Chapter Ten

The next morning, Charlotte was in the kitchen where everyone except Madame Tremblay had gathered to intercept Cook as she arrived home from the boulangerie. The croissants were so fresh and warm, that they didn't even bother taking the box into the dining room.

"You have to tell us everything," Vanessa said.

"Yes, you weren't out that late." Nadine spread jam on a pastry.

"I know. It was all a bit overwhelming, to be honest." It had been. She'd arrived home after everyone had gone to bed. Now she was happy to have them there to talk about it. "I didn't know anyone, and the people were a little intimidating."

"So you made an appearance by sticking to the wall?"

"No, I wouldn't say that either. I danced a waltz with a gentleman I am acquainted with. And I saw the most stunning library I've ever seen." She was getting ready to tell them all about it when Diane interrupted.

"So you're telling us that you danced with someone and then he took you to the library?" The women leaned in, all eyes on Charlotte.

That moment in the library when they almost kissed zipped through her mind. They'd been so close she could practically feel him on her. She regretted not doing it, regretted that interruption. "Yes, but not exactly. We're just friends."

Nadine cleared her throat, and Charlotte's eyes shot right to hers. Vanessa looked between the two of them with her brow furrowed even deeper than usual. But Nadine didn't say anything, despite the knowing gleam in her eyes.

Then the heavy wooden door that led from the kitchen to the courtyard behind the house swung open and the groundskeeper came in. He held up his hand where an envelope was pinched between two fingers. "A letter for Mademoiselle Devereaux."

Everyone's eyes snapped to Charlotte now. She feigned surprise, even though the sender was obviously Antoine. She recognized that stationery. Probably Nadine did too. "The post is here already?"

"A special courier just came and went, mademoiselle. Must be important."

No. No, it wasn't. But she couldn't say so without attracting more attention to whatever was in that envelope. And sending a special courier—again!—gave all of this more weight than she was comfortable bearing. What could it be like to have someone in your employ that you could send all around the city delivering notes at all hours of the day? Imagine that. "I'm sure it's just a thank you note, from last night. Those aristocratic types are very polite like that. I'll open it later."

"No you don't, missy," Vanessa said playfully. "We want to hear every detail of whatever you're being so evasive about."

Charlotte looked at Nadine, who shrugged. Oh, she might as well. "Okay, fine. I've been receiving gifts and correspondence from Antoine de Larminet."

She paused while they all gasped and squealed.

"But I assure you that there is nothing between us. I've made it very clear that I am not interested in being a mistress to an aristocrat. Never." She took a deep breath when her argument reached this all-important, must-cling-to truth: "We're friends."

"Are you sure, honey, because that is not an arrangement to be dismissed lightly," Nadine said. "I know you've got your artistic integrity to think about, but that man is very wealthy."

"It might be worth the sacrifice," Catherine said.

"If you're not interested, then can you introduce him to me," Diane said. "I'm kidding, obviously, but only if you like him. If you don't, then maybe I'm not kidding."

"I'm absolutely sure. There's nothing between us." These words rang hollow and false even as she said them. Now that everyone knew her secret, all she cared about was getting upstairs and reading his letter.

"So how did you meet him?" Vanessa asked as she bit into her croissant.

Without hesitation, Charlotte told the story she'd already practiced in her head so many times, downplaying the romance and leaving out the kissing. Her housemates, rapt if she'd ever seen it, ate and listened, nodding along. Even without all the romantic parts, it was a cute, coincidental friendship. They got along so well and saw the world just differently enough to make everything so much more interesting. And the desire that swirled between them every single time he was near could be left out of the story. But it was there, undeniably. He looked at her in the same enchanted way that she felt about him. And he held back at the same time too. Even in the awkward moments, like at the ball when they came back downstairs and everyone had been watching, there was something there between them. A mutual not knowing what to do next.

"So what's he got to say now?" Catherine said when Charlotte had finished her truncated version of the events that led her to Antoine.

The envelope in her hand felt smooth and cool. She'd told him, over and over again, that they could only be friends. Her housemates leaned in expectantly. She ran a finger under the seal and popped it open. Then she slid the folded paper free and unfolded it.

