Royally Seduced. Marie Donovan
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Too bad for her he spoiled it by laughing. “I take that as a grand compliment. As a rule, peasants do not cheat and then have the gall to mock the person they cheat on.” Although he had had a few months to come to terms with her infidelity, it still angered him and he started to raise his voice.
“You are the most selfish man I ever met!” she shouted at him.
“Selfish? Because I do not care to share my fiancée sexually?”
“Pah! If you would have stayed in France for more than two weeks, perhaps I wouldn’t have needed to find companionship elsewhere.”
“Bien, so I am selfish for leaving this mansion and going to the absolute hellholes of the world to help people who have nothing? Sick people? Dying people? Et toi, how do you help anyone but yourself?”
“Eh, oui, Saint Jacques of Paris. Any more of your ‘good works’ and they will be carving a statue of you for the Cathedral de Notre Dame. Make sure they get your sweaty hippie hair and beard correct. Cochon!” Her face reddened.
He didn’t know if she was calling him a pig because of his hair or his personality, and he didn’t care. “You are unbelievable. I am grateful I saw your true character before marrying you. I’m sure you would have cost me plenty to divorce you once I found out.”
Her mouth twisted, about to fire more insults at him, but he couldn’t take it—couldn’t take her—any longer. He rounded the corner leading back to the party and stopped short.
His mother stood stricken in the hall, her hand covering her mouth—like he wished he had done to himself. The guests stood behind her, their expressions ranging from shocked to sly to amused.
Even Bellamy was shaking his dignified gray head. If Bellamy heard them yelling, they must have been loud indeed.
“Maman.” He lowered his head to hers. “I am so sorry to ruin…” Out of the corner of his eye he caught a young man with disheveled blond hair surreptitiously taking his photo with his phone.
Was nothing private anymore? He couldn’t even talk to his mother in their own home without some idiot and his camera phone?
“Eh, you!” he shouted at the man. “No photos. Give me that phone.”
The guy clutched his phone to his chest but Jacques easily wrestled it from him and deleted the picture.
But that first man was not the only one. A larger camera took his picture—several times. Had his mother hired a photographer for the party? No, he noticed a polished brunette standing next to the photographer, taking copious notes.
“Reporters, Maman?”
Her stricken expression confirmed it. “Just the society page. They asked to come when we got news of your return.”
“I don’t want to be on the society page.” That was a big reason he didn’t stay in France for very long.
“I’m so sorry, Jacques.” Her big blue eyes started to tear. “I missed you so much and wanted to welcome you back.”
The large room started pressing in on him. “No, Maman, I’m sorry for embarrassing you. But I can’t stay.”
“What?” Her forehead creased. “But, Jacques, you just got home.”
“I can’t,” he repeated. The noise, the bright lights, even the smell of the food was making him dizzy and disoriented. Nadine’s theatrical sobs in the background didn’t help, either. He pushed his way through the party guests and grabbed his beat-up backpack from near the door.
Ever the professional, Bellamy opened the door. “Good to see you again, milord,” the butler informed him. Jacques gave him an incredulous glance considering the mêlée coming towards them, but the old man was as unruffled as always.
“If you would permit some advice from a longtime family retainer, I would recommend a sojourn in the country. Perhaps some fresh air and hearty cooking would benefit your constitution.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time, Bellamy. Merci beaucoup.” Jacques spotted the ambitious reporter and her photographer gaining on him.
“Not to fear, sir, mum’s the word.” After delivering the quintessential English promise, Bellamy tipped him a wink before practically shoving him out the double doors.
Jacques darted down the steps and heard a thud against the door. Bellamy was holding off the savages at the pass, so to speak, so Jacques took advantage of the delay and made a beeline for the Métro.
He hopped a train to the Latin Quarter, a quirky neighborhood along the Seine that was home to the famous Sorbonne, the seat of the University of Paris. He knew of a student hostel there, and his scruffy appearance would blend right in. A bowl of soup in the café, a good night’s sleep and then out of the city.
He’d had enough of Paris, and he’d only been there about two hours. A new record, even for him.
2
LILY STEPPED INTO the elevator of the youth hostel. At twenty-six, she was a bit older than many of the backpackers, but they were an accepting bunch. She’d never had the money to take a year off and backpack through Europe, so she envied the young students.
Two of them called down the bare-bones hallway to hold the elevator, so Lily stuck her arm out to block the doors.
“Thank you, Lily. Where do you go today?” Blonde and German, Silke and her companion, Hans, had been very helpful since Lily’s arrival, pointing out tricks to getting around the Métro and giving her tips on cheap eats. To save money, Lily ate like the backpackers—rolls and café au lait at the bakery across the street for breakfast, a loaf of bread and ham along with some cheese and fresh fruit for lunch, and maybe a dinner out at a café if she could find one reasonably priced.
“I’m not exactly sure, but probably to la Madeleine.”
“Who?”
“La Madeleine is a giant church in the Opera Quarter. Napoleon helped design part of it.” Lily’s stomach growled. “Plus there’s a huge food mall and flower market next to it.”
“Ah, very good.” She gestured to her equally blond companion. “Hans and I are going to the cemetery in Montparnasse.”
Hans nodded enthusiastically. “Ja, many important writers and thinkers are buried there. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Charles Baudelaire and—”
“And don’t forget Samuel Beckett. He wrote Waiting For Godot,” Silke added helpfully, in case Lily wasn’t familiar with that mind-numbing play. Thanks to her English degree, she unfortunately was.
“And if we have enough time, we will see the Catacombes. When they ran out of room in the city cemetery a couple centuries ago, they moved everyone there.”
“Everyone?” Surely they didn’t mean…
“They have walls of skulls and bones. That says so much about what life is all about. In the end, we are just piles of organic matter for others to stare at,” Silke finished.
Lily fought back a sigh. How very grimly existential of them. No wonder they were going into raptures about Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, the king and queen of existentialism. Lily preferred to take a more cheerful view of life, but that didn’t seem to be the European way. No wonder they thought Americans were cockeyed optimists. And of course most Americans, if they thought of the French at all, imagined either mimes in white-striped shirts or else morose chain-smoking café dwellers dressed all in black.
Maybe that was a good blog article. “So what do you think of Parisians?”
Silke immediately answered, “Oh, it is very nice here.”
“Ja,”