Baroness (8 page)

“It looks like she wants you.”

“She wants what she can't have.”

Lilly could hardly bear how those words weakened her. How she wanted to throw herself into his arms, to press her lips to his cheek, to sob out her apologies. Instead she drew his suit coat tighter around her. “So, you're not…you're not going to throw me over for Lady Virginia?”

“She's a dish all right, but she's not my Calamity Jane.” He tucked his hand along her cheek. “Forgive me for not telling you? It didn't even occur to me. That's how little she means to me.”

She found the courage to meet his eyes then, and drank in the apology in them.

“Presley said…she said I was too nice to be with you. I don't understand.”

“There's nothing to understand.” He ran his thumb down her jaw. “You make me better, Lilly. Make me the person I should be.”

She didn't understand him, not at all. But it didn't matter then, because he leaned close and hesitated only a moment, question in his eyes, before he kissed her.

She closed her eyes because she'd seen it done that way and let his lips whisper against hers, lightly. He tasted of licorice, and at his touch, a tingle shot through her entire body. She stilled, but when he slid his hand behind her neck, when his lips moved against hers, she relaxed. After a moment, she even found the courage to respond, to explore his kiss with her own.

She didn't realize he'd put his arms around her, tucking her close to him, until he leaned away, leaving her body buzzing, her mind still caught in his smell, his touch.

He smiled. “I've been wanting to do that all week.”

She had no voice. It had simply abandoned her, and she could do nothing but stare up at him, drink in his affection.

“Have you ever been kissed before, Lilly?”

She shook her head.

He made a face. “I hope…I hope I didn't frighten you.”

“No,” she squeaked, and was mortified.

He grinned. “Oh, you are a peach, aren't you?” He swung his arm around her, walking her back toward the Rotonde. “What would you say if I asked you to run away with me?”

“Flying?”

“No, Peach, somewhere grander. Hem and some others are talking about taking a jaunt down to the bullfights in Spain. They just started in Pamplona. It's too early for the running of the bulls, but we thought we'd all take a look at the sport. Hem wants to write about it for some American journal.” He stopped, looked down at her. “You could write an article for the
Chronicle.”

“No. I never want to write for the
Chronicle.”

He held up his hand. “Forget I suggested it. Come—it'll be a grand diversion away from Rosie and her pouting.”

“I'm afraid Rosie won't allow me to. It's one thing to squirrel away the night with you and Presley and the other chaps. It's another to go to Spain.”

But the idea lit inside her like a flame. Bullfights. It sounded rough and raw, and the sense of it conjured up memories of Montana and helping Abel with the cattle drives.

“Then don't tell Rosie. We'll sneak away, and by the time you return, she'll have found other pursuits to distract her. She has to realize sometime that you don't need her.”

She didn't need Rosie? Perhaps not. Perhaps she didn't need anyone. Except, of course, Rennie.

Lilly looked up at him, smiled. “When?”

“Hem is making the arrangements. Perhaps in a week?”

She found herself nodding before her mouth could make the reply. “Yes. Of course. Yes.”

Rennie's smile could feed her for a week. He stopped her right there, under the streetlights, and kissed her again, this time something hungry and urgent in his touch. She curled her hands up around his shoulders and pressed into him, freeing herself to kiss him in a way that stole her breath.

Oh.

“I have finally discovered what I love best about Paris,” he said into her ear as he let her go.

She warmed down to her toes, not even needing her coat when he fetched it. He hailed a cab and she snuggled into the cradle of his arms as the taxi drove her home, past the lights of Luxembourg Park, then over the bridge by Notre Dame, past the Hotel de Ville, and finally to her house on the Champs-Élysées.

A light burned from deep inside, a faint glow through the window bars onto the street, prisms of light against the darkness.

“I have lessons all day tomorrow, but I will fetch you in the evening, for dinner.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Spain,” he said softly.

“Spain,” she replied, grinning. She let herself out of the taxi and waved as it pulled away.

Spain. The word settled inside her like a live coal.

