“Nothing is ever going to be that.” I look around, looking for the man I’m here for. “Are you sure they won’t kick me out?”
“Papa is hosting the ball and you’re his…you know…his.”
“His what?” I ask panicked, as my eyes land on Gustave.
His storm-gray eyes are hard, glinting—until they find me.
Then everything in him softens; surprise gives way to joy, bright and unguarded, incandescent.
In that instant, I know I owe Aubert the biggest thank-you of my life—because this, right here, is precisely where I’m meant to be.
Gustave crosses the salon with the sure stride of a man who’s finally decided to stop running from what he wants. Conversations falter. Heads turn.
I swear the air between us hums. Weeks apart dissolve in a heartbeat.
And when he reaches me, he doesn’t hesitate.
He takes my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles, soft, reverent, possessive. His thumb lingers on my skin.
He then kisses my mouth once, then again. And then again, longer.
“Papa, you’ve got to maintain decorum,” we hear Aubert say. There is laughter in his voice.
Gustave takes my hand in his and waves at the band. Almost immediately, the music softens.
“Mesdames et messieurs?*,” he says, his voice deep and steady, the kind of voice that makes people listen. “Permettez-moi de vous présenter Tara Gayarre. La femmeque j’aime?*.”
Did he just say to the whole world and Paris that he’s presenting me, Tara Gayarre, the woman he loves?
Dios mio! This, I’m not prepared for. Not at all.
The room reacts like it’s been electrified.
A ripple of gasps, murmurs, the faint clatter of someone dropping a glass.
Gustave de Valois has publicly declared love for the American scandal.
He brings my hand to his lips again, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re trembling.”
I laugh softly, nerves and emotion tangling in my throat. “You just told half the French aristocracy you love me, Gustave. Naturally, I’m trembling.”
“I meant every word.” His hand slides to my waist, his breath warm against my ear.
My heart stutters. This is the kind of rush you can’t prepare for.
He kisses me, deeply this time, as if we’re alone in the middle of the gilded chaos. I break away before we risk being arrested for public indecency.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, eyes alight. He looks so happy it’s impossible not to catch it.
“You taste like champagne,” I whisper back.
He chuckles low in his throat. “I want you…but we can’t leave. Not yet. I’m hosting this damned ball.” The regret in his voice is rich, tender.
I grin, wide and helpless—until my gaze snags on…Simone.
And the air in the room cools by several degrees.
Her gown is perfect, her pearls immaculate, but I see, to my satisfaction, rage, envy, and disbelief.
