Now mischief sparkled in those dark eyes. ‘Why, I was giving coins to street children until you chased them away.’
She was lovely! Those beautiful eyes were fringed with dark lashes, and her brows, delicately arched. An elegant nose and full, luscious lips adorned her oval face. Her bonnet covered her hair, but as the sky grew lighter, Oliver saw her dress was dark blue and her hair a rich brown.
‘What is an Englishman doing on the banks of the Seine at dawn?’ she asked, mocking his tone.
Oliver smiled. ‘Attempting to rescue damsels in distress.’
She laughed. ‘You must keep searching, then. I assure you I am not in distress.’
‘But I am at your service.’ Oliver bowed.
She kept walking, and he kept pace with her.
She finally spoke again. ‘Enjoying the delights of Paris now that the war is over?’ Her tone was a mockery of polite conversation, but at least she’d not dismissed him.
‘Actually a bit of business.’ Although his business was pleasure. ‘And you?’
‘Moi?’ She fluttered her lashes. ‘I live here.’
He was pretty astute at perceiving the character of a person, a skill he’d honed so he’d know right away the degree to which a person might accept him as an equal or as a lesser being. She was guarding her own privacy, not giving him any information at all.
He pretended to peruse her. ‘I would surmise there is quite a story about why an English lady such as yourself lives in Paris.’
She looked suspicious. ‘Why do you say I am a lady?’
His mouth widened into a smile. ‘It is not difficult. The way you carry yourself. The way you speak.’
She shrugged at that. ‘Well, I am not telling you anything.’
And he would not press her. He understood the need to keep one’s privacy, but he also did not wish to say goodbye to her. The sky had lightened, turning the water blue and the stone path to beige. He suspected she would soon leave this path and be gone.
‘I have a proposal,’ he said impulsively. ‘Eat breakfast with me.’
She laughed derisively. ‘Why would I do that? I do not know you.’
‘Allow me to introduce myself, then. I am Oliver Gregory. My father is the Marquess of Amberford.’ He never explained further. People who did not already know his father usually assumed he was a younger son. ‘Now you know me.’
She laughed again, this time with more humour. ‘I know your name. Or at least the name you deign to give me.’
‘I assure you it is my name.’
Her brows rose and she nodded with exaggerated scepticism.
He spread his palms. ‘I am telling you the truth.’
She cocked her head. ‘It does not matter.’
‘So,’ he tried again. ‘Will you have breakfast with me? I promise to be amusing. We can sit in the open at a café if that will ease your discomfort.’
Her expression sobered and she stared at him for several seconds, as if deciding how to respond. ‘At a café?’ she repeated.
‘Wherever you wish. You choose where you would like to eat.’ He’d dined at Le Procope, a café that had been in existence for two hundred years. Would she choose some place as grand? He was suddenly very eager to find out.
‘Very well,’ she finally said. ‘But you must also give me some coins for the children. They will be even more hungry tomorrow.’
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a leather purse. He loosened its strings and poured out several coins. Then he extended his hand. ‘Here.’
She scooped up the coins and slipped them into her reticule. ‘I know of a place we can breakfast.’
She walked him past La Fontaine du Palmier, the monument to Napoleon’s battles in Egypt, in the Place du Châtelet, to a small café just opening its doors. They sat at a table out of doors. With the sun came warmer temperatures and a blue sky dotted with white puffy clouds. A perfect day.
‘The pastries are lovely here,’ she said.
‘Pastries.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Everywhere in Paris I’ve been served pastries and I do not possess a sweet tooth.’
‘Some bread and cheese, then?’
‘Ah, oui. C’est bon.’ He smiled. ‘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