented from saying anything when the door burst open and Harcourt strode in.

‘I had almost given up hope of catching you alone,’ he said, taking hold of her arm. Somehow she found him drawing her away from the counter and into the darker recesses of the shop, away from the window.

She ought not to have let him do any such thing. But then she wasn’t in the mood for doing as she ought today.

Besides, there was something in his eyes that intrigued her. It wasn’t the anger he’d displayed during their previous two encounters. It was something that looked very much like...desperation. And his words made it sound as though he’d been following her. Seeking an opportunity to speak to her alone. After the Frenchman’s attitude, she could help being just a little bit flattered.

‘When last we met, I should have said...that is...dammit!’ He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving furrows in the thick, unruly mass.

My goodness, but he was worked up. Over her.

‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I am in torment, knowing you are here, in Paris, so near and yet so...out of reach.’

A warm glow of feminine satisfaction spread through her, almost breaking out in the form of a smile. Almost, but not quite. She just about had the presence of mind to keep her face expressionless.

She hoped.

‘Would you consider leaving your Frenchman?’

Well, that put paid to looking cool, calm and poised. She felt her jaw drop, her eyes widen.

She managed to put everything back in place swiftly, but even so, he’d seen her reaction.

And he didn’t like it.

‘I know I don’t look as though I am a good prospect,’ he said, indicating the scruffy clothes he was wearing. ‘But honestly, I am not as hard up as these clothes suggest. They are practical for when I am working, that is all. I get covered in dust and charcoal, and...but never mind that. The point is, you could do better than him.’

‘You...you said that before,’ she replied. And she’d been simultaneously flattered and insulted by his assumptions about what sort of woman he thought she was. Well, she might be flattered, but she wasn’t going to melt at the feet of a man who kept on delivering his flattery wrapped up in insults.

‘You have the unmitigated gall to stand there and criticise both my morals, and my taste, without knowing the first thing about my circumstances. And then have the cheek to say you think you are a better prospect for me?’

That hadn’t come out quite right. What she had meant to say was that Monsieur Le Brun was not, and had never been, her protector and that, even if she did need one, she would most certainly be far choosier about the man in question.

‘Try me,’ he grated. Then, before she had time to draw breath to make her retort, which would have been good and acidic, putting him neatly in his place, he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her. Hard. Full on the lips.

She froze, shocked into indignant immobility. But only for a moment. Because, amazingly, hard on the heels of her indignation came a wave of such sheer pleasure it made her want to purr.

Oh, but it had been so long since any man had kissed her. Since this man, her first and only love, had kissed her. And that time it had been nothing like this. Back then, his kisses had been almost chaste. Tentative. As though he hadn’t wanted to frighten her.

But just as she was starting to wonder if he was trying to punish her with the force of his kiss, his mouth gentled. He slid his hands down her arms and round her waist, tugging her closer to him. And she could no longer see why it was so important not to melt against him, into him. She’d never experienced anything so seductive as the feel of his mouth against hers, his arms tugging her close, the heat of his entire body pressed all along the length of hers. He kissed like a man now, she realised. That was the difference. He was an experienced man, not an untried boy.

But the most seductive thing about his kiss was his eagerness. The intensity of his yearning for her flowed off him in waves, making him shake with it. It was his passion, not his skill, which was so very irresistible. Because it made her feel so desirable.

When, too soon, he pulled back, she opened her eyes, stunned to discover that she’d shut them.

‘You see?’

What? What was she supposed to see? She hadn’t been aware of anything but him, for the entire duration of that embrace. An entire troop of Cossacks could have invaded the shop and she didn’t think she would have noticed.

‘You still want me.’

Her pleasure dimmed. Was he just trying to prove something by harking back to their shared past? And if so, what?

‘Why deny yourself, Amethyst? Come to me.’

Why deny yourself? He was talking as though taking a lover was nothing more significant than purchasing a bauble to decorate her hair.

When it clearly wasn’t. Not even for him. He was standing there, shaking with the force of wanting her.

It was flattering. But she wasn’t that kind of woman.

She shook her head.

His face hardened. ‘What are you afraid of? What hold does that man have over you? Tell me.’

‘He doesn’t have any hold over me,’ she said indignantly.

‘Then prove it.’

‘I do not have to prove anything to you.’

‘So, I repeat, what is holding you back?’

‘Can you not think of anything?’ Like the fact she might have some morals, for instance?

