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‘I am sorry about your singer,’ she said. She had promised not to interfere with his enjoyment, she recalled guiltily. ‘Is she nice?’
‘Nice?’ Rhys chuckled, amused, it seemed by the foolish word. ‘I have no idea. But she is very beautiful.’
Of course. Beautiful. Thea felt the champagne fizz of happiness go flat. For a brief few moments, veiled, elegantly gowned, she had been fought over and pressed against a man’s body as though he lusted for her. But, of course, it was no such thing. Her old friend Rhys had simply been protecting plain, ordinary Thea who had got herself into a pickle and had taught her a hard lesson. The air of Paris must be a drug, making her think she wanted something that, of course, she did not desire in the slightest.
‘Here we are,’ she said as the lamps outside their hotel came into sight. ‘You must promise me you will not be angry with Hodge. It was all my fault.’
And most of all, my pleasure.
* * *
‘Good morning!’ Thea sounded quite disgustingly cheerful as she went to the buffet to inspect the chafing dishes.
Rhys scarcely glanced up as he rose to his feet, the French newspaper crumpled in his grasp, then sank back onto his chair to bury himself behind its pages. ‘Morning.’
He was not good at mornings and especially not after a restless night filled with highly charged, and highly confusing, erotic dreams. For some reason the woman he had been chasing, futilely, had brown hair, not blonde, and as he reached for her over and over again he was shaken by feelings of unfamiliar guilt.
In broad daylight the dreams blurred into a half-remembered, discomforting muddle that he was doing his best to forget. He had completely overreacted with Thea last night; he could see that now in the bright light of morning. He could have rescued her from the importunate stranger and packed the lot of them back in a hackney carriage and brought his own evening to its probable outcome. As it was, he found he could not regret the missed encounter, which was strange.
His mood was not helped by Hodge, who started nervously every time Rhys spoke and obviously found it hard to believe that he was not about to be instantly dismissed for allowing Thea to go to the Palais Royale. As if the man had a hope of stopping her once she got an idea into her head.
‘More coffee, Rhys?’
‘Please.’ With half his attention he was conscious of her bustling about while he wrestled with smudged newsprint and colloquial French. A waft of fresh coffee, the clink of china, the rustle of fabric as Thea settled herself at the table, a faint drift of subtle rose scent.
Rustling? Scented? Thea? Rhys folded the newssheet and laid it beside his plate so he could study her. The soft mouse-brown hair was gathered into a neat arrangement of plaits and pleats, her hazel eyes regarded him with slight wariness and small pearl earrings dangled from her lobes. Her face, which was developing a puzzled frown as he stared, was the familiar oval, unadorned by so much as a smudge of lamp black or a grain of rice powder.
And yet...she was curiously soignée. The French word, one that he would never have thought of before in connection with Thea, swam up from somewhere and he realised it was perfect. She was groomed, elegant and perfectly...plain. If plain could be applied to the soft gleam of fine wool cloth, to the narrow edge of Brussels lace around the muslin fichu at her neck, the glow of the little pearls. Or creamy skin that was developing a blush as he stared.
Under his scrutiny she shifted slightly and there was that soft rustle again—silk against linen, he guessed. Good Lord, what was she wearing under that elegantly simple morning gown?
‘You have been shopping,’ he accused. It was bad enough having to make conversation at breakfast without being confronted by a disturbingly different Thea.
Thea rolled her eyes. ‘You know I have. You saw one of the evening gowns last night.’
‘I was in no mood to notice anything but your hatpin,’ he growled.
‘I left home with the smallest portmanteaux I could find and only two old gowns. I have bought two morning dresses, three walking dresses, two evening gowns, several pairs of shoes and all the, um...associated linen.’
‘Just linen?’
A dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, unfamiliar and utterly feminine. ‘You cannot believe the luxury of silk petticoats.’
‘No, I cannot,’ Rhys said repressively, as much to his own imagination as to her. ‘You look extremely...elegant.’