She would tell Rosie, of course, but not ask, not invite. Frankly, Rosie might not even care. She hadn't seemed to even notice when Lilly left every night, bidden by the honking of Rennie's horn.

She opened the door and noticed that Rosie had left the light to the parlor burning. It squeezed out under the door.

Lilly opened it to extinguish the light and froze.

Aunt Jinx sat on the divan, Uncle Bennett behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Rosie looked away from them on her perch in a straight chair, her face drawn.

“Welcome home, Lillian Joy,” Aunt Jinx said. “You're just in time.”

Chapter 4

Rosie had declared herself a fool the moment she stepped foot into the Pre-Catelan, the infamous outdoor restaurant and cabaret in the creamy white Bois de Bologne. She stood in the entryway, took in the gold wallpaper, the dark zinc hostess stand, the round gold fabric divan, and then saw him standing across the room, at the foot of the long, red-carpeted marble stairway.

Dash seemed startled, and on his face formed a hurt smile. He could be so very dangerous in a black tailored suit, a gray tie, his dark hair slicked back, especially when the smile vanished and his brown eyes watched her as if they'd never met, as if she amused him.

She refused to betray her traitorous, thundering heart.

A pianist at a white baby grand peeled out some jazzy, fresh tune from the cabaret behind him, and from the open doors to the terrace, the smells of the night twined through potted ferns.

Rosie slipped her arm through Tripp's elbow and stoutly ignored him. But every cell in her body alerted her to his presence as they passed by him, her skin tingling as he said softly, “Hello, Red.”

She brilliantly refused to look at him, her gloved hand pinching Tripp's arm.

“Red?” Ah, that's what she wanted to hear, the hue of confusion.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Hello, Dash. You're sporting a bit of sunshine. I take it the races agreed with you?”

“I lost every single one.”

“Shame. Next time you'll have to bring along a bit more luck.”

Pembrook rose from a round table in the corner and they threaded through the room, eyes upon them. Dash reached around Tripp to pull out the fabric-covered chair for her. She ignored him and settled into the seat Tripp offered.

Dash sat on the other side, ruffled.

And right then, she prayed that Pierre might not see the telegram Rosie had left for him to send to her mother, suggesting Jinx might return home and rein in her wayward niece. Because, as Dash fiddled with his fork and ordered a shot of vermouth, she knew she could win him back. Only this time, she'd keep enough of her heart not to be wounded by his other temptations.

Two days of fury and not a little self-examination had told her she'd brought this on herself. She'd let Frankie best her.

Blanche had filled her in on the particulars. How Frankie met them at the station—surprise!—and wheedled her way into Dash's attention. How she bet against him, teasing him, and then won. How it bruised Dash's ego.

How he'd fawned over her, as if begging for redemption all day.

It occurred to Rosie then that perhaps instead of fearing Frankie, she might learn from her.

The minute Dash had returned to Paris, he'd motored back to her doorstep, pressing the bell until she thought she'd have to call the gendarmes. Finally, Pierre managed to send him away, but Dash had sent flowers both days, and tonight, a vellum card inviting her to dinner.

She'd acquiesced, but she intended to make him reach for it. Too much encouragement clearly spoiled a man.

She'd attired herself in something daring and chic—a short white dress of lace with a peek-a-boo neckline with just enough revelation to encourage a second look, her stockings rolled just below the knee, black T-strap shoes, and a feather boa around her shoulders—hoping to remind him of everything he might have forgotten while gazing into Frankie's regal smile.

She'd taken her time, lined her eyes, rouged her cheeks, powdered her entire body with a new fragrance, and painted a shocking, tantalizing shade of red upon her lips.

Inspiration, indeed.

Now that she had her bearings, the last thing she needed was her mother returning home to destroy everything.
Please, Pierre, ignore the missive.

She wanted Dash firmly in her pocket and begging for her hand in marriage by the time her mother returned. After all, how could her mother deny her daughter true love after all she herself had suffered?

And, even if Dash might not be Rosie's true love, he seemed enough for now.