Dear Charlotte,

I was thrilled to see you last night at the ball. Your company, while brief, was the highlight of my evening. And that light shines again this morning, a torch I will carry with me throughout today. I could not wait to contact you, to keep the lines of this friendship open and active. I have an appointment this afternoon that I dread but can't escape. Tomorrow, are you available for lunch in a café and an afternoon in the park? I will come to you, on your side of town. And you can hold me captive for as long as you like, for whatever your pleasure.

Love, Antoine

She read it silently under the gaze of her housemates, her face growing hot. She couldn't read it aloud verbatim.Even without saying anything out of the ordinary, his words somehow managed to sound like sex. She'd have to summarize. "He's asked me to lunch."

The women oohed and ahhed. Then began their questions.

"Where at?" Nadine asked frankly.

"Yeah." Diane chimed in. "His place or at a hotel?"

"At a café. One without curtains and private tables! I would insist."

"Is this the man who sent the typewriter?" Catherine waggled her eyebrows.

"Yes."

"Are you going to let him buy your lunch?" Vanessa asked pointedly.

"No. In fact, I'll meet him for a stroll in the park. That will be less intimate with all the people around."

"You're sure you're not interested?" Catherine winked. "We can all keep it a secret until he puts you up in your own apartment."

"Stop it! He's not putting me up anywhere. There's no secret to keep. Except for, maybe, we don't have to tell Madame Tremblay."

?

Maitre Benoit Favreau's office window looked out over the street below. Antoine had admired this view since he was a young man accompanying his father on his errands, stopping off here at Favreau's for a drink and conversation about topics that Antoine always felt too young to understand. Now he was here behind his father's back, hoping to find, if not an ally, a sympathetic ear.

"Have a seat." Favreau settled into his worn leather desk chair while Antoine sat in the wingback across from him. Then the old man regarded him expectantly.

"I appreciate you seeing me, and I hope you won't think me impertinent or sneaky or anything like that. But I'm here to ask about my parents' finances. They've sold off the viscounty, as you know, and I want to know why."

"Why don't you ask the vicomte yourself?"

"I have, but he evades my questions. I am quite concerned, though I have no idea what I need to be concerned about. Are they broke? Are they hoarding money? What on earth made them decide to sell?"

"You know it's not really a viscounty anymore. Just a piece of property. So it's not like you're losing a title."

"It's not about that. I'm surprised he gave it up, is all. Tradition has always been so important, and then he comes home one day and tells me he's done this. I don't understand it. And the tenants are being displaced."

Favreau leaned back and the chair under him squeaked. His hair had thinned and gone completely white, though his face was as spry and thoughtful as ever. "You know I can't say exactly what he's thinking. But since you're his son, and I believe your curiosity is warranted, I can tell you what it looks like on paper."

"I'm not sure there's a difference." Antoine sat forward in the seat.

"Your father has, it seems, lost interest in activities like keeping an eye on the estate or maintaining aging assets."

"So he's not selling for any particular need?"

"Not really."

"All the people who lived there, who worked the land. They're in dire straits since my father sold. And I'm as forward-thinking as the next person. I know the estate economic model is no longer as lucrative as it once was, or even viable. But it feels to me as if the right thing to do would be to divide the profits among the people he is displacing, rather than spend the money on trips and other luxuries."

"You can't exactly tell your father how to spend his money." He adjusted his pince nez. "But you should mention it to him. Tell him your concerns. It sounds unreasonably generous to me, but your father might hear you out or be willing to compromise."

Unreasonably generous? Perhaps Favreau wasn't the friendliest ear for this discussion after all. Still, he needed to know what his options were, even if Favreau wasn't the right person to help him.

"What about legal recourse? Is there anything I could do if he disagrees?"

"You're planning to threaten him?"

"Not necessarily." Antoine waved his hand. "I don't even know if there's anything I can threaten him with."

"I'm not sure that even France can force a man to turn over the money he got from selling his own property." Favreau shifted in his seat and looked hard at Antoine. "Don't tell your father this, but I don't begrudge those people for wanting some recompense. The same thing has been happening all over France. All over Europe. It's a small chance, but there may be room for a civil suit."

Antoine leaned closer to the desk. This was why he'd come to Favreau. Even when he wasn't on your side, he could help you see how to get around the problem.

Favreau pulled a sheet of paper from a sheaf and scribbled something down with his fountain pen. "This gentleman might be able to help."