‘Thank you.’ Thea reached for the butter, apparently unflustered by the compliment. ‘I came to the conclusion when I first came out, and Stepmama was making such a fuss about my looks and figure and everything else, that frills and ornament do not suit me. I am never going to be pretty, but I knew I could achieve elegant if I put my mind to it. And I confess to loving luxury. Beautiful fabrics, well-made clothes, soft leather gloves and shoes, lovely scents and soaps...’ She gave a little wriggle of pleasure and applied herself to her omelette.
‘How did you find so much in only one day?’ How did you turn from a tomboy into such a feminine creature? But she is still plain, he argued with himself. No, she isn’t...exactly. He struggled to superimpose this elegant creature onto his image of Thea.
‘Ready-to-wear gowns seem to be much more easily obtained in Paris than in London. Not everything has been delivered yet—some had to be altered slightly—but I am not out of the common way in any dimension, which appears to help.’
Rhys took a tactical mouthful of coffee to avoid any form of comment on Thea’s dimensions.
‘The only thing I am not happy with is the riding habit. It was foolish of me not to pack my own.’
‘You are unlikely to do any riding.’ Rhys, on the other hand, was strongly considering hiring a hack and removing himself from the chaise as much as possible. If he’d had sisters he would have been better fitted to deal with this, he acknowledged. But the only women he spent any time in private with were from the muslin company and that was no help at all in negotiating the shark pool of life with an unmarried, virtuous woman who was not related to him.
‘No?’ She wrinkled her nose, the expression so at odds with her ladylike appearance that Rhys laughed. Yes, his Thea was still there. She grinned back. ‘That’s better! I was thinking how serious you looked. I have spoken to Hodge, by the by. Thank you for not blaming him for yesterday evening.’
Rhys shrugged and reached for the butter. ‘I should not have expected him to be able to influence you when you had made up your mind to anything. I certainly never could. I have told the hotel to place a large footman at your disposal when you go out. With Hodge, Polly and a bodyguard you should be safe from unwanted attention.’
‘Thank you.’ The smile she flashed at him was warm, with just a hint of mischief. Rhys relaxed. ‘I hope you have a very pleasant day today.’
‘I intend to visit an antiquities dealer who has a pair of globes that sound as if they would suit the library at Palgrave Hall, then I will do some shopping on my own account—Hodge has recovered sufficiently to observe that his lordship requires at least half a dozen more shirts and several more neckcloths if he is to present even a passable appearance in Paris.’
‘And will you see if you can persuade your opera singer to oblige you?’ Thea regarded him with clear, innocent eyes above her coffee cup.
‘Does nothing put you to the blush?’ Rhys demanded hoarsely through a throat full of croissant crumbs inhaled on a sharp indrawn breath.
‘I meant oblige with her agreement to travel to England to appear at the Opera House. If you are put out of countenance because of anything else you want from her, well, you told me about her yourself last night,’ Thea pointed out prosaically while he spluttered. ‘Would you like me to slap you on the back or would a glass of water help, do you think?’
‘Thank you, no. I will certainly send her a note of apology for abandoning her so abruptly.’ And that was all. Rhys mopped his streaming eyes and attempted to sound repressive. He had been mistaken in finding Thea the slightest bit alluring. The chit was as unmanageable as she had been at sixteen.
Thea pursed her lips over what he suspected was an unrepentant smirk. ‘I expect it is the prospect of shopping that puts you in such a grumpy mood—men always seem to hate it.’
‘Grumpy!’ Rhys dug his knife into the butter and recovered his sense of humour. This was Thea, for goodness’ sake. A few silk fal-lals and fine plumage were no reason to get hot under the collar. She hadn’t changed in any way that mattered—certainly not for the better—but she was in Paris for the first time. ‘Shall I get tickets for the opera tonight?’
‘For us?’ The excitement lit up her face and made him feel like a toad for the way he had reacted the night before.
‘Wear something discreet and a veil and we’ll sit in the stalls. No point in drawing attention to ourselves.’
‘Thank you.’ Thea jumped to her feet and came to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘You are an angel. Now I will go and leave you in peace with your newspaper.’
That was positively sisterly. Rhys turned a page and tried to feel like an indulgent brother. Even so, he was definitely going to ride tomorrow.
* * *
Thea gazed out of the window onto the Burgundian countryside. Three days from Paris and Rhys had ridden every mile while she sat in solitary state in the chaise.
