a few hours, but still it seemed natural that they should do so.
‘We should go to the Louvre next,’ she said.
The Louvre was another place Cecilia visited when she needed to remind herself that there was incredible beauty in the world. She loved the Renaissance art, especially the portrait called La Gioconda. She tried to imagine any other man of her acquaintance walking through the museum without any sign of boredom.
Was this man—Oliver—really what he seemed? Or was he pretending, hiding his true nature? Every day she pretended to be someone she was not. Every day she hid her real self. Today, though, she would be her real self, even if he were not.
When they again stepped outside, they could hear the bell of Notre Dame strike four o’clock, reminding her of when Oliver had last eaten.
‘There are restaurants at the Palais-Royal, if you are hungry.’ She was accustomed to going without food.
When she’d followed the drum with Duncan, she’d been allotted half his food rations, but when he could, he ate her portion as well as his own. She’d quickly learned not to complain.
‘Do you wish to eat?’ he asked.
Throughout the day, he’d checked on her wishes before stating his own, she noticed. Another technique of seduction? Or did he truly wish to fulfil her desires?
‘I know it is country hours, but I am quite famished,’ she admitted.
‘Then we must eat.’ He offered her his arm and they leisurely walked to the Palais-Royal, once the home of the Duc d’Orléans and, earlier, Cardinal Richelieu. The palais was not far from where she earned her money.
No. Cecilia Lockhart, who strolled by the side of this English gentleman, earned no money.
That was the job of Madame Coquette.
The restaurant Oliver chose was the Beauvilliers, with its tables covered in white linen, shining silverware and sparkling crystal. He had dined there once already during his visit.
‘This restaurant is very expensive,’ Cecilia warned him as they were led to a table in a private corner.
‘Do not concern yourself,’ he told her. ‘I can afford it.’
He was used to ladies’ eyes kindling with greed when realising he was wealthy, but Cecilia merely nodded sceptically.
He laughed. ‘I assure you, Cecilia. Order whatever you desire.’
After they were seated he said, ‘There is something to be said about liberté, égalité, fraternité. I have yet to have any Paris high servant or shopkeeper regard me with disdain.’
She looked surprised. ‘That happens to you—being regarded with disdain?’
‘Because of how I look. Like a foreigner.’ In England, members of the ton and their servants often peered down their noses at him. It happened often enough in London shops as well.
‘I do not think you look all that remarkable,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Thank you...I think.’
They perused the printed menu with its numerous choices for each course, deciding to begin with an onion soup followed by a platter of oysters and sausages. For the main course they chose beefsteak, then an entrée of duck. They could have ordered additional courses of fish and roast poultry or veal, but Cecilia said she would burst from that much food. Each course was accompanied by a different wine.
‘This meal reminds me of dinner parties at home,’ she said over the soup.
This was the most information about herself that she’d divulged yet. This was an aristocratic meal, so it was likely she came from an aristocratic family.
‘Home meaning England?’ he ventured.
Her expression sobered. He surmised she debated how much to disclose.
‘Surrey,’ she replied.
He smiled inwardly. It was as if she’d bared her soul to him.
‘We were practically neighbours, then,’ he said. ‘My father’s estate is in Kent.’
They went on to taste the oysters and sausage and sip the wine before she spoke again. ‘I am not welcome back in Surrey. My family disowned me when I ran away to Gretna Green to marry.’
This was a great deal to divulge and it made him sad for her. He knew how it felt to lose someone.
He was also disappointed to hear her mention a marriage.
Oliver usually did not care much about the details of a woman’s life, not the least of which was whether or not she was married. The woman’s apparent character and disposition of the moment were enough to satisfy him, but his reaction to this woman was different. He was intrigued by Cecilia. Maybe because she kept information about herself so close to her chest, he wanted to know all about her. Mostly he wanted to know what experience had put that sadness in her eyes. Had it been that Gretna Green elopement? Being disowned by her family?
He would continue to tread carefully, though.
‘They disowned you,’ he repeated as neutrally as he could.
‘My parents declared my husband to be unsuitable.’
He certainly knew that feeling. Most noble parents felt Oliver was unsuitable.
‘My husband thought they would come around if we were married. He thought my father would relent and turn over my dowry—but my father never did.’ She finished her glass of wine. ‘My husband had no fortune, no name to speak of, but he was dashing in his regimentals.’ Her voice turned sarcastic.
‘He was in the army?’ he guessed.
She nodded. ‘That is how I came to be in Paris. His regiment was ordered to Brussels and I came with him. After the battle at Waterloo, his regiment marched into France and, ultimately, Paris.’
Oliver had honoured his father’s wishes and had not purchased a commission. He regretted that decision to this day. He should have been fighting along with his friend Frederick.
She nodded as the waiter filled her wineglass again. ‘The battle was a horrific thing!’
‘You witnessed the battle?’ He was shocked.
Oliver had been there, too. At Waterloo. Unable to enlist, he’d gone to Brussels to be a part of it all, like so many others. Brussels had been filled with the British aristocracy and British tourists at the time. On the day of the battle he and other spectators rode to the site where the troops were amassed. Never had he felt so helpless as he watched the carnage unfold. Cecilia would have witnessed horrors no woman should ever see.
She took a long sip of her wine, and her voice turned to a mere rasp. ‘So many men killed.’
Oliver