A look of complete exasperation flitted across his face.

‘Explain it to me.’

She glanced over his shoulder towards the door. At any moment Fenella might come in, looking for her, worrying about what was keeping her.

His face softened. ‘I forgot. The little girl. Very well. Make an excuse to get away from the others and meet me somewhere where we can talk. And you can tell me exactly why you are reluctant to yield to the passion that is burning between us.’

Talk. She supposed she could agree to that. And, oh, but she did want to see him again. Hear him say such things again. It was almost like the dream she’d had on her first night here, where he’d grovelled at her feet for a chance to kiss her and to beg her forgiveness for the way he’d treated her.

‘We are planning to visit the Louvre,’ she said. ‘I could easily break away from the others...’

‘I go there as often as I can,’ he said. ‘Can you arrange to be there tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’ Easily. ‘Then I will be waiting for you.’

He seized her by the shoulders, kissed her again, then turned and strode out of the shop.

She raised one trembling hand to her lips. What had she done? Agreed to meet him and let him attempt to talk her into having an affair with him, that’s what.

She was shaking so much she needed something to lean on for support. Tottering to the counter, she laid both palms on it and took a deep breath. When the contents of the shop eventually swam back into view, she noted the proprietor pushing the comb, now nestled in a little box lined with silk, across the counter towards her.

She glared at him.

He promptly reduced the price by a further two francs.

With the pragmatism of the typical Parisian, he was continuing to haggle as though there was nothing untoward about men storming into his shop, grabbing potential customers, kissing them until their knees turned to jelly and then storming out again.

All of a sudden she felt like laughing.

‘I shall take it,’ she breathed. It would always remind her of this day, this moment. And the kiss that had tumbled her back to the kind of breathless wonder she’d felt as a girl, whenever he’d stolen a kiss from her in some secluded nook.

She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But every time she tucked it into her hair, the fire of the gems sparkling from the darkness of their setting would always remind her of the sparks that had flared from this brief moment of twisted, thwarted passion. And she would remember how desirable he’d made her feel.

* * *

Amethyst woke the next morning with a smile on her face. Somewhere in this city, Harcourt was stomping around in fury at the erroneous belief she was a kept woman and wishing he was the one to have her in keeping. For the first time in ten years, she felt as though she was an attractive woman—in one man’s eyes at least. And since she didn’t much care what any other man thought about her, it was enough to make her feel like skipping down the Boulevard, hand in hand with Sophie, laughing with sheer joy.

‘Where do you plan to take us today, Monsieur Le Brun?’ she asked with bated breath when he came to report to her, after breakfast. ‘I hear the Louvre is well worth a visit.’

‘I can arrange for a viewing of the works of art for you, madame, of course,’ he said.

‘Oh, but you promised to take me to see the animals in the menagerie,’ cried Sophie.

‘We can go another day,’ put in Fenella hastily, ever the peacemaker.

‘No, no,’ said Amethyst, making a play of looking out of the windows. ‘The weather may not favour a trip out of doors another day. You must take Sophie to see the animals. Especially since she seems to feel you have given your word. Though I rather think I should like you to arrange for my own admission, Monsieur Le Brun. Once I have finished my paperwork for the day, I shall not want to sit about twiddling my thumbs.’

* * *

Since Sophie had been so determined to go and look at the animals, Fenella had put up very little resistance to her scheme. And not two hours after they’d departed for the Jardin des Plantes, where the menagerie was to be found, she was walking through the maze of statues on the ground floor, then mounting the stairs which led to the gallery where she’d agreed to meet Nathan.

She gripped her parasol tightly. There were so many other people here, studying the paintings. How was she going to find Nathan amongst them all? And did she really want to? What was she going to say to him?

She hadn’t thought this through. Her pulse jumping to her throat, she turned blindly toward the nearest painting, which happened to be Titian’s San Pietro Martire.

‘He looks as though he’s taken great pride in the kill, I always think,’ said Harcourt, who’d somehow found her in the crowd and managed to approach her without her noticing.

She didn’t turn round. She didn’t think she could look him in the face without blushing. She’d spent far too many hours, since she’d last seen him, reliving the sensations he’d aroused by kissing her. And then, because he’d made it plain he wanted so much more than kissing, imagining what the rest of it might be like as well. It had left her heated, shaky sometimes, and at other times with a delightful sense in all her limbs as though she was floating a few inches above the muddy streets of Paris, in a kind of hazy-pink romantic cloud.

