Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (12 page)

“I have been thinking of Paris this morning. You know, I suddenly have such a longing to be there.”

“Only a few days ago you were reluctant to leave England,” he objected.

She managed a light laugh. “Indeed. Fickle of me, isn’t it? But I have decided that French furnishings will exactly suit me, if you can find them. How lovely it would be if we could be on our way today.”

“That isn’t possible.” Gilbert looked at her closely, then away again. He took a long, black cheroot from his pocket and sat turning it in his fingers, though he did not light it.

“Tomorrow, perhaps, then? Everyone in New Orleans talks of Paris and its wonders. Everyone seems to have been there except me, and I’m tired of only hearing about the shops, the theaters, the gaiety of the court under Napoléon and Eugénie; I want to see them for myself. I can’t wait to walk on the Rue de Rivoli or in the garden of the Tuileries. And I would adore having my portrait done.”

“You might have mentioned a likeness earlier. I could have arranged to have one of the new collodion photographic images made of you while we were in London.”

“But they have no color,” she protested, “and they are so stiff and small. I would much prefer to have a portrait.”

“It would take time,” her husband said in heavy objection. “It might be better done in New Orleans; there are any number of painters in the city who would be happy to have the commission.”

“Mere daubers,” she said in a ruthless condemnation of which she was far from certain. “I’m sure you would not like to hang a mediocre likeness in the beautiful salon you are planning.”

Gilbert pursed his lips. Wrapping the front of his dressing gown of gray brocade closer over his chest, he said only, “I believe there’s a draft coming from the windows. I’ll have a cold.”

“No doubt,” she answered guilelessly. “English weather is notorious for being unhealthy, is it not? But about the portrait; I was informed that Delacroix is the finest artist in the city, though I suppose it would be useless for you to try to engage him. I understand he is discriminating in the clients he accepts.”

“I’m sure that he would not be so discriminating as to refuse my money,” Gilbert said with testiness overlaid by irony.

Violet hesitated, secretly aghast at her own deviousness. She could sense that only a little more was needed, however, if only she could find the right words. She lowered her lashes. “I believe the man is also shockingly expensive.”

“The best usually is.”

“He may not be in Paris past the spring. Some say he is a great traveler, with a preference for new and different locales for his landscapes.”

A thoughtful frown drew Gilbert’s brows together, then he shrugged. “There is something in what you say. Perhaps we should move on after all.”

Violet kept her eyes lowered as she lifted the coffee carafe with a graceful gesture to pour the last of the weak brew into her own cup. Her reply was soft. “It shall be as you choose, of course.”

Gilbert hitched his chair closer. Reaching out as she set down the carafe, he took her hand. “I will be just as well pleased to be in Paris. I was there as a young man and enjoyed it tremendously; I know it will be congenial to you. As for the portrait, it will give me pleasure to have one of you,
chère,
just as you are now.”

Compliments did not come easily to her husband. She was touched in spite of herself, torn between a reluctant affection and remorse that she could feel no more. At the same time, however, she felt strangely remote from him. She had changed in some basic fashion. Because she no longer cared what he thought of her, because she had learned that she could influence his actions by willful design, she had escaped his dominion. She was, in some small degree, free.

RONE, TRAILING JOLETTA at a
respectable distance through the underground maze of the museum at Bath, thought that it was possible he had found his calling. He liked following women, or at least this woman. It was no hardship whatever to check out the natural, athletic swing of her walk, the way her hair shone in the dim lights of the subterranean baths, or the pure line of her profile as she stood gazing at the display of the head of the goddess Minerva.

She wasn’t your usual tourist, skimming quickly through exhibits and points of interest while on the way to the shops and restaurants. Joletta stood and read signs, she made notes on a pad she took from her ridiculously large shoulder purse, and now and then she stopped and closed her eyes for an instant, as if listening to the trickle and rush of the waters that had been flowing under and through Bath for centuries. The expression of fascinated pleasure on her face caused a strange stirring inside his chest. He wondered what it would be like to recreate that look in a different, more intimate setting, bringing it to life with his own urgent touch.

He had come so close to taking her in his arms the night before. It had been all he could do to force himself to step away from her and take himself out of her room. He had no right to do more.

Even if he had the right, it would have been dumb. Impulses like that, as enticing as they might be, were not likely to help his mental alertness. He needed to keep his mind on the job. One way or another.

At the underground pool known as the spring of Minerva, he saw Joletta take out a coin and, like countless others before her, beginning with the Romans, fling it into the rippling pool.

Moving without haste to stand at Joletta’s shoulder, he said, “Did you make a wish?”

She turned her head with startled inquiry in her eyes. An instant later a smile curved her mouth. “Of course,” she answered.

“To Minerva?”

“It seemed the thing to do. There’s something pagan about the place, don’t you think?” Her gaze was a little challenging.

“I expect to see the shade of some old Roman any minute now,” he said.

“I’m sure,” she said in dry recognition of the humor in his gaze before she went on. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching you.” He had not intended to say that, but since it was perfectly true, he let it stand.

She gave him a quick, questioning look, then apparently decided to treat his comment as mere banter. “Have you no appreciation for history and culture, not to mention mythology?”

