She rested her hand on his forearm, and it struck her that she was touching the wrong man. What a silly and unwelcome thought.
She should distract herself by flirting with Villefranche, but she couldn’t muster the will. And since he lacked the capacity for light conversation, they perambulated through the famed Jardin du Luxembourg as if they were on a grim death march instead of a pleasure stroll. It then occurred to her exactly what she needed to say.
“Lucien . . . may I call you Lucien?” At his hesitant nod, she continued, “I must apologize for mycuriosityregarding cigars.”
His only response was the betraying splotch of red that crept up his neck.
“After you bid me that hastyadieu, I realized how the topic may have been misconstrued to mean, well, I’m not certain how to finish that sentence.”
They were the words of a flustered ingénue. She risked a shy glance up at him, and her eyelashes might have fluttered. This was the moment that would make or break her mission.
“Think nothing of it, Lady Nicholas. Misunderstandings can occur.”
The words were stiff. His tone was stiff. But the Comte de Villefranche was nothing if not stiff. In other words, she might have mollified him, but it was too early to tell.
“You are the very soul of graciousness,” she said obsequiously. She squeezed his forearm for good measure. “Do you often venture to the garden for rendezvous?”
“Rendezvous?” he all but exclaimed. He must be wondering if she’d seen him with the other man.
She pasted a bright, flirtatious smile onto her lips and returned, “Well, what would you call what we’re doing?” The rigid muscles beneath her hand released the slightest increment. She tried again. “Do you know the history of this garden?”
A history lesson would have to do. Clearly, neither of them was in the mood for a flirt.
“Marie de’ Medici,” he began, “created the garden two hundred years ago in the Italian style to remind her of her childhood home, the Palazzo Pitti in Florence. Two thousand elm trees were planted at her behest.”
As his lecture—Villefranche didn’t know how to speak in any other fashion—began to take shape, Mariana’s mercurial focus blurred around the edges, softening its borders, allowing other thoughts entry. On a usual day, she would soak in every word, delighting in newfound knowledge that might never be useful, but wasn’t useless either. This informal acquisition of knowledge was how she’d educated herself over the past decade.
But this was no usual day. This was the day after she’dfucked—oh, that wicked word—Nick.
But it had been more than simple physical pleasure. She’d experienced an emotional pleasure last night, too, that could be summed up in two words: Woolly Mammoth. It was an example of the tender, thoughtful man she’d married, a side he’d only ever revealed to her; she was sure of it. It was a gift in itself.
This last decade, she’d never allowed herself to remember that side of Nick. She would have missed him too much. And now she remembered.
Villefranche waved an instructive finger in front of her face, effectively cutting into her reverie. “Marie de’ Medici referred to the palace”—His finger remained pointing toward the building to their left— “asPalais Médicis.”
“Her own Italian paradise,” Mariana replied, the statement bland and indifferent.
“Perhaps,” Villefranche allowed. Mariana sensed a storm cloud about to break over her head. “But this is Paris, and she was the Queen of France. She built herItalian paradise, as you call it, with French money and on the backs of French laborers without a care for any but her own desires. Do you know she was the grandmother of King Louis the Fourteenth?”
“I’ve never given it a thought.”
“Le Roi Soleil. That was the name he gave himself. The Sun King.”
“I might have read something—”
“And the palace at Versailles? An utter waste of the French collective wealth,” he spat.
Mariana’s gaze locked onto him. “You certainly have strong opinions about . . . everything.”
Sheepish misgiving stole across his features. “My apologies, Lady Nicholas. I tend to let my principles carry me away.”
Mariana held her tongue. In the implacable determination in his eyes, in the tone of his voice, in the set of his jaw, she recognized herself in Villefranche. She’d allowed her principles to carry her away more than a few times. Her work at The Progressive School for Young Ladies and the Education of Their Minds was the fruit of one such principle. It was a quality she respected in others. She respected this man for it.
He was the sort of man who formed the backbone for revolutions. He had the intellect. He had the connections. He had the resources. And, most important of all, he had the will.
His words, and his fervor in their delivery, confirmed another impression of him, too. This was a man ensnared in a role for which he was supremely unsuited. He wasn’t a revolutionary; he was a pawn to be used and discarded at the whim of more powerful players.
There was no doubt in Mariana’s mind that Villefranche was careening straight toward Nick, who understood the game and its larger implications better. Nothing in Nick’s covert world was black or white, right or wrong.
