Chapter Fifteen

As Charlotte walked across the bridge and up Avenue d'Alma, the city around her awoke with the determination of a busy day. The bouquinistes were arriving at their stands, unlocking their boxes, and uncovering their wares. Delivery wagons were easing into slim parking situations to unload. Domestic workers were starting their errands. Seeing everyone moving about, Charlotte became increasingly concerned about getting back into the house and up to her room without having to explain her whereabouts. Cook would be in the kitchen inside the service entrance, finishing breakfast. Madame would be lurking around the drawing room, reading the papers, drinking coffee, and making her plans for the day. They might not realize she wasn't in her room, but there was no way they'd miss her coming in dressed in the same clothes she'd worn out the night before. It would be obvious she'd stayed out.

She was passing a boulangerie when a plan started to formulate. She could say she'd been unable to sleep and gone out early for a walk. The ruse would be better if she had a coat to make her clothes less conspicuous. When the shops started opening, she stopped in one that specialized in workwear and bought a lightweight, utilitarian sweater that hid her from neck to waist. It was like the one her mother wore to do garden chores on cool mornings. Charlotte tucked her feathery hat into the paper bag from the shop. She also picked up a box of croissants to distract anyone she might encounter.

Back on Rue de Fortuny, she scurried around the house and rose on her tiptoes to peek quickly in the window at the top of the door. Cook was there, stirring something at the stove. And so was Vanessa. Charlotte pasted on a smile and opened the door with an overly cheerful, "Good morning!"

They stared at her as she set the box of croissants on the table and launched into her planned story about not being able to sleep. Cook listened and chose a croissant. But Vanessa eyed Charlotte with suspicion. It wasn't a threatening look, but it conveyed a lack of belief in Charlotte's little tale. And perhaps some amusement that she'd gone to all this trouble.

"Did you get a new sweater?" Vanessa said.

"No. I've had it for some time."

"Oh."

"I'll just go up now and see if I can get some work done."

Seeming to have satisfied them, Charlotte slipped away and up to her room. She removed her sweater and hung it over the back of her chair. It was a good sweater. And then she removed her dress. Her feet were sore and her legs tired, not only from her night's activities but also the long walk home. She disrobed and put on a dressing gown. Then she took a book with her to bed. Hers was considerably smaller than Antoine's, and the sheets were only soft because they were old, not because they were made of expensive cotton. But her bed had never felt so good. Charlotte got comfortable and opened her book. Her eyes followed the lines of text on the page, but her mind was still back at Antoine's house. The uninhibited sex, the waking in a strange room, the hangover, and the knowing look the valet or butler or whoever gave her on the way out. All the looks from the serious people as she walked home. Oh, the horrors of being seen! None of this quelled the ache she still felt for Antoine. She lay there for a long time going over the details of him. The soft skin of his back, and muscles of his arms, his body stripped of all his fine clothes. Wishing she hadn't left his bed at all. But as far as complications, sleeping with Antoine had only made things between them more complicated.

Over the next few days, Charlotte steeped in her memories of him on top of her, inside her, bringing her to the height of ecstasy. It was like a haze that she moved through. He wrote her the most romantic letter, which she read countless times, and she wrote one back to him. Then she wrote two sex scenes in the story she'd been working on even though it only really needed one.

Giving the rent money to Madame on Monday morning cast her memories in a transactional light, further complicating her feelings. Even though he'd said it was simply a friend helping a friend, he'd asked her before to be his mistress. And he hadn't given her any indication that he'd changed his mind. At least not before they had deliciously plot-thickening sex. She didn't want to inflate her bedroom attributes, but it had been incredible. Together they worked like a well-oiled machine. They had laughed and talked and given themselves completely. They were more than friends now. But the question remained whether or not he still intended to marry someone else.

She worked for the rest of the day and didn't see any of the newspapers until she came downstairs late in the afternoon. The drawing room was empty, but Cook had just brought up a pot of coffee. Madame often liked to sit and have a cup to get her through the end of the day. Charlotte poured herself a cup, stirred in enough cream to lighten it, and then went to sit by the window that looked out onto the sidewalk and street. Absentmindedly, she picked up a copy of the paper where Vanessa worked and started paging through it. Then a headline stopped her cold: "The Amorous Future Vicomte and His Literary Darling."

Charlotte put down her coffee cup and read frantically. The story named both her and Antoine, and it wove a narrative from all the occasions where they were sighted together and mentioned in the various papers that built up to a romantic evening in his mansion that "kept the literary lady out all night long, according to the paper's exclusive sources." Her skin prickled as the words and their not-so-subtle implications jumped at her: lady, night, exclusive sources. Exclusive sources? To accompany the piece, some enterprising artist had sketched what was meant to be Charlotte and Antoine in the throes of a scandalous embrace. A rush of shame engulfed Charlotte, followed quickly by anger. She quickly folded the paper, tucked it under her arm, and took her coffee upstairs.

?

