‘With coffee.’
The waiter arrived and greeted her warmly. Obviously she was known to him. She gave him their order, selecting a pastry and chocolate for herself, bread, cheese, and coffee for him.
He watched her as she settled herself in her chair. She removed her gloves and rearranged the colourful Kashmir shawl she wore that reminded him of India. She wore a dark blue walking dress and looked as if she’d just spent an afternoon promenading in Hyde Park. Was it only the children who caused her to be on the banks of the Seine at dawn?
‘Tell me what your business has been that brought you to Paris,’ she asked with some evident interest.
Oddly enough, he did not want to tell her of the business that brought him to Paris lest she disapprove. He’d come to explore the decadence of Parisian gentlemen’s clubs to see what they might include at Vitium et Virtus. This trip had not been as productive as the previous one when he’d found a satisfyingly buxom, Titian-haired French songstress eager to come to London to work in their club. He usually did not care if a lady disapproved of his activities. For the ladies who did disapprove of him, the gentlemen’s club was the least of their objections.
‘Exploring opportunities,’ he responded vaguely.
‘Opportunities?’ Her eyes, lovely as they were, showed little interest.
He challenged her. ‘You are making polite conversation with me.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Yes. I am. But tell me what opportunities anyway.’
Those eyes distracted him. In the sunlight they appeared the colour of fine brandy and just as liquid. A man could lose himself in those eyes.
He glanced away. ‘Business, you know, but nothing came to fruition.’
The waiter brought a pot of coffee, a pitcher of cream and a sugar dish, placing it in front of him. He placed a chocolate pot in front of the lady, produced two cups and poured for them.
When he left, Oliver added only some cream. He took a sip of the coffee and nodded to her. ‘This is excellent.’
Her captivating eyes appeared to concur. ‘It always is here.’ She sipped her chocolate and made an appreciative sound.
He 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
