Chapter Three

Antoine and Charlotte crossed Champs-élysées and headed down Avenue d'Alma toward the river. As they passed the stylish metalwork gates of the new metro station, Antoine asked if she'd ridden it yet.

"No," she said, peering down the staircase that led under the city. The ornate sign above it had petals of frosted glass so pretty that going underground almost sounded inviting. "So far I haven't had sufficient reason to risk getting lost down there."

Antoine smiled, revealing a perfect line of teeth underneath his neatly trimmed mustache. It punctuated his handsome face so well and the sensation of it brushing against her hand when he'd kissed it at the table tingled on her skin. "Is this your first time in Paris?"

"No. I came once as a child, which I hardly remember, and then I was here last year for the exposition. I didn't see much of the city, though. We mostly attended to bookshop business."

"Does your brother help with business?"

"He does. But everything I've told you is probably so boring compared to your life. Tell me about your family."

"I'm afraid they're not half as interesting as you." He kept doing that—turning her questions about him back onto her. But she hesitated to push him for more. She didn't know him well enough to press him, and it was hard talking and walking along the busy street. His evasions didn't make her uncomfortable, exactly, just more curious.

Because of the height of the buildings and the angle of the street, she hadn't noticed the Eiffel Tower until it was too close to ignore. She might never get used to seeing it, it was so pretty. Beyond the busy intersection, the river glistened under the late afternoon sun. The Pont de l'Alma arched across the water and was decorated with statues of military figures at the base of each arch. The water slipped steadily past the statues' feet while carriages flowed from one bank to another over the bridge.

They walked along the quay until they found an open bench facing the water. As they sat, Antoine said, "I hope the view is worth the walk."

"Absolutely. Though we may have to sit here for a while so my feet can recover. Maybe I can take the metro back to the seventeenth."

"Alas. It doesn't go that way. Not yet, but they have plans to connect the whole city."

"I suppose I can wait here until then," she said, gesturing at the view. A light breeze came off the water, just enough to cool her face. And a long, pretty boat cruised past them on the river. The wooden hull had been polished to a brilliant shine, and women on the deck were dressed in sorbet colors. It was a lovely scene.

"Don't worry. I'll get you home. But I don't want to talk about that yet. Unless you're ready to go?"

He was sitting right next to her on the bench, closer than he had to be for the amount of seating room available. Everything about the way he was turned and looking at her suggested interest. His gaze was like a friendly, loving spotlight that warmed instead of exposed. She relaxed in his company, opened up, delighted in her inappropriate impulse to climb in his lap and feel that mustache with her mouth. "I'm not ready to go."

He smiled like he'd won a great prize. "Good. Then tell me about your favorite book in the whole shop back home in Vernon."

?

Antoine hadn't intended to walk Charlotte to his neighborhood, but he loved this part of the city. This spot, actually, with the tower in the background and the river in the fore, was one of his favorite places to be. It was the first place he wanted to show her when she agreed to walk with him. And now that they were sitting here together, with the river flowing past them, he could sit there forever.

Charlotte was different from any other woman he'd ever met. She was both ladylike in her manners and bold in her thoughts. Once he brought up Zola, she carried on about him enthusiastically for twenty minutes. Her toilette was simple and understated, but lovely in its lack of pretension. She obviously wasn't a wealthy woman, but her suit, though worn, had been well-made. She wore few ornaments or colors so the pink shade of her cheeks and the blue of her eyes seemed all the more vibrant and lovely. Her small wrists and hands emerged from her gray linen suit and gestured for emphasis as she talked. She had ink stains on her fingers, a mark of her work that made her strangely more alluring to him. He wanted to memorize every detail.

And her mind. It whirred like an electric fan. Antoine had read most of Zola's work, but she managed to crack it open for him even further.

"I am talking too much," she said apologetically. "I'm carrying on."

"I like it."

"Well, tell me about your favorite writer."

"You're my favorite writer," he said in complete earnest. He'd never read a story quite like hers.

"Stop. I am not."

He shrugged and didn't revise his answer.

"Then tell me about yourself. What was it like growing up in Paris?"