In a luxurious drawing room on the other side of the river, Antoine was also sitting down for coffee and a look at the papers. Just as he was raising the hot cup to his mouth, his mother burst in with a newspaper clenched in her raised fist.

"My son, I have always allowed you your private affairs. But when your private affairs are recounted in such salacious detail, I can no longer turn my head."

"Bonjour, Mother," he said, unfazed. He liked pleasing his mother, but this wasn't his first scolding.

She dropped the paper in front of him and put a sharp finger on the offending headline. "What am I supposed to say when the Montmorencys ask for an explanation?"

As Antoine read, his back stiffened. This was considerably worse than the other little mentions they'd garnered, more of a direct hit. Exclusive sources? Had someone been following Charlotte? Had Charlotte seen it? It would no doubt make more trouble for her than it would for him. Not that he could tell Mother that. "It's just a bit of gossip, Mother. The family legacy will surely survive."

"This is no way to set up for an engagement. How will Louise feel when she sees this? Reads about your, ‘tender embraces' and ‘passionate glances'?"

"I am sure it will be fine. We're not engaged yet."

"Well, that ends today. I insist you head this off at the pass. Go to her, explain yourself, and ask her to marry you."

"Mother, I refuse to do that."

"You can't refuse. It's too late. Your father and I have courted this girl and her family for months. We've made promises. And now it's time to settle things."

"No."

Adeline de Larminet clutched her chest and gasped, making such a show that one of the servants came and helped her into a chair. "How could you, Antoine? This is the one thing we've asked of you, your one duty as a privileged member of the titled class."

Then she started to cry. Real, genuine tears poured from her. Her words came out choked. "Have you no respect for hundreds of years of tradition? Of our way of life? This is like losing my sons all over again!"

Because if Antoine didn't carry on the family legacy and tradition, then it was like every aristocratic ancestor ceased to matter. All the suffering and work to maintain society's superiority would be for nothing. It was complete bullshit logic, but Mother's agony always weakened Antoine. Seeing her so upset reopened the wounds he'd suffered losing his brothers, his heroes, his best friends. It stirred up his survivor's guilt. And it hardened his sense of duty.

He had the power to ease his mother's suffering in this way. Marriage didn't have to be that big of a deal. That's what it was, after all, just a deal between two families. Many people of his class married for the same reasons. It wasn't about love. It was about business. And when it was over and done, he could do whatever he wanted.

What he shared with Charlotte, what was described in the article, was love. The passionate glances had been genuine. Now that he'd shown her exactly how much he loved her, maybe she would be more amenable to his situation. At least he hoped she would be. After the night they had, Antoine couldn't live without her. No other woman, and there had been a handful, had ever ignited his soul the way she did. And she was incredibly sexy. Echoes of her gasps and cries of pleasure still tickled his ears. Everything about her made his pulse race. Marrying Louise wasn't ideal, but Antoine wasn't exactly an idealist. Plus, if he did what his parents asked as far as this marriage business, they might be more open to settling fairly on the suit he and his lawyer were working to build against them. Charlotte would understand.

An hour later, he and his mother were ushered into the Montmorencys' drawing room. Louise sat primly on a settee in a cornflower blue dress. Antoine bowed and kissed her hand. Everything would be so much easier if he felt a fraction of the desire and admiration for her that he felt for Charlotte. But there was nothing. Not a stir or a tingle or glint of attraction, though she was perfectly attractive in all the conventional ways. Her mother, just as prim, sat across from her. Antoine bowed and kissed her hand too.

"I'm afraid you've seen the papers," Adeline said, diving right into the pool of her worst fears.

"I hope you aren't too concerned about that," Louise's mother said, clutching the pearls around her neck with her thin, pale hand. "We know how unkind and creative the press can be. And this isn't the sort of thing that should come between years of friendship."

Antoine's head tipped to the side. His mother's mouth fell open. This was not exactly the reaction they'd anticipated. Louise's mother looked on anxiously while they processed her response to the news. But Lady de Larminet never missed an opportunity to sweep trouble under the rug. "Oh, that's such a relief. And not a word of it is true. Isn't that right, Antoine?"

"Charlotte Deveraux and I are good friends. I'm reading some of her manuscripts for her, and the reporter misconstrued it."

"I knew there would be a simple explanation. Isn't that right, Louise?" And then without waiting for an answer, she turned back to Antoine and said, "I told her there was no need to worry."

"Now that that's behind us, Antoine told me this morning that he was hoping for some time alone with mademoiselle. Would you mind showing me your hothouse again, Lady Montmorency? I've been dreaming about those hibiscus flowers of yours."

"Oh." Madame Montemorecy jumped into action. "Absolutely. The yellow one is blooming now; you must see it. We'll leave these two alone."

When the mothers had gone, Antoine turned to Louise. Another woman in his life to disappoint. Everything inside his head screamed at him to run out the door, to escape. Except for the part of him that would do something, anything to make his mother happy. And although he didn't like it, and would loathe to admit it, there was perhaps a flicker of a sense of responsibility to the tradition inside him. Because it was true that once people stopped caring about something, then it would lose meaning. Marriage didn't have to be a big deal. "I suppose you know what it is I'd like to ask you?"