Which was ridiculous. There was nothing the least bit romantic about what he wanted from her.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t help feeling...feminine—that was the only way to describe it—in a way she hadn’t since she’d been a hopeful débutante, dreaming of veils and orange blossom.

She was feeling decidedly feminine now, at the rush of his breath against her cheek when he’d leaned close to murmur into her ear. He was standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body along her back and smell the aroma of smoke emanating from his clothing, as though he’d recently been standing near a bonfire.

In an attempt to shake off the spell, she resorted to a challenge.

‘Is that any way to greet me?’

‘No, I suppose not. It’s just that you seemed to be studying it so intently. And as I’ve already told you, I spend a lot of time here, admiring the works of true masters. I cannot help but admire beauty when I see it. Which is why I am drawn to you, every time I see you about the city with your companions, in spite of knowing better.’ Just as she was drawn to him, too, in spite of knowing better.

‘Perhaps I should not have come...’

Only, he’d reached another Amy, one she tried the hardest not to let anyone see. The Amy who’d lain in bed, night after lonely night, wishing someone, anyone, would come and put their arms round her and tell her she wasn’t a disappointment. Not to them.

That Amy couldn’t resist getting as close to Nathan as she could. To feel the warmth of his body all along her back. The whisper of his breath on the nape of her neck as he murmured into her ear, ‘I am glad you did.’

They stood quite still for a few moments, pretending to gaze at the painting, whilst really enjoying the feeling of being so close. At least, that was what she was doing. And if he wasn’t, then surely he would move away, instead of standing there, breathing in such a way that her insides were turning liquid with longing?

‘You...you spend a lot of time here, you said.’

‘I am an artist,’ he said abruptly. Was he annoyed she’d deliberately broken the sensual mood that had been shimmering between them? ‘Of course I want to study the works of the greats, and see how they managed to produce works like this, when all I...’ He paused. ‘I have little talent, not compared with men like these. It can be frustrating.’

‘Then why continue?’

‘Because being an artist is not something you choose. It is something you are. I cannot simply admire a view without wondering how I could capture something of its grandeur on canvas. Any more than I can look at an interesting face and not itch to sketch it. And as for your hair...’

‘My hair?’ At that she did turn her head to look up at him over her shoulder. He was staring at the few curls that inevitably escaped her bonnet with a kind of fascination.

‘I have never seen another woman, anywhere, with hair quite the same shade. It defies analysis. Fielding always used to say it was just brunette,’ he scoffed. ‘He never glimpsed the rich ruby lights that shone from its depths when you passed under a branch of candles...’

When she gasped, he looked straight into her eyes. They were standing so close that it felt as though they were breathing the same air. He would only have to bend his head, just a fraction, and they would be kissing.

As though the same thought had just occurred to him, his gaze dropped to her lips. For a heartbeat or two they just stood there, looking at each other’s mouths and breathing. Heavily.

‘If you are really too afraid to risk losing the protection of that Frenchman,’ he said harshly, ‘then do you think he might give me permission to paint you? Just head and shoulders. I can’t sleep for thinking about your hair. And if I could get you up to my studio, then perhaps—’

‘Monsieur Le Brun is not my protector,’ she said, cutting him off. He might say he only wanted to paint her, but she knew what he really wanted was so much more than that.

And she wanted it too.

Great heavens, she wanted it too. It was wrong. Perhaps even wicked. But it was far too late in her life to dream of romance and wedding bells. And here stood a man who was burning with desire for her. Genuine desire. It must be, for he had no idea how wealthy she was. He even thought she might be in the keeping of some other man. But it hadn’t stopped him...lusting after her. To some women it might not seem like very much, but whatever it was that flared between them was real.

‘If you want to paint my portrait, you have only to ask me.’

Harcourt’s eyes blazed with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat.

‘You will have to come to my studio,’ he said.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You know where it is?’

‘Yes.’ She flushed. Since the day he’d scribbled the address on the back of that sketch, she’d found out exactly where he lived, by pretending an interest in the layout of the streets through which they walked or drove. She’d even managed to drive past the hôtel where he had his lodgings and tried to guess behind which of the many windows his rooms lay.

‘Can you come alone?’

Her heart thudded against her chest. She knew it. He wasn’t asking her if he could paint her portrait at all, but whether she was willing to become his lover. A thrill of wicked excitement shot through her. Could she really do it? Take a lover?

