Charles lived there. Tomorrow she would call on him. It was time to see him again.
* * *
Kevin drank some whiskey while he bided his time until he collected Rosamund for dinner. He sent his mind inward to review all he remembered about his prior conversations with Henri Forestier. There was little cause to think this one would end with a license when the others had not, but he could only try.
As agreed in London, if it could not be arranged, he would move on without the enhancement.
The problem with going into his head was that Rosamund lived there now and had a way of taking his thoughts down the wrong paths. This time she beckoned him toward some scandalous fantasies. He trod along, even though discontent waited. Soon raw hunger grew, and his mind began having her, again and again. That threatened to have the predictable result, so he forced his eyes open, stood, and paced out his frustration.
He checked his pocket watch and realized he had been lost in erotic thoughts longer than he realized. He donned his frock coat. A few minutes later, he presented himself at the door of the chambers next to his.
A maid bid him enter, then left him to wait in the sitting room. Murmurs came from the dressing room. That door opened. The maid emerged. Rosamund followed.
The fantasies leaped into his mind again when he saw her. She wore the red silk dress she had commissioned that day at the modiste. The family joked that he never noticed fashion, but he paid enough attention to know this was of the latest style. The waist line—slightly lower than what was fashionable in London—flattered her full breasts. The broad, low neckline offered a décolleté that was tasteful but revealing. The skirt, cut in that new, conelike shape that broadened as it fell, flowed when she walked while so many other dresses like that rustled stiffly.
Also different to his eye was the lack of ornament. Women had taken to heavily embellished dinner dresses with lots of frills and lace and whatnot. Other than some lines of lace near the hem and neckline, the only thing adorning this dress was Rosamund herself.
The maid had piled her blond hair high on her crown. A headdress with tiny beads perched there.
She fussed with a reticule that also showed beads. “Won’t it do? You warned that red could be risky, and you appear to disapprove.”
Disapprove? He wanted to ravish her on the spot. “It is lovely. You are beautiful in it. I will probably be fighting Monsieur Forestier off with a sword.”
She blushed. “As long as I won’t embarrass you. I know you would prefer I didn’t attend this dinner.”
“That isn’t true. A carriage should be waiting, so we should go down.”
The maid draped a dark crimson silk shawl over her shoulders. He offered his arm in escort. Down they went.
He wondered how he was going to manage this meeting with delicious Rosamund sitting right there.
* * *
The carriage took them past the Louvre and the Palais-Royal, then continued through the city to the river. They passed the bridge where they had walked the night before. Seeing it conjured up memories that Rosamund did not want to have at that moment.
“I found an excellent shop for millinery notions today,” she said, lest Kevin’s thoughts venture in that direction too. “It had the loveliest dyed plumes.”
“Red?”
“Other colors too. The owner also agreed to sell me a special silk he had found. I am going to make Minerva a hat with it. She has been so generous with her time and advice, this will be a small way to thank her.”
“Be sure it is a little dramatic. She said your hats are distinctive that way.” His voice spoke almost absently. He looked out the window, and Rosamund could tell his mind dwelled elsewhere. Probably on Monsieur Forestier.
She hoped the evening went well, for Kevin’s sake. If it didn’t, at least this delay would be over. They could return to London and lay plans for making this business into something other than a young man’s dream.
She glanced at him while the city unfolded, noting the small frown he wore, and that far-away expression. It surprised her when suddenly, his gaze swung over to her.
“I have a question,” he said. “If I don’t ask, it will drive me mad.”
“Then ask.”
“Last night, if upon returning to the hotel I had come to your door, would you have allowed me to enter?”
What a question. She fussed with her reticule to avoid looking back at him and finding that gaze trying to see through her. He waited her out. He expected a response.
She gave up any hope her silence would be her answer. “No.”
It sounded so blunt. So unkind. “It was not because I did not—I mean, it was probably obvious that I—”
“Yes.”
Goodness. That was equally blunt.
“When it is that obvious that a man and woman desire each other, they normally do something about it. Hence my question,” he said.
He was better at talking about this than she was. Undoubtedly he had experience with such conversations. She had none at all.
She considered telling him about Charles, although that would not explain her behavior on the bridge. Even she could not make sense of it under the circumstances.
“But you did not come to my door, did you? Perhaps you did not for the same reason I would not have invited you in.”
“What reason is that?”
“If I was not willing to be your wife, I probably was not willing to be your mistress.”
“If only it were that simple.”
The carriage began slowing. The setting sun streaked in the window. Kevin leaned forward, out of that harsh beam of light and into the shadow where she sat. “Should you ever come to my door, I promise that I would definitely allow you to enter, and it