“You’re much more interesting,” he answered, on his mettle. “I’m also trying to place the perfume you wear. Tea Rose, isn’t it?”

She shifted to face him, giving him her full attention. “How did you know?”

“I have a good nose,” he said, and was immediately aware of how dangerous those words could be.

“You must have also smelled a great many kinds of perfume. I’m amazed.”

He looked away from her as he said, “Actually, it was a fluke. I — had a great-aunt who liked old-fashioned perfumes. My mother gave her Tea Rose every year for Christmas.”

She lifted a brow. “Are you suggesting my taste in perfume is old-fashioned?”

“Good Lord, no!”

“No?” The look in her eyes was teasing. “You know, men don’t, as a rule, have quite as sensitive a sense of smell as women. When you find one who does, you tend to take notice.”

“I’m glad there’s something about me that interests you,” he returned, then went on before she could say something depressing. “I suppose you’re with a tour group again?”

“In a manner of speaking. I came with a group on the bus, but we’ve been turned loose on our own until after lunch. You came alone?”

“Rental car,” he said in agreement and explanation. “Would you mind if I joined you for lunch? I’ll spring for the meal as an inducement.” He gave her his most boyish smile.

“Now, how,” she said with a lifted brow, “could I possibly refuse an offer like that?”

Rone thought of a bright answer, but decided not to press his luck.

An hour later Joletta lay stretched out on the grass with her face turned up to the sun. Her thoughts drifted back and forth between the past and the present, between the man who lay beside her and her own ancestress who had once passed this way.

It was too bad the weather had been so dreary when Violet had been in Bath; she might have found it more to her liking. Or maybe not. The company a person saw places with made a lot of difference.

Rone was a surprisingly pleasant companion. He was not only ready to see whatever there was to be seen without complaint, but he could make her laugh. He had said that it was impossible to understand the mentality of a people who had allowed Roman innovations such as self-cleaning bathrooms and steam heat to fall into disuse. He had also been amazed at gentry so at loose ends that they let a land speculator and ex-gambler like “Beau” Nash become social arbitrator of Regency Bath, dictating how they entertained themselves while in the town.

It was Rone who had chosen their food, from the Sally Lunn buns with cheese and the hot meat pies to the apricots that he claimed would be perfect with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot champagne. He had sworn that he would treat her to a five-course lunch at the pump room if she didn’t like his menu, but there had been no need. The buns were yeasty and light, the meat pies suitably rich, and the flavor of the apricots had melded wonderfully with the champagne. Joletta even had to approve the setting he had found, a stretch of incredibly green grass they shared with a small flock of grazing sheep as fluffy and white as the clouds that drifted slowly overhead.

She didn’t know why she was surprised to find herself enjoying Rone’s presence. He had practically labeled himself a playboy, and men of that stamp made a career of being entertaining. Or so she had always assumed; she had never really met one.

Regardless, the idea of Rone being at loose ends, ready to forget his own obligations, was off somehow. He didn’t seem the type; there was nothing lightweight or frivolous about him. The little he had said about his job made it sound unimportant and that was also hard to believe. Not that she thought him a hard-driving captain of industry; that wasn’t quite right either. Why she should think so, she couldn’t say; she was no expert on men and their occupations.

It was odd, but Violet had also known very little about her Allain. It had not been the thing, back in those days, to come right out and ask a man, “Hey, what do you do?” A gentleman did nothing; that was the whole point. Moreover, a man’s status was supposed to be evident without a person having to ask. Life must have been full of pitfalls then.

Rone was so quiet, as he lay beside her, that she thought he had fallen asleep. She turned her head to look at him, allowing her gaze to follow the strong line of his jaw, the firm molding of his mouth, the wiry thickness of his brows. He was an attractive man, more attractive, even this close, in such clear light, than he had any right to be.

His features were relaxed, as if he had let the guard he kept on them at most times slip for a few moments. The lines at the corners of his mouth and beside his eyes were shallow, almost gone. He had shaved so closely there was a tiny nick at the indentation of his chin. His hands, well-shaped, with square-cut nails kept short and scrupulously clean, were folded on his chest.

The hair around his ears and just above the collar of his shirt of soft gray pima broadcloth was perfectly trimmed. On his wrist was a flat gold watch by Juvenia with a severely plain face.

There was a neat and classical correctness about his grooming and style of dress that was curiously appealing. It was also, she thought, far from cheap.

As he opened his eyes to stare straight into hers, Joletta felt a small leap of her nerves. He had not, apparently, been as relaxed as she thought.

Wariness made his gaze opaque for an instant before warm appreciation surfaced there. He said, “Was I snoring?”

She shook her head. “Not at all; I was jealous. I’m still trying to recover from jet lag myself.”

“Join me,” he offered. “I’ve got a shoulder you can use for a pillow.”

“Can’t. Too much to see and do.” She softened the refusal with a smile, at the same time aware of a pang of regret. The idea was amazingly enticing. To distract herself, she looked around where she was seated on their paper tablecloth for her guidebook, pushing aside a notebook and pen and a handful of tourist brochures to find it.

“I have to ask,” he said, “what’s with all the notes. You mentioned being a research librarian, I think. Are you doing some kind of paper on the monuments of Britain?”