Antoine both wanted to tell her about his life and didn't. Not because he wanted to deceive her, but because he suspected that fessing up to his aristocratic lineage would shift things between them. It often did. People of all classes and backgrounds treated him differently when they found out. Some distanced themselves because of it. Others latched on as if he were an opportunity. He wanted more than anything, sitting here with Charlotte, to be just a man. Just a person. And he liked her so much that he was afraid to find out how the shift would manifest itself in her. Not only would he be different in her eyes, but through her reaction, she would become different in his.

That, and she wrote about aristocrats as stuffy and cruelly ridiculous. Antoine wasn't ready to be that in her eyes. And so even though he felt compelled to tell her everything, he evaded the defining truth of himself.

"Growing up in Paris was okay. But my favorite memories of childhood were spending time in the country. We had a lovely garden and woods to explore."

"I never would have guessed you for an outdoorsman."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. I was usually sitting in the garden reading. Or looking for places in the woods to hide with my book. But I greatly appreciated the natural setting. The flowers. All the green. I can remember wanting to stay there forever."

"The countryside does have an expansive feeling. Did you hunt and ride?"

He laughed. "Like I said, I'm not much of an outdoorsman. I have both shot and ridden a horse, but I'd really rather not."

"So almost like city living against a different backdrop, then?"

"Maybe." He considered this. "The quiet solitude also had something to do with it. You know, the slower pace, and all that."

"Did your family go every summer?"

"We did—that is until we didn't anymore."

"Why did you stop?"

Antoine thought back to that darkest time in his past. "My brothers—I had two of them—passed away when I was thirteen."

Her face fell. "At the same time?"

He nodded.

Charlotte gasped and touched his arm. "Oh, no. That's terrible. What a sad thing for your family."

"They were the outdoorsmen. If I merely loved the country, they seemed to transform in it. I think sometimes that all those memories attached to the place made it difficult for my parents to bear the reality of them gone." He stopped short of telling her about the land and tenants his family still had there.

"That must have been very difficult." She withdrew her hand from his sleeve then, and he immediately wished she hadn't. It had been a casual, natural gesture of comfort. But all afternoon he'd longed to touch her; her arm in his wasn't enough.

"With them gone, all my parents' aspirations have fallen on me. The pressure to live the way they want me to live is quite heavy at times."

"What sorts of pressures do they put on you?"

The truth sat right there on Antoine's tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. "Oh, you know. The usual things."

She looked at him curiously, and Antoine could almost see her weighing in her mind the desire to press him for more against politely respecting his privacy. His evasion worked, and she gave more of herself.

"My father wants nothing more than for me to come back to Vernon and get married."

"He doesn't approve of your writing?"

"Oh, no. It's not that. He loves that I write. He loves books and reading. But he wishes I did it in and around the confines of motherhood and domesticity."

"Ah. Does he approve of your being in Paris?"

"Both of my parents were shocked when Le Figaro wanted my story. They didn't even know I'd sent it. I was pretty shocked myself."

"Surely they're proud of you, even if you're not living the life they want."

"I'm sure they are." She looked at him thoughtfully, establishing eye contact before continuing. "And I'm sure your parents will feel the same way if you don't follow their suit."

Antoine wasn't so sure, but he was done talking about it. However, he still wasn't ready to be done spending time with Charlotte. He gestured at the square behind them. "Are you up for a stroll around the park? Then I promise I'll get you a carriage home."

"Okay."

Antoine stood when Charlotte did and offered his arm. The sensation of her hand on him again was like arriving home, and his heart quickened happily. He carried her bag of paper and pencils in his other hand. They walked along the water and then crossed the street to the little park. Charlotte smelled of vanilla and roses, and he kept his arm in close as they walked so she was practically tucked into his side. A short iron fence separated the sidewalk from the green space, and they skirted around it to the entrance. He guided her toward the statue that stood on a stone pedestal at the park's center.

"What's it called?" she asked as they approached.

" The Warrior Reforging His Sword . The artist, Ernest-Eugène Chrétien, is actually from Normandy."

"You're kidding." Her eyes were wide with disbelief. She was adorable.

"I'm not kidding. Have you heard of him? I hear everyone knows everyone up there."

"Ha. My parents probably do."

For a quiet moment, they admired the bronze figure of a man raising a hammer over an anvil, while the pedestrian and carriage traffic that surrounded them almost ceased to exist.

