A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake. Diane Gaston
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faced her, fingering the handle of his cup. ‘The topic of business is always a boring one. Perhaps there is something else you would like to ask me?’
Her eyes flickered in surprise, then fixed on him with a challenge of her own. ‘Do you mean why you do not look like an Englishman?’
He was not certain if she was asking or not.
Who was he attempting to fool? Women always wanted to know why his skin was so dark, why his hair was so dark. She simply was more direct than most and much quicker.
‘See. You are wondering why the son of a marquess looks like something spawned on a foreign shore.’
‘Am I?’ Her brows rose. ‘Or is this what you desire to tell me?’
He paused, unsure of his own motivation. He did want to tell her, though, he decided. ‘My father is the Marquess, but my mother was from India.’
He waited. Usually the women with whom he spent the most time found his looks exotic and appealing but, then, such women were typically interested only in sharing the pleasures of the night with him.
Ladies of the ton with marriageable daughters steered them away from him, however. Even though they knew he was wealthy. Even though some of those same ladies did not mind sharing his bed.
She took another sip of chocolate. ‘That does explain it. Were you born in India?’
‘I was. I left when I was ten.’ He would not tell her everything about his birth and those first ten years of his life. He never talked about it, although many who knew his father knew some of it. His partners in Vitium et Virtus knew nearly all and they’d accepted him as an equal since their days at school.
‘You must remember it then.’ She sounded truly interested now.
‘I do.’ He’d been remembering it that morning when she appeared.
‘Tell me,’ she said, licking off the chocolate from her lips and nearly driving India from his mind.
‘I remember the sounds and the smells and all the bright colours,’ he began.
He told her about the man charming the snake and others sleeping on a bed of nails or walking over hot coals. He told her of the music and the singing and dancing, of statues and paintings of gods. He talked of fragrant gardens and cool houses with pillows.
He did not tell her about his mother. Or about how his father shared his time between his Indian house and his English one on the other side of the garden.
‘I cannot imagine it,’ she said, her face alight with animation. ‘I would love to see such a place some day.’
His insides clenched in a familiar pain. He would never return there, never see those sights again.
He made himself smile. ‘Is Paris not enough for you?’
Her expressive face turned sad before she composed it again. ‘Paris...has not been unkind.’
How much was hidden in that statement?
The waiter brought a flaky confection filled with whipped cream and jam for her and, for him, a selection of cheeses and a loaf of bread still warm from the oven.
She nibbled on her pastry. ‘There is much beauty here in Paris. I gather some of the buildings, statues and art were almost lost during the Revolution. We can credit Napoleon for preserving them.’
‘If we must,’ he said, smiling wryly.
He was gratified she smiled in return.
‘I have seen very little of the city,’ he went on. His hosts had taken him to places where pleasure was more valued than architecture. ‘And now I have only today left.’
She lowered her pastry from her lips. ‘You have only today?’
‘I leave tomorrow.’ Somehow that information did not seem to disappoint her. ‘Tell me what sights I must see before I leave.’
Again her face animated. ‘Notre Dame, for certain. It is the most impressive and beautiful church one could ever see. The Louvre, as well. It is a beautiful building filled with beautiful art that once graced the houses of the aristocracy before the Revolution. And I suppose one should see the Palais-Royal. It is now filled with shops and restaurants.’
She went on to describe these sights in more detail as they finished their meal and drank the last of the coffee and chocolate. He paid the waiter and reluctantly stood. He could have remained all day in her presence, even though she’d told him nothing about herself. She wrapped her shawl around her, despite it being warm enough now to go without.
‘Thank you for breakfast,’ she said. ‘I did enjoy it.’
‘As did I,’ he added.
‘I suppose I must say adieu.’ She did not look happy about it, though.
‘I suppose...’
They left their table, but stood together on the pavement. The city had come alive while they’d eaten. The streets were full of carriages, horses and wagons. The pavement was abustle with workmen, servant girls, children and a few finely dressed gentlemen.
He held her elbow and guided her away from the fray.
Then he took her hand. ‘Do not say adieu. Stay with me. Show me the sights you have so wonderfully described.’
* * *
Cecilia glanced into his face. He had a memorable one—as handsome as any woman could wish. That was not what captivated her, however. Duncan had been handsome. After Duncan she’d learned not to be seduced by a handsome face.
His complexion was darker than one would expect from an Englishman. Knowing he was half-caste explained that. His hair was as dark as the night, worn longer than fashionable as if he did not trouble himself to visit the barber overmuch. His eyes were unexpected, though. They were hazel, the kind of eyes that changed colour from green to brown with the hue of his coat. When he fixed his gaze upon her she had the feeling he could see inside her, directly to her thoughts.
Perhaps that was why he asked her no questions about herself. He asked nothing of her, but shared about himself. What other man of her acquaintance would tell of his life before age ten? Duncan certainly had not.
What harm could there be in spending the day with him? She had no other obligations for today and he was leaving tomorrow. She liked his foreign looks and she relished the sound of his English accent, so familiar, so reminiscent of home. He was an easy companion, agreeable, unhurried and undemanding.
With those enthralling eyes.
Her hands started to shake and her knees grew weak, not from his allure, but from her decision. ‘I will show you Paris.’
He smiled and her knees grew weaker.
‘We should start at Notre Dame,’ she said quickly lest he notice he affected her. The famous cathedral was close by, its spire and towers visible from where they stood.
* * *
As they neared Notre Dame, she said, ‘Before we go inside, we must walk around the cathedral, because it looks very different from each side. You would hardly know it is one structure.’
They first faced the western façade, looking up at its symmetrical towers and carved stone. From where they stood they could see only the tip of the spire.
Slowly, they walked around to the north side. ‘See the rose window? How big it is? You will be astounded when we see it from the inside with the sun illuminating it.’ They continued walking. ‘You can see now how the cathedral is in the shape of a cross. All cathedrals are in the shape of a cross.’
He smiled at her. ‘You are quite knowledgeable about this.’
‘I suppose I am.’ She felt suddenly self-conscious.
She often had days free