A Pregnant Courtesan For The Rake. Diane Gaston

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      ‘I suppose...’

      They left their table, but stood together on the pavement. The city had come alive while they’d eaten. The streets were full of carriages, horses and wagons. The pavement was abustle with workmen, servant girls, children and a few finely dressed gentlemen.

      He held her elbow and guided her away from the fray.

      Then he took her hand. ‘Do not say adieu. Stay with me. Show me the sights you have so wonderfully described.’

      * * *

      Cecilia glanced into his face. He had a memorable one—as handsome as any woman could wish. That was not what captivated her, however. Duncan had been handsome. After Duncan she’d learned not to be seduced by a handsome face.

      His complexion was darker than one would expect from an Englishman. Knowing he was half-caste explained that. His hair was as dark as the night, worn longer than fashionable as if he did not trouble himself to visit the barber overmuch. His eyes were unexpected, though. They were hazel, the kind of eyes that changed colour from green to brown with the hue of his coat. When he fixed his gaze upon her she had the feeling he could see inside her, directly to her thoughts.

      Perhaps that was why he asked her no questions about herself. He asked nothing of her, but shared about himself. What other man of her acquaintance would tell of his life before age ten? Duncan certainly had not.

      What harm could there be in spending the day with him? She had no other obligations for today and he was leaving tomorrow. She liked his foreign looks and she relished the sound of his English accent, so familiar, so reminiscent of home. He was an easy companion, agreeable, unhurried and undemanding.

      With those enthralling eyes.

      Her hands started to shake and her knees grew weak, not from his allure, but from her decision. ‘I will show you Paris.’

      He smiled and her knees grew weaker.

      ‘We should start at Notre Dame,’ she said quickly lest he notice he affected her. The famous cathedral was close by, its spire and towers visible from where they stood.

      * * *

      As they neared Notre Dame, she said, ‘Before we go inside, we must walk around the cathedral, because it looks very different from each side. You would hardly know it is one structure.’

      They first faced the western façade, looking up at its symmetrical towers and carved stone. From where they stood they could see only the tip of the spire.

      Slowly, they walked around to the north side. ‘See the rose window? How big it is? You will be astounded when we see it from the inside with the sun illuminating it.’ They continued walking. ‘You can see now how the cathedral is in the shape of a cross. All cathedrals are in the shape of a cross.’

      He smiled at her. ‘You are quite knowledgeable about this.’

      ‘I suppose I am.’ She felt suddenly self-conscious.

      She often had days free and the cathedral had become one of her favourite places. Sometimes she wandered for hours inside it, especially when she needed to feel peaceful.

      They continued what was a fairly long walk around the building. The Seine was behind them, not too far from where he’d chased away the poor street children, busy now with boats and barges transporting people and goods up and down the river.

      ‘Flying buttresses,’ he pointed out, then smiled. ‘See? You are not the only one who is knowledgeable.’

      Humour. It was as welcome as the clear summer air. She so rarely experienced the levity of humour. She could not help but return his smile.

      They concluded their walk around the cathedral, talking of its architecture, and finally went inside. As they entered the church, the bell tolled the hour, its sound echoing against the stone walls.

      Cecilia loved the inside of Notre Dame, loved the colours the rose windows cast upon the interior. Oliver Gregory seemed interested in everything she drew his attention to. Was he pretending? If so, he was very good at it.

      Others filed into pews and soon a priest and his attendants appeared at the huge altar. They had come at the time of the Catholic Mass.

      ‘Do you mind if we stay?’ she asked. There were so many English people who would abhor attending a Catholic Mass.

      ‘Not at all,’ he said.

      They chose a pew in the back, but with a good view of the altar.

      She liked the ritual, a little like her church at home, but different as well. Watching and listening to the Latin service drove other thoughts from her mind and calmed her. It made her forget the strange way she made her living and how lonely she was.

      * * *

      When the service was over he clasped her hand. ‘I am glad we stayed.’

      They walked around the cathedral some more, marvelling at the windows, peering at the statues until they had seen enough.

      As they came towards the long aisle to the door, she stopped him. ‘My name is Cecilia.’

      Surely it would not hurt to tell him her given name.

      She had never told anyone in Paris her real name, not since the day the captain came to tell her Duncan was killed, but she wanted this man to know. For one day she wanted to be herself, as she might have been had she never fallen under Duncan’s spell.

      This lovely man beside her did not act as if she’d said anything unusual by giving her name so abruptly.

      ‘If I am to call you Cecilia,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘you must call me Oliver.’

      ‘Oliver,’ she whispered.

      ‘Cecilia.’ He smiled.

      It was not the done thing for a gentleman and a lady to call each other by their given names, not unless they grew up together from childhood. She’d known him only a few hours, but still it seemed natural that they should do so.

      ‘We should go to the Louvre next,’ she said.

      The Louvre was another place Cecilia visited when she needed to remind herself that there was incredible beauty in the world. She loved the Renaissance art, especially the portrait called La Gioconda. She tried to imagine any other man of her acquaintance walking through the museum without any sign of boredom.

      Was this man—Oliver—really what he seemed? Or was he pretending, hiding his true nature? Every day she pretended to be someone she was not. Every day she hid her real self. Today, though, she would be her real self, even if he were not.

      When they again stepped outside, they could hear the bell of Notre Dame strike four o’clock, reminding her of when Oliver had last eaten.

      ‘There are restaurants at the Palais-Royal, if you are hungry.’ She was accustomed to going without food.

      When she’d followed the drum with Duncan, she’d been allotted half his food rations, but when СКАЧАТЬ