"It's patriotic, about France rebuilding," she said.

"It is. It's been here for as long as I can remember. But I'll be honest, rather than patriotism, every time I look at it, all I think about is life in the time when warriors had to forge their own swords."

She quirked a brow at him.

"You know, medieval times. Before sewers and factories and all the modern amenities that make life easier than…" He nodded toward the warrior. "Blacksmithing."

She looked at the statue thoughtfully.

"I deeply appreciate the fact that I didn't exist back then," he said.

"As do I. Can you imagine how hard blacksmithing must have been in medieval times? I'm not even sure I could get the fire hot enough in this day and age."

"I couldn't. And based on this rendering, they had to do it naked." He shuddered, and she laughed at him.

"I think the nudity makes him representative of all men."

"Oh," he said, feigning enlightenment. "Perhaps you're right."

Her laugh was high and pleasant. He wanted—needed—to make her do that again.

"You know, people are still blacksmiths. And there are jobs today that are just as bad or worse. Modernity hasn't made life easier for everyone."

"Yes. That's true." He'd passed loud factories from the comfort of his carriage.

"Don't worry. I won't hold it against you."

"I hope not." He stepped away from the statue. "Shall we?"

They walked two slow laps around the park, laughing and talking about books and music and other impersonal topics as they went. It was late afternoon now and the light had turned golden yellow. For the first time since lunch, Antoine checked his pocket watch. It was nearly five.

Seeing him with his timepiece, Charlotte said, "I should probably make my way home."

"As should I. But let's catch a ride."

They made their way to the street where Antoine hailed a cab from the stream of traffic.

"Do you mind if I share the ride?" He should just put her in the carriage and walk himself home over the bridge, but he couldn't help taking advantage of the opportunity to extend their time together.

"Of course not." Her smile puffed up his confidence. He liked this woman so much. "I would ask you where you live, but it won't mean anything to me unless you have a map."

Antoine helped her into the carriage. "Ah, but now you'll have to give me your address."

"I suppose this was your plan all along," she said, smiling. "Rue de Fortuny, please. Number seventy-seven."

Antoine told the driver, mentioned a second stop on the left bank, and then got in next to her.

"I don't know the city well, but do I understand that you're taking me home and then coming all the way back down here to cross the river?"

Antoine nodded; guilty. "Ladies first?"

"That's kind of you, but I don't mind if he drops you first for efficiency's sake." Her bright blue eyes sparkled and held his rapt. "You've already gotten my address out of me. Won't it be cheaper if you go first?"

"To be honest, I'm not quite ready to part ways." Her face turned away toward the window. Outside, the traffic was heavy and moving slowly. His gaze fell on her mouth, down the column of her neck, over the front of her conservatively cut suit, to where her hands lay in her lap. They were small and unadorned, except for the faint smudges of ink. He wanted to loop them around his neck.

When she turned back to him, he said, "I've enjoyed our afternoon together, Charlotte. Very much."

"It was a nice surprise." She sounded a little shy now. Her skin looked soft and flushed from being out. Her face so lovely.

He sank in the bench slightly and reached for her hand. When he had it, time seemed to stop. The traffic all around them became a blur. The carriage swayed over the cobblestones. They sat there, looking into each other's eyes, twining their fingers together. Antoine's heart pumped with increasing strength in his chest. Then when her gaze dropped to his mouth, he moved in closer.

With mere inches between them, he said, "I would very much like to kiss you now, Charlotte Devereaux. Is that all right?"

She bit her lip and her eyes flicked to the side, away from his. But she didn't move away. "It is quite all right. Desired, in fact."

And so he closed the slim space between them and brought his mouth to hers. Her breath was sweet with a lingering hint of coffee. Her mouth pliant and soft under his. Without hurry, he moved his lips over hers, breathing her in and tasting her. She was wonderful to be this close to. He wanted so much more, but he took his time, reveling in the sensation of her.