?

Antoine arrived at the park a few minutes early, and he walked to the place by the bridge where he'd met Charlotte before. The sky was overcast so not many people were out. He'd brought an umbrella just in case it rained, and he leaned it against the base of the stone bridge. Then he turned and watched the path for Charlotte to appear, not wanting to miss a single glimpse.

A couple came along and passed him as they climbed the bridge and crossed. They gazed soulfully into each other's eyes and barely noticed Antoine until they were close enough to touch him. His presence startled them from their amorous daze. The man nodded a greeting to Antoine and the woman smiled and blushed. They seemed not to have a care in the world when they were together like that, locked in each other's sights. Not that Antoine had any cares about Charlotte, at least not any insofar as his affections for her. Or her affections for him, for that matter. She clearly enjoyed him. Responded to his presence. And Charlotte was easy company. But while this couple could fully exist together like that, he and Charlotte had something in the way.

Antoine didn't want to be friends with Charlotte Deveraux. He wanted to remove every garment from her body and worship her. He wanted to lie naked in her arms, blissfully spent, and hear her thoughts on the world, on art, on whatever she had in her mind. He could play friends for a while, but he wanted more. As much as he could get. Even if he had to wait. Not because she was some prize to win, but because he'd never felt this way about anyone else in his life. As long as he was alive and capable, he'd try to win her heart.

His gaze fixed on someone coming up the path. Someone in a skirt. Definitely a woman. She was too far off in the distance to know if it was Charlotte. But as she moved along, he recognized the breezy, leisurely gate.

His whole life, or at least since his brothers died, he'd believed that marrying for status and tradition was a fine life for him. He always trusted his parents when they told him a proper partnership could only be made with a wife of equal birth. And he always knew that, even if that marriage was loveless, love could be had through mistresses. But he'd never imagined that when he found that love—and he was falling in love with Charlotte—that there might be a hitch. That the object of his love might refuse to be kept a mistress while he married someone else.

He read the papers. He looked out at the world. And it was moving to a place more socially equitable. No one outside a small, aging circle of snobby aristocrats cared who he married. Even so, he'd made the promise to his parents many times. Now, watching Charlotte walked toward him, he wondered for the first time if he could go through with it.

Charlotte waved girlishly as she approached, an adorable, enthusiastic gesture. Her presence brought him happiness he could feel with his whole self. How could he possibly live without this?

He bowed and took Charlotte's small, precious hand in his. Then he raised it to his mouth for a quick kiss and a lingering moment of eye contact. Her gray dress, upon closer inspection, had a subtle lavender coloring that brought out her eyes. She smelled of rosewater and soap, and everything about her delighted him. Every little detail. "How have you been since I saw you last, my dear?"

"I've been fine, Antoine. Fine." She was smiling, but her happiness seemed delicate.

"Is something wrong?"

"Not really. Another rejection. I missed it in the post yesterday, so it was waiting for me first thing this morning. Sometimes when I haven't written yet, a rejection can derail my day a little. Make it difficult to get any work done."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Surely, whatever fool editor rejected your brilliant prose should be fired. I've no doubt he'll live to regret it one day."

"That's actually a helpful way to think about it. Very cheerful, in fact."

"Shall we walk?" Antoine gave her his arm and picked up his umbrella as they started down the path. "The fool probably doesn't know a good story from garbage."

"You're probably right."

"But you have other stories out there, right? Making the rounds through the decision-makers, I imagine."

"I do. But it's so hard to get my hopes up over and over again, only to be disappointed."

"What's the problem?"

"I don't know. With some stories, I think they're good. Though I suppose they aren't quite good enough. And others I feel like I'm circling around something but not quite getting it. Though really I have no idea."

A woman walking two little French bulldogs passed them, one of which barked and made Charlotte jump and then laugh. When the woman apologized, Charlotte said, "Oh, that's quite all right. I've been barked at before."

As they moved on, Antoine continued. "Maybe you're too close to the work."

"Hmm? Yes! I'm too close. I need to distance myself somehow." "Maybe an outside opinion?"

"Yes, well, maybe that too. Vanessa offered to read my drafts, but she's been so busy lately I don't want to bother her. I keep hoping that some editor will see something and take me on and help me get to where I need to be, rather than having to find it myself. I suppose that's some level of privilege speaking. Why should anyone help me when there are so many out there who are simply better writers?"