It would mean an end to any hope of securing the trade agreements she’d ostensibly come to Paris for, if anyone found out.

And as for Fenella—she would be scandalised.

‘You will have to paint my portrait, if I do,’ she said. So long as he produced some kind of painting by the time they returned to England, she might be able to convince Fenella that nothing untoward had gone on.

And she wanted him so much. Not in the same way she’d wanted him as a girl. It hadn’t been marriage she’d been dreaming of as she lay in her lonely, empty bed.

‘I could come alone...’

He gripped her hand, though they were in full view of dozens of other tourists and might easily be noticed.

Yet she made no attempt to withdraw her hand, for she was held by the gleam of satisfaction that shone from his eyes.

‘Tonight?’

‘Tonight?’ All of a sudden what she was considering became a bit too real. A kiss was one thing, but all the rest? And straight away?

She might be a virgin, but she knew what men and women did in the privacy of their bedrooms.

Her aunt might have sneered at girls who ‘lifted their skirts to oblige a man’s beastly desires’. But then her aunt had never been in love. If she had, she would know that sometimes you could look at a man and just swoop inside. And melt. And feel as though you would do anything if only he would put his arms round you again.

Not that she was in love.

She just wanted that feeling she’d got when he’d put his arms round her. And have his lips touching hers again. And...when he wanted more, as he surely would, then she—yes, she wanted to find out what that was like too. She’d overheard servants gossiping and giggling about what their menfolk got up to between the sheets. It had sounded as though they thoroughly enjoyed it.

And if she didn’t like it, then she needn’t ever do it again. She would have found out the truth for herself. As her aunt had always said—never take anything on trust.

And she’d spent so many years trying to be good. Trying to win approval from people who kept on assuming the worst of her. She’d paid dearly for sins she had never committed.

So what was the point in not committing them?

She lifted her chin and met his look full on.

‘Not tonight.’ It was too soon. There were preparations she had to make. The one thing she did not want to risk was having a baby, outside of wedlock. And she wasn’t going to trip naïvely into his studio assuming he would take care of that aspect of things, let alone trust him to take care of her, should the worst come to the worst.

She didn’t need him to take care of her—that was not the point. She was wealthy enough to take care of both herself and any number of children she might have. The point was she did not want to be responsible for burdening some poor innocent child with the terrible stigma of illegitimacy.

‘When, then?’

‘Tomorrow night’, if she could find an apothecary who spoke English well enough to understand what she needed to purchase and for what purpose, because the last thing she wanted was to have to take Monsieur Le Brun along to interpret for her! ‘Or perhaps the one after’, if it proved difficult to find such an establishment.

He dropped her hand and took a step back, his face hardening.

‘I might not be there,’ he said.

He might not be there? She’d just taken the momentous decision to fling herself off the precipice of respectability, into the unknown sea of carnality, and he could just shrug it off, as though it was nothing?

Well, she could shrug too.

She did so, then said, with as much insouciance as she could muster, ‘Then I will have had a wasted journey.’

She turned to walk away from him. She wasn’t going to beg him to change his mind, or show a bit more enthusiasm. She wasn’t going to let him see how badly his casual attitude towards becoming her lover hurt her, either.

‘Wait,’ he said, coming up and falling into step beside her. ‘Make a definite appointment, give me a fixed time, and I will be there.’

The way he looked at her calmed her ruffled feathers instantly. He wanted her. He really wanted her. He was just too proud to beg.

‘Saturday, then,’ she said. Because in part, he was right. If she didn’t set a definite date, she might never work up the courage to go through with it. ‘And if, by any chance, I cannot keep our...’

‘Assignation,’ he supplied, putting paid to any last lingering doubt they might be talking about painting her portrait.

She swallowed. ‘I will get word to you, so you will not be disappointed.’

‘I will be disappointed if you do not come,’ he grated. ‘But—’ he flung up his chin ‘—neither will I pursue you. It must be your choice. Come to me freely, or not at all.’

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving her frowning after him. That last speech hadn’t sounded like the kind of thing a seasoned seducer of women would say at all. In fact, if she hadn’t known better, she might have thought his pride might be wounded if she didn’t go through with what she’d promised.

Which was absurd. She was only another conquest. Just one more in a long line of women he’d enjoyed and then discarded.

She meant nothing more to him than any of the others. Of course she didn’t.

And she’d better not start looking for signs that she might.