Her hand tightened on his and then released. A second later, it was on his shoulder, and she tipped her head to the side. His pulse quickened at her advances. He moved his hand to the side of her face and parted her lips with his, deepening the kiss with a swipe of his tongue. She met it with confidence, pushing back gently with hers. His body tingled and sparked, and his groin pulsed. But he didn't accelerate what was a delightfully exploratory kiss. Even though he could feel all his urges building inside him. The urge to be as close as possible. The urge to take off her garments one at a time. The urge to kiss her everywhere. With her mouth moving against his, slowly and lovingly, he wanted it all.

Then the carriage jolted over a bump in the road and their mouths broke apart. Charlotte's lips were puffy now and red, and her eyes held a dreaminess. He moved his hand from her face to her back, sliding it down slowly. Neither of them said anything as they took each other in. Antoine's mind had emptied of all thoughts except for those of her.

When she moved her hand from his shoulder to his back, he pulled her in closer and kissed her again. This time, he couldn't help touching, exploring, from her soft hair, down her exquisite neck. He put a hand on each of her shoulders and felt a surge of affection for her, so small and sturdy against him. She was the most precious creature. Resisting the urge to free her from her dress and ravish her, he moved his hands down either side of her, wrapped them around her waist, and held her as close as he could.

Their kiss was deep, filled with promise, but not urgent. And as silly as it was to think so, it reminded him of his first kiss. Not because of skill—Charlotte had some experience and good instincts. But because kissing a girl for the first time was like opening a door in a way. Sometimes it was simply a means to a physical end, going from one place to another. But sometimes, as it was with Charlotte now, it was seeing the world and all it could be for the first time. This was what he remembered thinking about his first kiss years ago, and it was what he was thinking now.

Kissing Charlotte was like coming out of a dark cave to see an expansive, colorful vista of enchanting possibility. Even there in the carriage, bumping through the streets, he knew he was forever changed.

When the carriage came to a full stop, Charlotte pulled away and turned enough to look where they were.

"Oh, no." She straightened up. "We're here. This is where I live."

Antoine, seeing stars after that kiss, gathered his wits quickly and looked past her out the window. The pretty stone facade was more ornate and somehow feminine than those on either side. He immediately wanted to go in and look at every detail of her life. She put her hand on the door.

"Charlotte, my dear, that was the best carriage ride of my life."

She smiled mischievously, her pupils dilated. "It was pretty great, wasn't it? But I have to go before Madame comes to see what's going on out here."

He passed her the bag of notebooks he'd been carrying for her since they left the restaurant, though his reluctance to do so nearly overwhelmed him.

"Thank you," she said and opened the door. "For everything. Really."

She stepped out and straightened her jacket. He called out, "You'll be hearing from me, Charlotte Deveraux."

As she walked toward the house, she turned and gave him a cute wave. Then she opened the door and disappeared inside.

Antoine swooned. Honest to goodness fell back into the seat and swooned. Then he called his address to the driver and the carriage moved off. He was definitely never going to be the same.

?

Charlotte closed the front door to the house on Rue de Fortuny and leaned against it to steady herself. Her heart felt like an apple bobbing on the surface of the ocean, floating away. She wiped her clammy hands on her skirt and went to the little window next to the door to see the carriage pull away with Antoine in it. In a moment, he was gone.

When Charlotte turned, Madame was coming out of the kitchen. "Bonjour, dear. I thought I heard someone come in. Have you been out all afternoon?"

"Oui, Madame. I walked the Champs-élysées." She held her bag up. "And bought notebooks."

"Oh, good. Then you're familiarizing yourself with the city."

"I am. I found my new favorite stationery shop and had the most delicious vegetable soup for lunch at a café." Charlotte tended to become chatty when she wanted authority figures to like her, and she stopped herself from saying more. But then, with Madame's stoic eyes taking her in, she worried that perhaps all that intense kissing showed on her face. Or that Madame had seen Antoine in the carriage when they pulled up.

"Let's go up. You must be tired," Madame said, revealing no suspicion. Thank goodness she didn't seem to be the interrogation type.

The lower levels of the house were laid out similar to many in Paris, with the kitchen in the back, a small entry at the front on the street level, and the main living areas upstairs. Charlotte followed Madame up to the second floor and accepted her offer of coffee, which Cook was just bringing into the drawing room. Then she went up to her room to change and rest before dinner.

