A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake
* * *
As they neared Notre Dame, she said, ‘Before we go inside, we must walk around the cathedral, because it looks very different from each side. You would hardly know it is one structure.’
They first faced the western façade, looking up at its symmetrical towers and carved stone. From where they stood they could see only the tip of the spire.
Slowly, they walked around to the north side. ‘See the rose window? How big it is? You will be astounded when we see it from the inside with the sun illuminating it.’ They continued walking. ‘You can see now how the cathedral is in the shape of a cross. All cathedrals are in the shape of a cross.’
He smiled at her. ‘You are quite knowledgeable about this.’
‘I suppose I am.’ She felt suddenly self-conscious.
She often had days free and the cathedral had become one of her favourite places. Sometimes she wandered for hours inside it, especially when she needed to feel peaceful.
They continued what was a fairly long walk around the building. The Seine was behind them, not too far from where he’d chased away the poor street children, busy now with boats and barges transporting people and goods up and down the river.
‘Flying buttresses,’ he pointed out, then smiled. ‘See? You are not the only one who is knowledgeable.’
Humour. It was as welcome as the clear summer air. She so rarely experienced the levity of humour. She could not help but return his smile.
They concluded their walk around the cathedral, talking of its architecture, and finally went inside. As they entered the church, the bell tolled the hour, its sound echoing against the stone walls.
Cecilia loved the inside of Notre Dame, loved the colours the rose windows cast upon the interior. Oliver Gregory seemed interested in everything she drew his attention to. Was he pretending? If so, he was very good at it.
Others filed into pews and soon a priest and his attendants appeared at the huge altar. They had come at the time of the Catholic Mass.
‘Do you mind if we stay?’ she asked. There were so many English people who would abhor attending a Catholic Mass.
‘Not at all,’ he said.
They chose a pew in the back, but with a good view of the altar.
She liked the ritual, a little like her church at home, but different as well. Watching and listening to the Latin service drove other thoughts from her mind and calmed her. It made her forget the strange way she made her living and how lonely she was.
* * *
When the service was over he clasped her hand. ‘I am glad we stayed.’
They walked around the cathedral some more, marvelling at the windows, peering at the statues until they had seen enough.
As they came towards the long aisle to the door, she stopped him. ‘My name is Cecilia.’
Surely it would not hurt to tell him her given name.
She had never told anyone in Paris her real name, not since the day the captain came to tell her Duncan was killed, but she wanted this man to know. For one day she wanted to be herself, as she might have been had she never fallen under Duncan’s spell.
This lovely man beside her did not act as if she’d said anything unusual by giving her name so abruptly.
‘If I am to call you Cecilia,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘you must call me Oliver.’
‘Oliver,’ she whispered.
‘Cecilia.’ He smiled.
It was not the done thing for a gentleman and a lady to call each other by their given names, not unless they grew up together from childhood. She’d known him only 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.
Chapter Two
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 had done what he could to pull wounded men off the field, but it had never felt like enough. After he’d returned to London from Brussels, it had taken him a long time to again lose himself in the pleasures of Vitium et Virtus. In fact, he’d never quite managed to free himself of Waterloo. A part of him always remembered the sights, the sounds. The agony.
‘I saw the battle, too,’ he told her.
Her eyes turned wary. ‘Oh? You were in the army?’
‘I was not.’ He pushed the food around on his plate. ‘My friend Frederick was, though.’
‘Did he live?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Thank God.’
They had barely touched the oysters and sausage, but the waiter removed those dishes and brought the beefsteak, smothered in sauce. Another bottle of wine was opened and new glasses poured.
‘And your husband?’ he asked. ‘What happened to him?’
She shrank back as if his question had been an attack. ‘In the battle, do you mean?’
‘Yes.’ He had meant in the battle, but suddenly realised he wanted to know so much more.
‘He came through without a scratch.’ She sounded disdaining.
Oliver cut a piece of his beefsteak and brought it to his mouth.
She tapped the stem of her wineglass with her fingernail, making the crystal ring. ‘My husband died here in Paris. In a duel.’
‘A duel?’
‘Two years ago.’ She did not say more about the duel. ‘Since I was no longer welcome at home, I stayed in Paris.’ She drank her wine.
Oliver knew she was not the only British expatriate to find living in Paris more affordable than London.
