A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake. Diane GastonЧитать онлайн книгу.
continued what was a fairly long walk around the building. The Seine was behind them, not too far from where he’d chased away the poor street children, busy now with boats and barges transporting people and goods up and down the river.
‘Flying buttresses,’ he pointed out, then smiled. ‘See? You are not the only one who is knowledgeable.’
Humour. It was as welcome as the clear summer air. She so rarely experienced the levity of humour. She could not help but return his smile.
They concluded their walk around the cathedral, talking of its architecture, and finally went inside. As they entered the church, the bell tolled the hour, its sound echoing against the stone walls.
Cecilia loved the inside of Notre Dame, loved the colours the rose windows cast upon the interior. Oliver Gregory seemed interested in everything she drew his attention to. Was he pretending? If so, he was very good at it.
Others filed into pews and soon a priest and his attendants appeared at the huge altar. They had come at the time of the Catholic Mass.
‘Do you mind if we stay?’ she asked. There were so many English people who would abhor attending a Catholic Mass.
‘Not at all,’ he said.
They chose a pew in the back, but with a good view of the altar.
She liked the ritual, a little like her church at home, but different as well. Watching and listening to the Latin service drove other thoughts from her mind and calmed her. It made her forget the strange way she made her living and how lonely she was.
* * *
When the service was over he clasped her hand. ‘I am glad we stayed.’
They walked around the cathedral some more, marvelling at the windows, peering at the statues until they had seen enough.
As they came towards the long aisle to the door, she stopped him. ‘My name is Cecilia.’
Surely it would not hurt to tell him her given name.
She had never told anyone in Paris her real name, not since the day the captain came to tell her Duncan was killed, but she wanted this man to know. For one day she wanted to be herself, as she might have been had she never fallen under Duncan’s spell.
This lovely man beside her did not act as if she’d said anything unusual by giving her name so abruptly.
‘If I am to call you Cecilia,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘you must call me Oliver.’
‘Oliver,’ she whispered.
‘Cecilia.’ He smiled.
It was not the done thing for a gentleman and a lady to call each other by their given names, not unless they grew up together from childhood. She’d known him only a few hours, but still it seemed natural that they should do so.
‘We should go to the Louvre next,’ she said.
The Louvre was another place Cecilia visited when she needed to remind herself that there was incredible beauty in the world. She loved the Renaissance art, especially the portrait called La Gioconda. She tried to imagine any other man of her acquaintance walking through the museum without any sign of boredom.
Was this man—Oliver—really what he seemed? Or was he pretending, hiding his true nature? Every day she pretended to be someone she was not. Every day she hid her real self. Today, though, she would be her real self, even if he were not.
When they again stepped outside, they could hear the bell of Notre Dame strike four o’clock, reminding her of when Oliver had last eaten.
‘There are restaurants at the Palais-Royal, if you are hungry.’ She was accustomed to going without food.
When she’d followed the drum with Duncan, she’d been allotted half his food rations, but when he could, he ate her portion as well as his own. She’d quickly learned not to complain.
‘Do you wish to eat?’ he asked.
Throughout the day, he’d checked on her wishes before stating his own, she noticed. Another technique of seduction? Or did he truly wish to fulfil her desires?
‘I know it is country hours, but I am quite famished,’ she admitted.
‘Then we must eat.’ He offered her his arm and they leisurely walked to the Palais-Royal, once the home of the Duc d’Orléans and, earlier, Cardinal Richelieu. The palais was not far from where she earned her money.
No. Cecilia Lockhart, who strolled by the side of this English gentleman, earned no money.
That was the job of Madame Coquette.
The restaurant Oliver chose was the Beauvilliers, with its tables covered in white linen, shining silverware and sparkling crystal. He had dined there once already during his visit.
‘This restaurant is very expensive,’ Cecilia warned him as they were led to a table in a private corner.
‘Do not concern yourself,’ he told her. ‘I can afford it.’
He was used to ladies’ eyes kindling with greed when realising he was wealthy, but Cecilia merely nodded sceptically.
He laughed. ‘I assure you, Cecilia. Order whatever you desire.’
After they were seated he said, ‘There is something to be said about liberté, égalité, fraternité. I have yet to have any Paris high servant or shopkeeper regard me with disdain.’
She looked surprised. ‘That happens to you—being regarded with disdain?’
‘Because of how I look. Like a foreigner.’ In England, members of the ton and their servants often peered down their noses at him. It happened often enough in London shops as well.
‘I do not think you look all that remarkable,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘Thank you...I think.’
They perused the printed menu with its numerous choices for each course, deciding to begin with an onion soup followed by a platter of oysters and sausages. For the main course they chose beefsteak, then an entrée of duck. They could have ordered additional courses of fish and roast poultry or veal, but Cecilia said she would burst from that much food. Each course was accompanied by a different wine.
‘This meal reminds me of dinner parties at home,’ she said over the soup.
This was the most information about herself that she’d divulged yet. This was an aristocratic meal, so it was likely she came from an aristocratic family.
‘Home meaning England?’ he ventured.
Her expression sobered. He surmised she debated how much to disclose.
‘Surrey,’ she replied.
He smiled inwardly. It was as if she’d bared her soul to him.
‘We were practically neighbours, then,’ he said. ‘My father’s estate is in Kent.’
They went on to taste the oysters and sausage and sip the wine before she spoke again. ‘I am not welcome back in Surrey. My family disowned me when I ran away to Gretna Green to marry.’
This was a great deal to divulge and it made him sad for her. He knew how it felt to lose someone.
He was also disappointed to hear her mention a marriage.
Oliver usually did not care much about the details of a woman’s life, not the least of which was whether or not she was married. The woman’s apparent character and disposition of the moment were enough to satisfy him, but his reaction to this woman was different. He was intrigued by Cecilia. Maybe because she kept information about herself so close to her chest, he wanted to know all about her. Mostly