“He is a true artist, mademoiselle. What the man can do with his hands...” Suzette heaved a heartfelt sigh, and India wasn’t entirely sure if she was still talking about stone. “But he is not, oh...adept at words. So I will translate American for him, and he will earn our fortune.” She beamed at India.
“That sounds like an excellent plan.” India broke off a piece of a croissant and popped it in her mouth. It fairly melted on her tongue. There may well be something to be said for decadence—at least at breakfast. “Tell me, Suzette, where exactly am I?”
“Why, you are in Paris, mademoiselle,” she said cautiously and inched toward the door. “You did not know that?”
“Yes, of course.” She gestured with the pastry in her hand. “But whose house is this? I was so tired when we arrived, I’m afraid that has slipped my mind.”
“Ah.” Suzette’s expression cleared. “I see. This is the home of the Marquess of Brookings,” she announced with a flourish.
“Brookings?” India swallowed the bite of croissant in her mouth. “He’s English then?”
“Indeed he is, but his mother was Parisian.” Suzette smirked with satisfaction. “This was his mother’s family’s house.”
“And he lives here?”
“As well as in England, but he is here as often as possible.”
“But why?”
Suzette stared as if the very question was mad. “Because it is Paris.”
“Even so, he is English,” India persisted. After all, why would a subject of Her Majesty’s choose to live anywhere but England? “It makes no sense to me.”
“And it makes no sense to a Parisian to live anywhere but Paris.”
“But he’s English.”
“I would suggest you ask his lordship why he chooses to live where he does,” Suzette said firmly. “I do not gossip about my employer.”
“Of course not. I never thought—I am sorry.”
Suzette waved off the apology as if India’s comments were already forgotten. “I am to assist you during your stay. Please call for me at any time. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”
“Yes, actually, I was wondering...” India held her arms out. Her sleeves dripped with delicate lace, an extravagant lace-trimmed ruffle plunged down the center of her chest, far lower than any nightgown she’d ever even imagined wearing. “Whose gown is this?”
As their luggage had not arrived with them last night, she had been provided with borrowed nightclothes. She’d paid no attention; she’d practically fallen into bed and was asleep in minutes. The gown was as decadent as the bed. Pale peach in color—to complement the room no doubt—silky against her skin, with no weight to the fabric at all, and far sheerer than anything any respectable woman would ever wear, even in the privacy of the bedroom. She could see more than the mere shadow of her arm in the sleeve and was afraid to get out from under the protection of the covers for fear of what she might reveal. “The marquess’s wife perhaps?”
Suzette scoffed as if India had just said something absurd. “The marquess is not married.”
“Then whose gown is this?”
“I am not entirely certain, mademoiselle.” Suzette frowned thoughtfully. “Probably a mistress but I do not know which one.”
India stared in shock. “He has more than one?”
“Oh no, not at the same time,” Suzette said matter-of-factly. “That would be...difficult.”
India snorted. “One would think.” She did need to get out of bed. “Has my luggage arrived?”
Suzette shrugged. “I have not seen it, mademoiselle.”
“I’m sure it’s here somewhere.” India sighed. “Very well then, until it’s located, I shall have to make do with what I was wearing yesterday.”
“Yes, of course, mademoiselle.” Suzette nodded. “Your clothes are being brushed and pressed. I shall bring them as soon as they are ready.”
“I do appreciate that, but what am I to wear until then?” India certainly couldn’t leave her room dressed like a tart.
“Ah!” Suzette brightened and stepped to the chaise near the foot of the bed. She picked up a garment matching the gown India wore and displayed it with pride. “There is as well a dressing gown to match the negligee.”
It was no more substantial than what she had on, but hopefully adding another layer would help. Regardless, she had no intention of leaving her room until she was properly attired.
“I see you’re awake,” a male voice sounded from the hall. “You slept much later than I expected. I rather thought you’d be an early riser.” A tall, dashing gentleman with hair colored a rich walnut and an infectious grin strode into the room. He looked to be about the same age as Derek and had the same lighthearted nature. “Forgive my impatience, but I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
India yanked the covers up to her chin. “Have you?”
He chuckled. “Derek has told me a great deal about you.”
“Has he?” Shock at this intrusion was apparently robbing her of all ability to speak in words more than one syllable long. But then she’d never had a handsome devil invade her bedroom before. A certain amount of stunned paralysis was probably to be expected.
“Oh my, yes.” His gaze raked over her in an admiring manner. “But apparently he left out some important facts.”
Heat washed up her face. Why, the man was flirting with her! How terribly forward. She clutched the covers tighter. “I beg your pardon, but I can’t imagine, even in Paris, one invades a lady’s bedchamber without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“The door was open.” He shook his head in a chastising manner. “I don’t think you can really call it an invasion if the door is open. An open door is more like, oh, an invitation.”
“I did not invite you!”
“And yet.” He grinned in a manner that was at once boyishly endearing and completely wicked. “Here I am. Allow me to introduce myself. I am your host, Percival St. James, Marquess of Brookings.” He swept an exaggerated bow. “And I am at your service.”
“Very nice to meet you, my lord,” she said without thinking, then tightened her grip on the covers with one hand and waved her free hand at the door. “And if you are truly at my service, you will take your leave at once.”
“I am truly at your service,” he said staunchly, although she suspected her definition of “at your service” and his were decidedly different. “And my friends call me Percy or Val, one of which I prefer to the other, but it makes no difference as anything is better than Percival. Don’t you agree?”
She stared, not entirely sure what to say. “I suppose.”
“As I am certain we are going to be friends, which would you prefer to call me, Miss Prendergast?”
“I do not share your certainty, and I will call you Lord Brookings,” she said firmly. “Anything else would be most inappropriate.”
“Precisely the point.” He grinned and glanced at the maid. “Suzette, if you would be so good as to see if Miss Prendergast’s clothes are ready.”
“Yes, my lord.” She bobbed a curtsy, aimed India a quick glance of encouragement and took her leave.
“And