“Where did you learn to draw, Pierre?” I asked, turning toward him.
“Uh-uh!” he cried, and I belatedly remembered I was to hold my pose.
“Forgive me.” I grimaced and tried to resume my previous position. But sitting still, all I could think about was what I needed to say to him. I struggled to remain in position when my body called for pacing.
Eventually, he answered me. “I wanted to be an artist when I was young.”
“And you must have been.”
“No. Not as I wished. My father would hear nothing of it. Being an artist, you see, is a craft of the bourgeoisie, not of the aristocracy. Supported as a noble exercise, but not as a noble vocation, at least not in my family. We are of…uh, the sort that supports artists. We do not become them.”
“Oh,” I said with a heavy sigh.
“I learned to draw from friends, those I sponsor as a patron. When one is a patron,” he said with a little laugh, “your artistic friends suddenly become very patient in answering questions as a tutor.”
I smiled with him. It was in keeping with his generous personality that he would help struggling artists. “Well, at least you can express yourself this way now. As a man grown. You didn’t get to make your choice earlier, but look at you now—a successful businessman and an artist.”
“Yes,” he said, but his tone did not entirely agree. My heart went out to him. Had he been shoved into an unhappy role by his father too? Was that part of what drew him to me?
“Pierre, may I look up?”
“One…moment… There. Now, cherie, you may look where you wish.” He stared at me, and yet his gaze was that of an artist, respectfully examining lines and distances.
“Pierre, did that make you sad? Not being able to follow your dream? To be an artist?”
“It is as you say…I am an artist. Only as a hobby. Not as a craft. It is all right,” he said, old sorrow softening his eyes as they met mine. “One makes compromises to honor their family.”
I stared hard at him then. Was he saying what I thought he was saying? Did he know my father was pushing me toward him? That it wasn’t my choice? I had to know. And I had to be honest with him. No matter the cost.
He looked to his sketchpad and continued to fill in some detail, then eyed me again. But his gaze was once again distant.
“Pierre, I am in love with another man.”
There it was. Out in the open at last. I dared to take a breath as his charcoal stilled a moment, then moved again in soft, even strokes.
“I know, cherie.” He gave me a quick, small grin. “It is my hope to show you that you might love me, too, in time.”
I frowned. Did he not understand what I was saying? “My father’s intentions…he wishes to seal your business deal. Use me to keep you close.”
He bit his lip, still sketching. Then he met my gaze. “I think you are wrong. He is not adverse to utilizing your place in my heart to accomplish his goals. A man such as Wallace Kensington does not accomplish what he has without being a bit ruthless, no? But I believe he desires nothing more than your happiness. We have spoken of my desire to court you. And he asked me the questions of a loving father, not a businessman trading a commodity.”
“I see,” I said. And I did then. Wallace Kensington was incredibly adept at what he did. Manipulating all within reach to do exactly as he bid. Anna’s words came back to me. The miner’s family, sent away, just to keep the son from Viv. It was as if he were a master chess player, moving all the pieces into just the right spots in order to capture the queen. Except this time, the queen was me.
And somehow, Wallace would feel good about his methods, because I’d be married off to a man of means…the years of struggle in Dunnigan magically rectified.
“Cora,” Pierre said, coming to sit beside me. A gardener looked up from trimming the roses and then hurriedly glanced away. Beyond him, Yves kept watch over me, casually, purely there for the job, but without any untoward interest. In the far corner, Arthur was taking pictures of two young society girls—his latest photographic interest. Pierre took my hand. “Truthfully, would it be so awful? To be both rich and loved?”
I laughed, then, at his words. Really, how could I take issue with either? Who in their right mind would? And one laugh took me into another. Until tears streamed down my face. He waited through the whole thing, patient, kind, never irritated by my foolishness—and in that moment I knew that I did care for him.
Just not as I cared for Will.
“No, Pierre,” I said at last. “It is not a bad thing to be both rich and loved. I believe it is all many people aspire to. But for me…I am meant to be loved, yes. Rich?” I shook my head and waved about me at the expansive gardens, the mansion. “This is extraordinary. A dream, in many ways. But that’s it, right there, I think. It feels too much like a dream. Not real. Not something you can reach out and touch…or at least hope to hold for long.”
He set aside his sketchpad, took my hand, and placed it over his heart, his eyes deadly serious now. “Do you not feel that? My heart? Am I not real?”
I sighed. There was no way to convey to him what I was feeling. “You can’t understand, Pierre, not really. This is your world, the only world you have ever known. So while it feels very real to you, it’s because it is. It’s because you belong here. You’ve always belonged here.” I lifted a hand to my forehead. “I’m not explaining this well.”
“Non,” he said, tracing my face with a feather-light touch. “You are. Perhaps I need to journey to your world to fully understand. To Montana.” He hitched his shoulders back and put his thumbs in his waistband. “Wear chaps and spurs. A cowboy hat.”
I giggled, trying to picture him there. “Not all Montanans wear such things.”
“No?” He frowned, but a teasing smile crept into his eyes. “That is most disappointing.” He released my hand from his chest but kept it between the two of his. “I must come, though. See what so ties your heart to that land. Perhaps I will fall in love with it too and never return to Paris.”