"How about if I read your drafts for you?"

"What? No. I couldn't ask you to do that."

"But I'd love to help. I love your work, Charlotte. And I read. Maybe I can see something you can't." The prospect of helping Charlotte in this way thrilled Antoine. Anything to make her feel better about her work. Anything to read more of her words, get closer to her thoughts. This wasn't just about getting her in bed, though perhaps it couldn't hurt him there either.

"You'd do that for me?" They'd wandered onto one of the smaller paths, and she stopped walking to face him. Her eyes questioning. She seemed so genuinely surprised.

"Of course, I would. You act like it's a giant hassle when it would please me to read every word from your mind."

"Stop. No one wants to read anyone's failed drafts." She put a hand on his lapel, stirring up a wave of warmth that made his whole body throb. Her lips were like a plush bow of the softest ribbon. Her eyes like pools of calm, deep water. They were standing so close now. They always ended up like this.

"I do. It can't be easy, toiling away alone at your desk. A writer needs readers. Let me help you, Charlotte."

Mischief flashed in her eyes and she looked around to see if they were alone. Then she looked up at him. "I want to kiss you, Antoine."

This was great news. Unbelievable. "Right here?"

Charlotte grabbed his hand and pulled him behind a massive oak tree that stood not far off the path.

"Right here." She pushed up on her toes and brought her mouth to his. This was unexpected, but Antoine soon caught up. He still had the umbrella, but he wrapped his free arm around her and held her close. The smell of rosewater enveloped him in a lusty haze. Her mouth felt like coming home and tasted sweet. When she parted it, he pressed deeper and swept her tongue with his. What started slowly, built fast, and Antoine's whole body came alive against hers. He needed this woman, and if they didn't stop kissing like this, they would be doing much more in no time.

"Charlotte." Antoine pulled away, so dizzy he saw stars. But Charlotte didn't stop kissing his face and jaw. "Charlotte, please."

She gasped to catch her breath. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

"I don't know what came over me."

"I think I know."

She laughed and straightened herself.

"If you'd like to continue, we could do so behind this." He pushed open his umbrella, which was nearly as big around as she was tall.

Charlotte laughed again, and then she pulled him back to her and kissed him. Slower this time, without the sense of ascent, she moved her mouth over his, while he hid them from the opinions of the rest of the world with his umbrella. After a moment, just before things started to ramp up, she pulled away and looked at him.

"We'd better stop."

"Should we?"

She smiled wryly and maneuvered around the umbrella and back out onto the path. With a hint of defeat, Antoine closed the umbrella. Clearly, they were done testing its capabilities for the afternoon.

"I think we should do it."

Although it wasn't clear exactly what "it" she meant, Antoine nodded enthusiastically. "I do too. Though I'm not sure the umbrella can cover up that much nudity. We should find a room."

"Antoine!" Her mouth, red from all the kissing, dropped open, but it was definitely with a mix of shock and delight. The flush on her cheeks reddened deeper. "I meant about letting you read my stories."

"Ah! Of course." His face ached from smiling so much. She was too much fun. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"I think I know!"

They both laughed again and then continued on their walk. But she didn't say anything else about the kissing and whether or not there would be more of it. No question that Antoine wanted more. But he didn't bring it up either. It had perhaps been so sudden that Charlotte didn't know what to make of it. She talked about her work a little more, and then she used the gathering clouds as an excuse to end their outing and go home.

"I'll put together some pages for you."

"We can meet here again tomorrow. I'll pick them up then?" He didn't say so, but he'd be bringing his umbrella.

She paused for a moment, considering this. "No need for that. I'll send them in the post."

He stopped himself from arguing this. Stopped himself from mentioning the kissing one last time. Although he definitely wanted more, he was also willing to wait and take what he could get along the way. If she wanted to say they were friends, then that was fine. Friends who kissed like that would suit him just fine. She maybe needed time to get used to the idea. He walked her to the rotunda and asked to escort her the rest of the way. She declined. And when they parted ways, he resolved not to get ahead of himself. Not to get ahead of her. There was no question how he felt, or how she appeared to feel about him. But what to do about it, and what could reasonably unfold between them, left nothing but questions.