She turned her attention to her food, apparently consumed by her own thoughts, but it seemed that she was pulling away from him. Perhaps she’d regretted confiding this much to him. He would not press her for more, no matter how he yearned to know.
Finally, she spoke again. ‘But what of you, Oliver?’ Her tone was defensive. ‘I have said all there is to say about me.’
He doubted that. ‘There is little to say about me.’
She smiled, but he still felt she’d gone back into hiding. ‘Surely you do not expect me to believe that.’
‘It is true. I’m a simple man with simple tastes.’ He lifted his wineglass, filled with fine, expensive wine, in an ironic salute.
‘Come now, Lord Oliver.’ She wagged a finger at him.
He frowned. ‘I am not Lord Oliver.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘But you said your father was a marquess.’
‘He is, but I have no honorific.’ He was admitting himself to be a bastard.
Understanding dawned on her features. Understanding. Not distaste.
He went on. ‘My father was not married to my Indian mother, as you have no doubt surmised.’ He was a bastard son—his father’s only son. ‘But he brought me with him to England when he assumed the title.’
His mother had been an Indian bibi, a mistress. A prostitute. The love of his father’s life, his father had often said. But his father left her behind when he unexpectedly inherited the title, something his British wife had insisted upon. His wife had also promised to raise Oliver as if he were her own son—a promise she broke as soon as she could.
‘Did you ever see your mother again?’ she asked.
‘No.’ He poured himself more wine. ‘She died.’
Oliver’s mother died shortly after he left India. She died before the ship Oliver sailed on even reached England. His stepmother told him she’d lost her life giving birth to another of his father’s bastards. So he’d believed he’d lost a mother and a brother or sister.
It wasn’t until he was a young man that his father told him that story was not true. His father had to show him the letter he’d received from India for Oliver to believe him. His mother had died, but from a fever—or perhaps from a broken heart.
Cecilia’s face filled with sympathy. ‘I am so sorry! How very sad for you.’
He took a gulp of wine. ‘It was long ago.’
She had not commented on him being a bastard. She’d hardly blinked at that information. He was not sure why he’d even told her. He never spoke about that. Or about his mother.
He had the illusion that they were old friends who knew each other well and could trust each other. As he knew and trusted Frederick, Jacob...and Nicholas, wherever Nicholas might be. Not dead. He’d never believe Nicholas was dead. The fourth founding member of the gentlemen’s club had simply disappeared from Vitium et Virtus one night six years ago, leaving only a pool of blood in the alley and his signet ring.
‘I still miss my family.’ Her voice turned low. ‘Even though—’ She stopped abruptly and stabbed at her meat. ‘Never mind. It is foolish to wish for what one can never have.’
‘I could not agree more.’ He lifted his glass as if in a toast.
He turned the conversation to something less emotional for them both—the sights they had seen that day, their favourites and least liked.
Pretty soon the dessert was served, profiteroles and éclairs and finally coffee and liqueur.
When they left the restaurant, the shops were still open. To walk off the sumptuous dinner they strolled under the galleries and through the gardens. The Palais-Royal was filled with people and the shops were busy.
Oliver was accustomed to giving gifts to ladies whose company he enjoyed and all the ladies he knew received his gifts eagerly. He wanted something to commemorate this day, this companionship that had been unlike any other he’d experienced.
When they came upon a jewellery shop, he stopped. ‘Let us go in.’
She accepted the idea impassively and he was surprised. Most ladies would surmise they were about to receive a gift.
They gazed at necklaces and bracelets with diamonds, emeralds, rubies and garnets, but he could not discern any special interest on her part.
‘Beautiful, are they not?’ he tried, hoping she would give him a clue as to what she might like.
‘Oh, yes,’ she agreed dutifully. ‘Quite beautiful.’
He pointed out several other pieces, but she showed less interest than she had gazing at the paintings in the Louvre or at the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame.
Finally, he faced her. ‘Do you not realise, Cecilia, that I wish to buy you a gift? I am trying to discover what you would like.’
‘A gift?’ Her voice turned wary. ‘Whatever for?’
‘To commemorate our day together.’ So she might remember him as he would remember her.
She stepped back. ‘And what will you desire in return?’
He was startled. ‘In return? Why, nothing. It is a gift.’
Her eyes narrowed as if she did not believe him.
‘Heed me.’ He took a chance at touching her arm. ‘This has been a most special day. You’ve shown me sights I would not have seen nor would have appreciated had I been on my own today.’
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.’