Villefranche’s gaze stole toward her décolletage for a fraction of a second before darting away. “It seems I was mistaken.” He shifted his weight to the left, then right, then left again. “Since there is nothing you don’t seem to know about cigars—”
Mariana blushed at the unintended barb.
“—I shall bid youadieu.” He inclined his head in a shallow bow.
Alarmed, Mariana discarded her role of seductress, pushed off the counter, and reached out to grab Villefranche’s upper arm. She couldn’t allow him to leave. Impossible that this day would end in failure. “Perhaps we could meet again on the morrow and further our”—She wracked her brain for a word, any word—“delightful”—That wasn’t quite the right word—“friendship.” Neither was that one.
Villefranche hesitated, his gaze unable to meet hers. “I have a previous engagement.”
Mariana felt a thin sheen of perspiration coat her body.No, no, no. “What a shame. Then the next day it shall be,” she pressed. She was making an utter fool of herself, but she cared not. Nick could be watching.
“I’m afraid—” he began.
“Then the next day.” Her fingers tightened around his arm. “You must show me the sights of Paris.” Rigid metal bit into the tender flesh of her other hand—the cigar box. “Perhaps the famed Jardin du Luxembourg?”
As if Villefranche sensed the only way to extricate himself from their increasingly awkward interaction was to relent, he said, each word clearly a negotiation with his rational mind, “It will be my pleasure. I shall send a note—”
“I shall meet you at the Medici Fountain at half past three on the dot,” she interrupted. She wouldn’t allow him to wiggle out of it later. Her fingers released their grip around his arm, and she rushed out of the shop, her mind racing faster than her feet.
Shame assaulted her from every angle. She’d made a tactical error with Villefranche. He had no desire to be flirted with, flattered, or seduced. And her behavior in the tobacconist shop . . . Her shame flared hotter.
Her enthusiasm to best Nick had blinded her to the fact that she knew nothing about his world and the methods she would need to navigate it with success. Her willfulness and overconfidence had ruined this day. How could she face Nick again and retain a measure of her pride? For surely, he knew. He hadpeople.
As her heels clicked across the cobblestone arcade, she nearly groaned aloud as another thought occurred to her. When she’d engaged with the phantom Nick of her imagining, it had . . .excited. . . her. Had she forgotten what she’d felt when he’d melted away from her life a decade ago?
A black void. And voids longed to be filled.
The thought sobered her. She couldn’t give him that power over her again.
As a girl, she’d prided herself on learning her lessons the first time around. And she’d learned her lesson regarding Nick ages ago. Once was enough, yet she needed further guidance if she was going to continue with this adventure.
She squared her shoulders and faced the gallery before her. Over the last few years of patronizing The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds, she’d come to understand something fundamental about knowledge: it was easy to attain if one was willing to set aside one’s pride and admit ignorance. This was what she must do.
Tonight, she would put her pride behind her and streak naked in front of Nick, in the metaphorical sense, of course.
And after she picked up a box of bon-bons.
Chapter 7
Born Under a Threepenny Halfpenny Planet, Never To Be Worth a Groat: Said of any person remarkably unsuccessful in their attempts or profession.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Mariana alighted from the cramped and noisome hackney, tilted her face up to the open night sky, and basked in the muted brilliance of the moon’s rays. Refreshed, she glanced about the street, her eye drawn to the red lanterns hanging singly above the row of doorstops.
This was a side of the city, an area known as the Left Bank, she hadn’t yet experienced. Every surface from cobblestone street to slate rooftop glistened with midnight light that danced to the competing rhythms of music from opposing open windows, creating a cacophonous symphony of sound not unpleasant to her ears.
And on the street below those windows, where she stood, a pace and demeanor that belonged to the night replaced the hustle and bustle of daytime activity. It was a pace no less hurried, but one that spoke of hidden intentions and secret destinations.
How stark was the contrast between this place and the bright and vivacious environs of the Palais-Royal.Every city had two versions of itself: one version openly displayed with a pride of ownership, and a second version that filled in the shadows, even within a bold and candid city like Paris. All one had to do was take a carriage ride out of one’s comfortable life to see the shadows hiding in plain sight.
This was a Paris that both unnerved and delighted her.
As a girl, she hadn’t been allowed to leave the family’s property unescorted. Any number of cutthroats and thieves surely lay in wait for a little girl like her to happen along. As an adult woman, it embarrassed her to admit that she still adhered to the instructions of her youth when she ventured forth in London.
What had she been missing all these years? This raucous Parisian night didn’t feel unsafe; it felt alive. Paris was adventure.
