wine, since he can't take it with him. We may as well go, Kit. It would be rude to decline, and it's not as though there will be anything else to do."
Kit sighed. “We are leaving soon, yes?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, if you like. Monfort's got a barge ready to go down the Seine, and he says there'll be room for us as well. It would be quicker than overland, if you don't mind a bit of crowding."
"A barge?” Kit said. “If it means getting out of this hell-pit tomorrow, I'd scull down the Seine in a hip-bath."
* * * *
"Are you gentle with your women?"
Kit blinked at the pretty blonde who had appeared noiselessly at his elbow as he stood with a glass in hand, trying to blend into this noisy alien crowd. His third glass of wine—or was it the fourth? He felt a bit muzzy around the edges. “I beg your pardon?"
" Pardon, je parle tres mal ,” she said. “My name is Angelique, m'sieu. I—ask, are you kind to women?"
He caught himself just short of a laugh. “I try to be,” he said, not certain where the conversation was leading. He added, “I speak a little French,” in that language, hoping she would not reply too quickly. “Do you need my help?"
"Ah!” Her face lit up. “Not I, m'sieu. Do you see my friend, by the stair?"
Kit glanced in the direction she indicated, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. The young woman beside him was quite pretty in a candy-box sort of way—blond curls, blue eyes, artfully applied cosmetics—but there was something about her charm that made him think she must be one of the ladies of the stage here to celebrate their colleague's good fortune. But her friend by the stair ... that girl did not belong here.
She was tiny, scarcely over five feet tall, and she wore a simple pink gown trimmed with a few ribbons, another ribbon holding dark ringlets in place atop her head. She might have been mistaken for a child at first glance, but her figure was clearly that of a young woman. Her eyes met his, and held them, with an expression he found hard to describe. It was neither coquetry nor desire—more a sort of determination and possibly a touch of alarm. He felt drawn toward her. He had never seen this girl before, did not know who she might be, but it felt as though he had finally found someone he had been searching for.
"I see her,” he said. “What—"
"She would like to speak to you, m'sieu, but she is ... shy ? Is that the word? She is not often among us. Would you like to meet her?"
"Yes, very much.” Oh, no, he protested inwardly. He knew what actresses did offstage. Granted they likely had to, to keep body and soul together, but this beautiful creature could not be one of the muslin company. She must not.
But Philip had said that most of the women at the party would be looking for a generous friend with whom to spend the night, and Phil had gone off with a vivacious brunette at least half an hour ago. Gentle with your women. Dear God. It wasn't even women , plural, his sole experience had been one highly educational night with an amiable widow about ten years his senior whom Phil had introduced him to on the eve of his 18th birthday. In loco paternis , Phil had said, because, after all, Kit would be expected to marry a young maiden lady and it was always helpful if someone knew what to do on the wedding night.
Kit fought down a sudden urge to giggle. That was what this felt like—a wedding night. Marching down an aisle of drunken Frenchmen to the woman of his dreams. It had to be the wine.
"Mademoiselle Zoe,” Angelique said. She took the dark-haired girl's hand, placing it in Kit's, and he bent to place a formal kiss upon it. “And you, m'sieu?"
"Christopher St. John, at your service,” he said releasing Mademoiselle Zoe's hand reluctantly. “Baron Guilford, if admitting to a title is not a breach of local etiquette."
Her beautiful dark eyes lit with laughter. “A baron? Oh, I do not laugh at you, sir. It is only that when I first looked upon you I thought you
Kit sighed. “We are leaving soon, yes?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, if you like. Monfort's got a barge ready to go down the Seine, and he says there'll be room for us as well. It would be quicker than overland, if you don't mind a bit of crowding."
"A barge?” Kit said. “If it means getting out of this hell-pit tomorrow, I'd scull down the Seine in a hip-bath."
* * * *
"Are you gentle with your women?"
Kit blinked at the pretty blonde who had appeared noiselessly at his elbow as he stood with a glass in hand, trying to blend into this noisy alien crowd. His third glass of wine—or was it the fourth? He felt a bit muzzy around the edges. “I beg your pardon?"
" Pardon, je parle tres mal ,” she said. “My name is Angelique, m'sieu. I—ask, are you kind to women?"
He caught himself just short of a laugh. “I try to be,” he said, not certain where the conversation was leading. He added, “I speak a little French,” in that language, hoping she would not reply too quickly. “Do you need my help?"
"Ah!” Her face lit up. “Not I, m'sieu. Do you see my friend, by the stair?"
Kit glanced in the direction she indicated, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. The young woman beside him was quite pretty in a candy-box sort of way—blond curls, blue eyes, artfully applied cosmetics—but there was something about her charm that made him think she must be one of the ladies of the stage here to celebrate their colleague's good fortune. But her friend by the stair ... that girl did not belong here.
She was tiny, scarcely over five feet tall, and she wore a simple pink gown trimmed with a few ribbons, another ribbon holding dark ringlets in place atop her head. She might have been mistaken for a child at first glance, but her figure was clearly that of a young woman. Her eyes met his, and held them, with an expression he found hard to describe. It was neither coquetry nor desire—more a sort of determination and possibly a touch of alarm. He felt drawn toward her. He had never seen this girl before, did not know who she might be, but it felt as though he had finally found someone he had been searching for.
"I see her,” he said. “What—"
"She would like to speak to you, m'sieu, but she is ... shy ? Is that the word? She is not often among us. Would you like to meet her?"
"Yes, very much.” Oh, no, he protested inwardly. He knew what actresses did offstage. Granted they likely had to, to keep body and soul together, but this beautiful creature could not be one of the muslin company. She must not.
But Philip had said that most of the women at the party would be looking for a generous friend with whom to spend the night, and Phil had gone off with a vivacious brunette at least half an hour ago. Gentle with your women. Dear God. It wasn't even women , plural, his sole experience had been one highly educational night with an amiable widow about ten years his senior whom Phil had introduced him to on the eve of his 18th birthday. In loco paternis , Phil had said, because, after all, Kit would be expected to marry a young maiden lady and it was always helpful if someone knew what to do on the wedding night.
Kit fought down a sudden urge to giggle. That was what this felt like—a wedding night. Marching down an aisle of drunken Frenchmen to the woman of his dreams. It had to be the wine.
"Mademoiselle Zoe,” Angelique said. She took the dark-haired girl's hand, placing it in Kit's, and he bent to place a formal kiss upon it. “And you, m'sieu?"
"Christopher St. John, at your service,” he said releasing Mademoiselle Zoe's hand reluctantly. “Baron Guilford, if admitting to a title is not a breach of local etiquette."
Her beautiful dark eyes lit with laughter. “A baron? Oh, I do not laugh at you, sir. It is only that when I first looked upon you I thought you
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