"There has been some hinting around at it, yes."

"Well, Louise, we don't know each other well. And so I feel like I should clear up some things, as far as my offer goes." Just business.

"Your offer?" She blushed sweetly and looked down at her hands.

"Yes. If you marry me, Louise, I will do my best to be a dutiful husband and father to the heirs I'm sure we'll be pressured into producing." He paused, unsure how to say it without being hurtful. "And I'm sure my feelings for you will grow with time…"

"But…" Expectation clouded her eyes.

"But there is some truth to that article my mother rushed me over to apologize for. Charlotte Deveraux is very dear to me. And while I am prepared to enter into marriage with you, I am not prepared to give up my relationship with her."

"I see."

"And seeing as this is not the first time our names have been put together by the press, it probably won't be the last. Though going forward, I will try to be more discreet."

"I see."

"I know that my private affairs will affect my future wife, and I will do everything in my power to minimize that for you."

"I admire your honesty." She wasn't blushing any more. She'd hardly flinched. "Would you like some coffee? It was rude not to ask when you arrived."

"No, thank you."

"You can smoke if you like." She stood and poured herself a cup from a silver decanter, and Antoine was grateful for a moment to gather his thoughts. There was a pianoforte by the window and a potted fig tree that grew almost as tall as the ceiling. At least Louise didn't seem to be the hysterical sort or a romantic. She was a child of the aristocracy, after all, just like him.

When she returned to her seat, he continued clearing the air. "You should also know that I'm getting ready to sue my parents for the proceeds of the sale of our family estate. The viscounty. I intend to give away the money."

Her eyes grew wide. "Really?"

"Yes, but it doesn't have to involve you. Your support might help, but that's up to you. I just thought you should know."

"I have to say, Antoine, that this meeting has gone quite differently than I had anticipated it would."

"My parents don't know yet, about the lawsuit, so I hope you'll keep that between us for now."

"Of course." She watched him with renewed interest. Then she laughed shyly. "Do you want to know the reason my mother was so happy to forgive your indiscretion?"

"No, though I did notice."

"Because they caught me in bed with my English teacher."

"Ha. You're kidding?" Louise was full of surprises herself.

"I'm not." She looked directly at him when she spoke, laying out her own proposition.

"Do you love him?"

"Absolutely not. I don't love the gardener who I've been sleeping with either. But that doesn't mean I plan to discontinue either relationship after marriage."

She didn't ask if he was in love with Charlotte, though it may not have mattered. Her parents were probably pushing her as hard as his were to make an appropriate match. "I see. Then it appears we have a deal, don't we?"

"It appears so."

"In that case, Louise Montmorency…" He cleared his throat, but the words stuck there. The muscles in his hands twitched and his palms were slick with sweat. He coughed and something acid burned his tongue. This proposal was a matter of business, and yet he was physically unable to say the words. He cleared his throat again. Finally, he managed to croak out the question, "Will you be my wife?"

Louise watched, mouth hanging open as a combination of pity and humor played on her face. "I suppose I will since it didn't kill you to ask."

As if on cue, their mothers returned then from the hothouse tour. They both teared up and cheered when they confirmed the news. And for a brief second, Antoine was able to let his mother's happiness overshadow how physically uncomfortable and wrong everything about this engagement felt.

"We'll have the announcement in tomorrow's papers," Mother said as soon as her rush of joy subsided enough to speak complete sentences.

"Is there a rush?" Antoine asked. He needed to talk to Charlotte first. He hadn't even seen her in person since their night together. They'd written, so he was no longer worried by the fact that she'd left without waking him. But they were in a precarious relationship position. After denying each other for so many weeks, they'd been intimate. Finally. If he wanted to be intimate with her again, and he did, then he had to talk to her before she found out about the engagement in some other way. She couldn't read about it in the papers; she might never speak to him again. He paced the room as the women ignored his question about delaying the announcement. He twirled the right edge of his mustache in his fingers. He had to reassure Charlotte of his feelings for her, which were a deep, bottomless chasm of desire and appreciation and admiration. He needed an extravagant gift. He needed a carefully crafted explanation and proposition.

While the mothers and Louise fell into aspirational wedding plans, Antoine excused himself and walked home along the river. The water sparkled in the setting sun. A garbage barge slid past, trailing the foul aroma so ubiquitous with modern life. Or maybe it was life in general. He'd been hoping for more time with Charlotte before having to tell her about the engagement. This rush was not ideal. He'd hoped to prime her for this conversation with enough kisses and pleasure to make her forget all about Louise.

When he arrived at the house, he hurried up to his room, took off his hat and jacket, and settled at his desk. He restarted the letter three times, before catching the right thread of thoughts and words. He loved Charlotte, and he believed she loved him. And even though she had refused him before, he would appeal to that love and try again. The words poured out of him and onto the page. He didn't reveal any details except an urgent need to see her that evening. Then he called up one of the servants to take his message to her on Rue de Fortuny right away.