I shook my head. “Don’t you see? That would be wrong too. This is where you belong, Pierre. I mean, you are welcome to come, but you would find what I have here. It is lovely. Intriguing, being in a place that is not your own. But in the end, it is not your own, and you have no choice but to find your way back to what is.”
“Not all do as you say. Some find their way. In a foreign land. And in time, it feels as home.”
“I suppose so,” I said.
“Don’t give up yet, mon ange,” he said, bringing my hand to his lips and giving my knuckles a tender kiss. “You have been honest with your feelings. I knew from the start that William would give me—” He laughed when I looked up in surprise. “Oh no, cherie, it is no secret that William is the one who draws you. But I am not as convinced as you that he is the right man for you. That he is a better match than I, for you. So…you’ve been honest. You’ve had your say. I have heard it, no? I shall never claim you were unfair to me, untruthful. But I beg you to do as your father asked and simply give me more time to win your heart. If what you share with William is right, true, it will stand the test, right?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head in confusion.
“It is always wise to give big decisions time, Cora. To not rush them. And in giving this more time you obey your father’s wishes and make sure you are making a wise decision.”
I stared at him for a long moment. “I…I suppose that’s true.”
His grin spread across his handsome face, and he leaned over to give me a slow, tender kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, cherie. For granting me a bit more time. That is all I ask. See? We are all happy now. Me. You. Your father.”
I nodded, feeling a bit dazed. What had just happened? It had not gone at all as I’d envisioned. And there was one person Pierre had not mentioned in his list of those who were happy.
Will.
Pierre stood and bid me adieu, promising that he’d be the fir
st to request a dance after the concert, and then he walked away, whistling.
I saw his pad and picked it up. “Pierre! Your sketchbook!”
He turned and nodded, remembering the forgotten book, then sidled back toward me. As he did, curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked at his illustration, then turned it in my hands to really take it in.
It was as perfectly executed as the one he’d made of me on the boat in Versailles. But this time, he’d sketched in a perfect rendition of himself beside me. Like two young lovers perched in the rose garden, which I supposed, in some measure, we were.
“See, cherie,” he said, with a half-pained smile, “it looks right. The two of us together, yes?”
I handed him the sketchbook and gave him a smile. “You are incorrigible,” I said with a shake of my head.
“What is this word, incorrigible?” he said, pretending his perfect English didn’t cover it. He tore the page from the book and handed it to me.
“Impossible. Outrageous.”
“Ahh, perhaps, cherie, perhaps.” Then he turned on his heel, whistling again as he left the garden. But he’d accomplished what he’d been after.
The romantic image of the two of us together was both in my hands and in my head.
William
As much as he tried to keep his eyes from her, Cora seemed to appear in his line of vision, everywhere Will looked.
Two tables over during the garden supper, he glimpsed her in profile again and again, but she never looked his way.
During the Haydn concert, when she closed her eyes, her pale brows lifting in glory and furrowing in angst, as if feeling the power of every note.
And afterward, on the vast patio in the gardens, where the dancing went on for hours, and she spent much of it in Pierre de Richelieu’s arms, every moment of which made Will seethe with jealousy.
Antonio sidled up beside him and perused the group. “Perhaps she is putting on a ruse, the means to keep a certain someone out from under her father’s fury,” Antonio said, lifting a dark, bushy brow in Will’s direction.
Will ran a hand through his hair, considering it. Was that it? Was she simply protecting him? Getting through this visit with her father and Richelieu so that they could find their hidden moments again in Venezia and a life together beyond the tour?
He glanced over at Wallace Kensington chatting with a table full of men and considered the possibility. Did he dare walk over there? Declare himself? Declare his intentions toward Cora? What would happen then? Would he be summarily excused?
His eyes roamed over the crowd, back to Cora and Richelieu, now dancing a tango. He had to look away—and not because of Cora’s lack of expertise. But because another man was holding his girl in his arms. In far too intimate a fashion.
Go. Speak to him.
Now? Now? It’s not right….
Now.
Will turned toward the tables, rather than the dance floor, and Antonio grabbed his arm. “What do you think you are doing?”
“Speaking to her father,” he said, looking from Antonio’s hand on his arm to the man himself.
“No, Will. No. Go, cut in. Dance with Cora. But do not speak to Mr. Kensington.”
“Don’t you see?” Will hissed. “I have no choice. It’s now or never. Richelieu has made his move. I have to make my intentions known, or Wallace Kensington will forever see me as an interloper, a cad, not a man of merit.”
Antonio turned to block his way. “Listen to me. Listen to me,” he said, tapping Will’s chest with each word. “Richelieu is smooth. Charming. And smart. They’ve talked business. And yes, they’ve likely spoken of courtship, but, Will, the man has had two days with him.”
“What of it?” Will asked, throwing his hand up in the air. “Mr. Kensington knows me, too. I’ve been in his home! I’m the guardian of his children…a proven protector.”
