say goodnight to Gillian, and make sure Nurse Roger has everything she wants.”
“Nurse Roger? The night nurse? Yes, of course.”
He spoke patiently, and she got the feeling he was a little rebuffed. That was just as well, she thought. He might plead, as his excuse, that he was doing all this for her sake and Gillian’s, but even so she had no intention of allowing him to have everything his own way. After all, who knew what he might have in mind as suitable for an engaged couple?
Her landlady’s warning flashed into her mind. “Frenchmen are fascinating, but you can’t trust them.” Adrien had laughed then. She laughed now, but she wasn’t sure the advice wasn’t warranted. And yet a little voice in her heart told her that she could trust Raoul Dubois, trust him utterly.
They talked little, sitting side by side in the intimacy of the little car, flashing first along the wide auto-route, and then through the brightly lit outskirts of the capital. Raoul was humming something. Presently she recognized the tune—it was Schubert’s Serenade.
She did not know whether he had made his plans for the evening before, or whether he made them now in deference to her dress. But he took her to Maxim’s, in the Rue Royale—shades of The Merry Widow, thought Adrien, enraptured.
He smiled at her enthusiasm, finding it young and curiously touching. One couldn’t deny that though Denise was a glamorous person to take out, she was somewhat blasé e. But Adrien had a spontaneity that detracted in no way from her poise, but indeed added to it. He was intrigued by her. She was so beautiful, so efficient, yet deep in her personality there was a well of gaiety that kept bubbling out, in spite of her attempts to repress it, making her eyes sparkle, and a little pulse dance at her throat.
He checked himself abruptly. His thoughts were, he knew, rushing ahead much too fast. One would have to go very slowly and carefully. The English were notoriously difficult.
Adrien would have liked to linger at Maxim’s, but Raoul had other plans.
As soon as the meal was finished, he marched her through the glittering globes of light of the Place de la Concorde, down to the river.
They strolled along the right bank, past the great shadowy mass of the Louvre, down on to the lower walk at the water’s edge, which led under the bridges. And here he slipped the glowing diamond ring on her finger, as he had promised.
Adrien gasped.
“But, Raoul, I don’t understand. Why should you give me a ring like this when we’re only pretending?” Her eyes were deep violet shadows in her pale face. He bent his head and kissed the little space between Adrien’s eyes, where puzzled lines of worry were forming.
“Don’t try, sweetheart. There’s nothing to understand. Just play this little comedy with me. It gives me pleasure, and I promise it shall bring you no pain.”
He smiled down at her, his eyebrows arched, tantalizingly. Adrien felt the muscles of his arm tighten across her back, drawing her to him.
Adrien felt as if she was in a dream. Why not enjoy this unreal intimacy, the fun of a make-believe romance, which had come to her out of the shadows of illness and misplaced love?
She knew he was going to kiss her, and she made no attempt to draw away.
His lips on hers were gentle, careful as the hands of a connoisseur holding an unfolded rose.
Little ripples of feeling, stabs of starlight, ran through her body.
He let her go and smiled at her.
“Come, my little love. I’m going to take you home.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next few weeks passed as Adrien led her strange double life. Dreams contrasted strangely with reality. In Raoul’s company, she stepped into a make-believe world, which sometimes seemed to be on the brink of becoming dangerously real, but never quite slipped past the mark.
She was discovering all the different facets to Raoul’s complex character. Really, it was impossible to avoid being intrigued by him.
Strolling
“Nurse Roger? The night nurse? Yes, of course.”
He spoke patiently, and she got the feeling he was a little rebuffed. That was just as well, she thought. He might plead, as his excuse, that he was doing all this for her sake and Gillian’s, but even so she had no intention of allowing him to have everything his own way. After all, who knew what he might have in mind as suitable for an engaged couple?
Her landlady’s warning flashed into her mind. “Frenchmen are fascinating, but you can’t trust them.” Adrien had laughed then. She laughed now, but she wasn’t sure the advice wasn’t warranted. And yet a little voice in her heart told her that she could trust Raoul Dubois, trust him utterly.
They talked little, sitting side by side in the intimacy of the little car, flashing first along the wide auto-route, and then through the brightly lit outskirts of the capital. Raoul was humming something. Presently she recognized the tune—it was Schubert’s Serenade.
She did not know whether he had made his plans for the evening before, or whether he made them now in deference to her dress. But he took her to Maxim’s, in the Rue Royale—shades of The Merry Widow, thought Adrien, enraptured.
He smiled at her enthusiasm, finding it young and curiously touching. One couldn’t deny that though Denise was a glamorous person to take out, she was somewhat blasé e. But Adrien had a spontaneity that detracted in no way from her poise, but indeed added to it. He was intrigued by her. She was so beautiful, so efficient, yet deep in her personality there was a well of gaiety that kept bubbling out, in spite of her attempts to repress it, making her eyes sparkle, and a little pulse dance at her throat.
He checked himself abruptly. His thoughts were, he knew, rushing ahead much too fast. One would have to go very slowly and carefully. The English were notoriously difficult.
Adrien would have liked to linger at Maxim’s, but Raoul had other plans.
As soon as the meal was finished, he marched her through the glittering globes of light of the Place de la Concorde, down to the river.
They strolled along the right bank, past the great shadowy mass of the Louvre, down on to the lower walk at the water’s edge, which led under the bridges. And here he slipped the glowing diamond ring on her finger, as he had promised.
Adrien gasped.
“But, Raoul, I don’t understand. Why should you give me a ring like this when we’re only pretending?” Her eyes were deep violet shadows in her pale face. He bent his head and kissed the little space between Adrien’s eyes, where puzzled lines of worry were forming.
“Don’t try, sweetheart. There’s nothing to understand. Just play this little comedy with me. It gives me pleasure, and I promise it shall bring you no pain.”
He smiled down at her, his eyebrows arched, tantalizingly. Adrien felt the muscles of his arm tighten across her back, drawing her to him.
Adrien felt as if she was in a dream. Why not enjoy this unreal intimacy, the fun of a make-believe romance, which had come to her out of the shadows of illness and misplaced love?
She knew he was going to kiss her, and she made no attempt to draw away.
His lips on hers were gentle, careful as the hands of a connoisseur holding an unfolded rose.
Little ripples of feeling, stabs of starlight, ran through her body.
He let her go and smiled at her.
“Come, my little love. I’m going to take you home.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next few weeks passed as Adrien led her strange double life. Dreams contrasted strangely with reality. In Raoul’s company, she stepped into a make-believe world, which sometimes seemed to be on the brink of becoming dangerously real, but never quite slipped past the mark.
She was discovering all the different facets to Raoul’s complex character. Really, it was impossible to avoid being intrigued by him.
Strolling
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