He probably would have slept half the day and made his way to one of the dancing halls or casinos at night. In her company, he’d lost any interest in either.
One of the glass cases displayed gold lockets and other less expensive pieces.
He pointed to a necklace consisting of a single pearl on a long gold chain. ‘Let me buy you a token, then? In thanks for this day?’
She still looked leery, but she said, ‘Very well.’
He caught the attention of a clerk and purchased the necklace with the coin in his purse. As the clerk opened the glass case to remove the necklace, he turned to her. ‘Earrings to match?’
The corner of her lovely mouth quivered as if she was trying not to smile. ‘No. Do not say more or I will change my mind.’
No woman of his acquaintance would threaten to refuse a gift, especially such an inconsequential one. It was even less of a gift he might bring to Jacob’s sister or her young daughter.
Nothing about this fascinating lady was like other women he knew.
* * *
Cecilia glanced into Oliver’s hazel eyes, so unexpected paired with his darker skin, but so captivating she had to glance away again. He placed the gold chain around her neck, her skin tingling where his fingers touched as he worked the clasp. Stubble shadowed his cheeks, and his scent filled her nostrils. His face was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.
She knew this feeling, this attraction that made her want to run her hands over his stubble-roughened chin or plunge her fingers into his hair. She’d once felt a similar attraction to her husband as she felt now. This carnal aching inside her.
She’d forgotten that erotic sensation, but she had not forgotten that just because a man attracted her like a moth to a flame did not mean he was decent or honourable. It did not mean he would not change from loving to...hurtful.
‘Thank you for the gift,’ she managed.
‘My pleasure.’ His voice turned low.
He finished fastening the necklace and put an inch more space between them, enough that she could see his smile, which had its own power over her.
‘It looks fine,’ he said. ‘In fact, against your skin, it is even more pleasing than against the black velvet of the glass case.’
As compliments went this was a mild one. Did he know that a more flowery compliment would have driven her away even faster than an expensive gift would have done? Was he that clever to know precisely how to chip away at her defences?
For long moments during this day she had been able to believe he was just as he seemed—gentlemanly, kind, generous—but every once in a while her guard flew up again. Like when he asked about her husband. Like when he wanted to buy her jewels. Somehow, even in those moments, he managed to find a way around the walls she erected to keep from ever being at the mercy of a man again.
They left the shop and strolled out to the gardens, where it seemed there were many gentlemen and ladies engaged in flirtations. That only made her worry again. Was he merely charming her or was he what he seemed to be?
‘Do you know what I would like to do now?’ he asked.
Some wariness crept in. ‘What?’
‘I would like to walk along the Seine like early this morning. There is still an hour or so before the sun sets. I watched it rise there; it would be nice to see it set.’
What man desired walking? Duncan had once seemed to enjoy the strolls they took away from prying eyes when he was trying to ingratiate himself with her, but after she married him, he wanted nothing to do with walking. Just bedding.
But, then, that was all she’d wanted at first, too.
‘I should go home.’ Best she part from him while she could still think and before he did something to burst the illusion that he was a perfect gentleman.
They left the Palais-Royal.
‘I will escort you home, then,’ Oliver said.
‘It is not necessary.’ She did not want him to know that she lived in a small room near the theatres, casinos, gentlemen’s clubs and maisons closes or houses of prostitution.
He frowned. ‘I would feel remiss to merely send you on your way alone.’
‘I was alone when you met me,’ she reminded him.
‘Still, I would not forgive myself if any harm came to you.’
She made a face. ‘How would you know? You leave tomorrow. We will never see each other again.’ Her throat tightened at her words and she feared tears would sting her eyes.
He gave her an imploring look. ‘All the more reason not to say goodbye so soon. Stay with me to watch the sunset.’
Those captivating eyes seemed to pull her in.
What harm would it do? Besides, she wanted to stay with him; she wanted to keep this lovely illusion that such a kind, handsome, charming man existed, a man who wanted nothing from her but her company.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will stay with you to watch the sunset.’
They walked through the Paris streets to the stairs leading to the Seine. There were walkways on both sides of the river with other couples strolling, street vendors plying their wares, other men and women hurrying to and fro.
‘I am glad to walk off my meal.’ He patted his stomach.
‘It was delicious.’ The best meal she’d had since Brussels three years ago when Duncan had taken her to fine restaurants.
Then Duncan received the letter from her father saying he would never provide her dowry or any money at all. After that everything changed.
But it had not changed in a day. Certainly not in an evening. So, perhaps she could pretend Oliver could be trusted to be a gentleman for one evening.
As the sun dropped lower in the sky, the evening took on a magical quality.
Oliver seemed to catch the magic as well. ‘I had been told of the beauty of Paris, but I confess I did not believe in it...’ He paused and looked down at her. ‘Until this day.’
She fingered the pearl that nestled almost between her breasts. ‘You have more than paid me back.’
He touched her arm and made her face him. ‘This was not a gift for recompense, but for remembrance.’
As if she would be able to forget him. A man who behaved as a friend and stirred her like a lover.
They resumed their stroll. ‘I have been here almost three years and I cannot tire of its beauty.’
The conversation that had come so easily to them when they were sharing the sights lost its ease. There was too much she wished to conceal. Let him think she was an English lady living on a small income here in Paris. Sometimes she felt that was exactly what she was.
She did not fit into this Parisian world any better than he must fit into the British aristocracy. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to him.
‘You told me earlier a little of India, but do you remember what it looked like?’ she asked, truly wanting to know about the distant foreign land that was in his blood. ‘I have read it also is a beautiful place.’
He took several steps before answering. ‘I remember lush gardens filled with fragrant flowers and pools of water. My mother’s house was filled with colour, woven carpets, fragrant sandalwood, and soft cushions instead of chairs. My father’s house, on the other hand, was typically English. He wore his jama when with my mother, but on the other side, he dressed like he’d come from his tailor on Bond Street.’
‘What