As the garcon attended them, she let the games begin. Dash suggested the Fois de Gras, and she chose the roast duck. He ordered her a brandy smash, she drank Tripp's gin and tonic. Dash asked her to dance, twice, and only on the third request did she extend her hand.

“You're making me crazy,” he said into her ear, and she played with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Tripp drove her home, pecked her on the cheek. She dove into the house and to the hallway side table where she'd left her instructions for Pierre.

They were gone.

She spent the next day at home, bracing herself for a call. By the time Dash appeared on her doorstep—shortly after Lilly had snuck out with her new beau—she'd decided that her mother was too busy hunting down her vanished brother to supervise her wayward niece.

Never mind check in with her formerly distraught daughter.

Perhaps the Paris girls would escape with their indiscretions unhindered.

“Forgive me, Red? I've missed you so much,” Dash said two days later, as they strolled through Tuileries Garden. He had his jacket around her shoulders, the smell of beer on his breath.

“I know,” she said softly and let him atone for his sins under the statue of Renommée and the glorious wings of Pegasus while the lights of Paris sparkled behind them. They stopped at the basin, the water reflecting the night.

“Won't you throw in a coin?”

“Why?” he said quietly, pulling her against him, his lips at her neck. “I already have all the luck I need.”

Perhaps she was ready for her mother's arrival, after all.

Rosie didn't, however, expect to see Jinx seated on the red velvet divan in the family room, little Finley asleep in her arms, Bennett reading a book in the Queen Anne chair. Rosie closed the door, nearly breathless with the taste of Dash's touch on her lips.

Jinx always knew how to command a room, from the moment she married Foster Worth and became the doyenne of society, even at seventeen, to now, a lady of society in her midforties married to his brother, shipping baron of Paris and New York, Belgium and London. Jinx knew what to wear, what to say, how to throw a party, and how to silence her daughter with a look.

Even now, after midnight, in their stiff Parisian parlor, Jinx looked regal in a dark skirt, white shirtwaist, and a string of pearls at her neck. Her coat lay draped on the back of the divan, as if she and Bennett had only just arrived. Rosie paused when she saw her mother's dark bobbed hair, tiny pin curls delicate around her face.

“Welcome home, Rose,” Jinx said quietly. She smiled but it didn't meet her eyes.

“Hello, Mother,” Rosie managed, and walked over to kiss her cheek. Jinx reached up, caught her daughter's cheek against hers. Held it.

As she pulled away, Rosie saw the results of their investigation in her mother's eyes. “You didn't find Jack.”

Amelia came into the room, sleep still on her countenance, tying her apron on as she entered. She curtsied to Jinx then took her coat from the room.

Finley roused on her lap and Jinx looked at Bennett, who put down his book and crept over to them.

“Hello, Rosie,” he whispered and scooped up Finley in his arms. He kissed Jinx on the cheek. “I'll be down presently.”

“Wait,” Rosie said, and turned to Finley, pushing away his hair and kissing him on his pudgy, six-year-old cheek. She inhaled the reckless, innocent smell of him and then let him go.

“Sit, please.”

“Mother, I can explain.”

Jinx began to tug off her gloves. “Imagine my surprise when I arrived home moments ago to see you outside on the front street—in the view of all of Paris—in the grope of some man. You've been busy.” Jinx shook her head. “Your rash judgment, Rosie…it's going to get the best of you someday.”

“Mother, please. I was in the company of Dashielle Parks. I do believe he's smitten with me.”

“Smitten, or in love? Does he hope to marry you?”

Rosie sank down onto the Queen Anne chair. “Perhaps.”

“He's been courting you? He should have asked your father.”

“Times have changed, Mother. Men don't ask to court women anymore, they don't line up to fill your dance card, don't drop vellum calling cards on the trays for you to choose from. This is Paris, and we are a different generation—”

“A generation that will find themselves in dire trouble—”

“Besides, Bennett is—Not. My. Father!” She wasn't sure how the argument had escalated so quickly, but her voice reverberated through the room and drew Jinx upright.

Her mother removed the other glove. Folded them together in her hands. Drew in a breath. “No, he's not. But he's a better father than Foster ever was.”