“And now he’ll see you as a predator, not a protector. One he trusted to keep his distance. You failed him. We are here, in Richelieu’s backyard, his field of battle. Look at him. Take a good long look at him.” He turned sideways to peruse the dance floor, and Will followed his gaze until he found Cora and Richelieu. For the first time, he focused on the man, not the woman, watching Richelieu as he smiled over Cora’s shoulder at one person after another.
“You see what I see?” Antonio said, under his breath. “He knows them. He knows them all. Business contacts. Perhaps even kin. Now look at Mr. Kensington. Do you see him? How he’s watching Richelieu? He likes Richelieu’s connections with these people. They’re already talking business, Will. Richelieu is greasing the right wheels, so that Montana Copper’s surplus might be imported to France.”
Will eyed him even as his heart sank. Such an arrangement had to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Even millions.
“Why do you think Kensington is suddenly entertaining a request for courtship for one of his daughters when he was explicitly against such a thing when he bid them bon voyage?”
Will rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, defeated. His chest felt empty. Hollow. “It’s done, then,” he said, every word devoid of hope. Then anger surged. He turned to face Antonio again. “I don’t even get a chance? A chance to declare myself?”
“No,” the older man said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. “No, my friend. Because then you would not only end up without the girl, but without a future. A man such as that…” He paused to look over at Wallace, then back to Will. “One does not cross a man such as that, unless one is ready to walk forever with a limp.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cora
Looking over Pierre’s shoulder, I saw Will beside Antonio, turning ragged eyes on me, and I quickly looked away. I didn’t want him to see it in my face—my inability to take a stand. To force my father to hear me out, to see that this romance was impossible…or to dissuade Pierre from his pursuit.
“Cherie?” Pierre asked, frowning down at me and then whispering in my ear. “What is it? You have lost all concentration.”
“I have,” I said. “I confess that I am not in the right mood for the tango. Might we pause for some punch?”
“Indeed.” He put his hands on my waist and smiled into my eyes. “Or something stronger?”
“Punch would be good,” I said, suddenly thirsty. The last thing I needed was a glass of champagne. Not with all that was transpiring before me.
“I’ll be back in but a moment,” he said, tracing a knuckle down my jaw line in a quick, intimate move.
I nodded and smiled, as if I didn’t wish to draw away. But as I watched him go, I noticed Will observing me and felt my face flush in embarrassment. What must he think of me? Allowing Pierre such advances, when he knew my heart was with him? I wanted to run away into the gardens, far from everyone’s questioning gaze. Because the truth was, I wasn’t sure what to think or what to do. Every way I turned seemed wrong.
I hurried past the crowd, to the edge of the garden, aware that Antonio trailed me, keeping me within view but also keeping his distance.
“Are you well, Cora?” Art asked as I passed. Plainly I looked as dizzy as I felt.
“Fine, fine, thank you,” I said, forcing a smile.
In moments, I was blessedly alone, except for my silent guard twenty paces away. Lord, I need Your guidance, I prayed silently, looking toward the rising moon on the horizon, thinking of the moon above Carcassonne, when Will had finally kissed me, and another, over Paris, when Pierre had done the same. Two so very different men who had offered me different kisses, each winsome and special.
Show me, Lord. Show me what I am to do. The best way out of this mess. The path that will hurt both the least.
What was I doing? I wasn’t this person! I was in love with Will. He was the one who held my heart. The one with whom I belonged. And yet to break it off with Pierre would incur the wrath of my father…and Will would bear the brunt of that.
If we were to have a chance, I had to convince my father first that I d
idn’t belong with Pierre or in Paris. That my heart was heading home, regardless of what I might be leaving behind here. This was all completely fantastic—a dream—but my heart was in Montana. Home.
“Your punch, Cora,” Pierre said, suddenly beside me, and I whirled so fast I almost upset the cup and sent it spilling over his sleeve.
“Cora!” he said in alarm. “What is the matter?”
“Oh, Pierre,” I said, wringing my hands. “I’m so sorry.” I took the cup from him and quickly drank it down, my mouth like cotton. “I think…I think I should retire. My head is throbbing, and I am not feeling at all well.” It was true, in part.
“Certainly,” he said, his kind eyes tracing my face. “I shall see you in and—”
“No! No,” I said, belatedly softening my tone, regretting practically yelling at him. “Antonio is just over there. He’s more than capable of accompanying me. You stay here and enjoy the party. I’ll see you in the morning?” I asked, bringing what I hoped was a bright smile to my face.
He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it slowly. “Most assuredly,” he said, but his eyes held storm clouds of worry.
I turned from him then, and Antonio saw me heading toward him. He met me halfway. “Turning in already, miss?”
“Yes, Antonio. I have a terrible headache.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Should I send for a doctor?”
“No, no. Nothing that a cup of mint tea and a night’s slumber can’t ease.”
“I see.” He offered me his arm, and we strolled toward the garden entrance of the huge mansion, nodding to one guest after another as we passed.
I struggled with the desire to say something of my predicament to the older man, my guardian. I knew Antonio was well aware of what was transpiring between me and Will. And yet to tie anyone else in further might prove disastrous for him, too.
“Did you have a nice evening, Miss Cora?”
Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) Page 22
