Page 74 of A Season for Scandal

I let go of him, brushing hastily at my skirt. “I have got myself all muddy again,” I said, flustered.

He reached out, placing a finger underneath my chin and tipping it up so that I was looking at him. His eyes roamed over my face, and he stepped closer, whatever he saw there drawing a low rumble from his chest.

I felt dizzy. We were tucked away, out of view of the crowds, surrounded by flowers, and it was as if the surrounding noise and bustle dropped away for a moment. All that existed was the two of us. His hand on my face, his mouth so close to mine. I wanted him with a desperation that edged into pain.

In the end it was this realization that brought me to my senses.

“We – we can’t,” I stammered, the words wobbling. His hand dropped away as my own lifted to my chest, pressed over my heart, which was actually aching. “I can’t… We shouldn’t… There’s too much…” I rambled, trying to think, trying tobreathe.

“Of course,” he said at once, taking a step back. “I apologize.”

“No, you… I…” I tried again but got no further.

Oliver only gave a brisk nod. “Please,” he said with enviable calm, his voice gentle. “You don’t owe me an explanation. It was my mistake, and I would never want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You – you haven’t made me uncomfortable,” I said, though he absolutely had, just not in the way he meant. My whole body felt like a lit firecracker, set to explode.

“Good,” he said, clearly relieved. “I would hate that. Shall we return to the hotel? Mrs Finch will be wondering where we are.”

And with that, we finished our walk in silence.

*

That evening Mrs Finch had dinner sent to me in my room – a luxury that I had hardly dreamed of. It had been a long day of travel, and I was grateful for the calm moment to reflect on my own emotional turmoil. I wasn’t sure if that was why Mrs Finch had suggested we all have a quiet evening. I knew she saw far too much, and I hadn’t missed her keen look when Oliver and I returned from our walk.

Still, I was not complaining when the waiting staff arrived at my door laden with trays covered in silver-domed plates. When removed, the domes revealed perfectly boiled eggs with swirls of creamy mayonnaise, chicken quenelles with cream and baby peas, a capon covered with a sauce I didn’t recognize, something light brown and earthy and delicious, and a pastry called a mille feuille, which was an actual taste of heaven.

As I ate, I thought about the walk with Oliver, about the way we had almost kissed … again. About how much I wanted it, wanted him. I was a practical woman, I reminded myself. I was abusinesswoman. I knew a little something about risk and reward, and I knew damn well that Oliver Lockhart was a risk I couldn’t afford to take.

There were too many reasons we could never work, too many responsibilities between us and too many differences. He needed a grand lady, not a florist constantly covered in dirt who couldn’t waltz and didn’t know what a truffle was. (The waiter who retrieved my empty plates had explained that this was the mystery ingredient in the delicious sauce, in perfect English, because I didn’t speak French – another thing that any woman Oliver Lockhart ended up with would undoubtedly do beautifully.)

It wasn’t that I didn’t thinkIwas worthy; it was that I knew I wasn’t from his world. I was acutely aware that Simon had thought I was below him socially and it had hurt. I thought about the pain I felt when he’d called off our engagement and I knew it was nothing to the hurt I would experience if I gave my heart to Oliver and it didn’t work out. Safer, far safer, not to risk it. I could protect myself from heartache if I simply never fell in love.

And all this was before my responsibilities to the Aviary, and to Bloom’s and my family were taken into account. Really, there was no question that stopping the kiss had been the only practical option.

I had almost talked myself into believing that pulling away had been for the best when there was a knock at the door, and I was relieved to find Maud and Winnie standing in the hallway, all dressed up and grinning at me with mischief in their eyes.

“Come on, Mari,” Maud said. “We’re taking you out on the town.”

“Oh, but Mrs Finch said…” I began.

Maud cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Mari, we’re inParis! And a girl I know works at Maxim’s. She might have information about the Lavignes or David Brown. It’s practicallywork.”

“Please, Mari,” Winnie chimed in, her cheeks pink. “It will be so much fun.”

How could I resist? Honestly, a distraction was very welcome, and fun was just what I needed.

“Come in while I change,” I said, and the pair of them squealed.

Maxim’s, it transpired, was only a short walk from the hotel, and it was a nightclub for the wealthy and famous. We were, of course, neither, but Maud’s friend let us in through the back door with a wink and a warm greeting and we were soon lost in the crowd.

The place was …red. That was the first thing that struck me. The carpets were thick and red; the walls were scarlet, with crimson silk drapes. The room was lit by lamps covered in red silk shades, casting a warm and somehow decadent glow across the scene.

And what a scene it was. A bar and dining room crammed full of beautiful people in fashionable clothes talking animatedly at a hundred miles an hour in a language I didn’t understand. The red walls were lined with enormous, gilt-edged mirrors that reflected the crowds making the place feel even busier. The air was full of perfume and the smell of tobacco. On a small dance floor, couples whirled to the music being played by a small house orchestra in natty red-and-gold uniforms.

“This place is perfect,” Maud said, looking about herself with pleasure.

“Nothing worries her, does it?” I asked Winnie as we were shown to a corner table with plush red velvet seats and Maud began chatting with the waiter.