Upstairs, Charlotte closed her door and slipped out of her shoes. Alone, her thoughts raced across the memories of her afternoon. She wasn't even sure what to make of it all. Meeting Antoine again, spending the day together, and that carriage ride. That kissing.

Charlotte lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, reliving every moment of her afternoon, every detail of Antoine. She didn't even know him. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how little she knew. At the same time, she had felt his heart beating in his chest, felt the brush of his lips on her skin, tasted his breath, tasted his warm skin and the wetness of his mouth. What they'd done had been deeply intimate. Especially after knowing each other for only a few hours. She surprised herself. He surprised her. And she couldn't stop thinking about it. When she sat up and tried to write, she couldn't gain any steam despite her energy. She'd come alive in a way that she didn't know yet how to put into words.

The next day, Charlotte settled into the faded green velvet settee that came with her room and placed her after-lunch coffee on the floor, preparing to read over the pages she'd produced that morning. There weren't many, not as many as yesterday, but there were pages. That was good enough. She stacked them against her lap and started reading and marking them up. Then she marked them up some more. She was just beginning to despair of their messy state when Nadine came dancing through her open door, making a characteristic grand entrance.

"A letter just came for you. Judging by the stationery, it's from someone fancy." She gleefully passed the envelope. The linen stock was indeed crisp and weighty.

Charlotte smiled before she could stop herself and thought of Antoine. She knew it was from him, or at least she hoped it was. What if it wasn't? She'd spent all day thinking about the electric feeling of kissing him, of being so close and somehow not close enough. He was probably why she'd only managed to write three pages.

"You little hussy," Nadine purred as she squeezed onto the chaise next to Charlotte. "Who is it from?"

"I don't know." She slid her finger under the flap and opened the envelope. She unfolded the single sheet and read.

Mademoiselle,

My every moment has been filled with thoughts of you. Can you meet me for a stroll tomorrow afternoon?

Antoine de Larminet

When Charlotte folded the paper again and looked up, Nadine's eyes gleamed with anticipation.

"So? I didn't bring the thing all the way up here for nothing."

Charlotte laughed. Despite her hesitation when Madame was around, she was now anxious to share her experience with a friend. Even if she knew so little about the man. "Do you know Antoine de Larminet?"

Nadine's mouth dropped. "Is that who wrote to you?"

"It is." Seeing Nadine's surprise, Charlotte stiffened, suddenly alarmed at what she didn't know about this man. Did he have some terrible reputation? Had she been roped in by a nefarious character who preyed on her naivety?

"Of course, I know him. Well, I know the name. He's very fancy; the stationery never lies."

"What do you mean by very fancy?"

"I mean high-class fancy. His father's a vicomte."

"You're kidding."

"No. I'm not. Where did you ever meet him?"

"At the café concert. And then again yesterday afternoon when I was walking." She sighed. "I keep bumping into him."

"You know, Madame will have a fit. He's the kind of man who will only marry a woman with a fancy title of her own. She'll say his intentions are less than honorable." Nadine looked at her pitifully. "And she won't be wrong, if I'm being honest."

Nadine was right. Fooling around with an aristocrat would make Charlotte look like a social climbing courtesan, a word that Madame had practically spit out like a mouthful of bad wine. If Antoine was indeed as interested as his letter suggested, it would not be with marriage in mind. Charlotte's heart sank then. Not because she wanted to marry, necessarily, but because she wanted him to be someone she could consider.

"He asks me to meet him for a stroll." Charlotte looked back at his letter.

"Are you going to?"

"It doesn't seem like I should."

"Did you like him?"

She frowned and sank deeper into the plush seat. "I kind of did."

"So meet him for a stroll. There's no harm in that. But be careful. And if it goes any further, at least hold out for something nice. He's got plenty of money." Nadine stared off dreamily for a moment. Then lit up. "Oh! You could write one of your stories about it!"

But an anger flared inside of Charlotte that engulfed any writing instincts she may have about her recent experiences. Thinking over all their chance meetings and interactions, she parsed his words for clues. He had impeccable manners, and he obviously had money. But how could he not tell her that he was a future vicomte? Or did he assume that she knew? And so then did he think she would want to be his mistress? That she was okay with that?

She'd been daydreaming about romance and fate and him. How could fate be so cruel?