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“This is a very good place for clandestine kisses.” But the duchess was not in a kissing mood.
“You little devil. I hadnotagreed to your offer,” she bit out, her tone a mix of helpless amusement and accusation.
“Oh come now, Your Grace,” she said in her sweetest voice. “We both know you were going to accept it,” she shot back. “I just gave you a nudge.” Emboldened by Cora’s silence, she lifted a hand and ran a finger up the center of her jacket. “I like this color on you,” she said appreciatively. “It reminds me of a black dahlia.” She lifted her eyes to the duchess and wondered how she was not being scorched. There was anger there, to be sure, but right beneath, there was the same fire burning through Manuela. One that she intended to see unleashed. “When are you taking me on my first outing?”
Cora’s hand clutched Manuela’s exploring finger. “There will be no such thing without a signed contract, princess. I will bring one tomorrow with some reasonable terms for this scheme of yours, and once that’s signed, we can discuss these so-called outings, but there will be no games.”
“I wouldn’t dream of playing games, at least not ones we both wouldn’t enjoy.” She let the offer in her words hang in the air a moment, before pressing closer. “Your Grace.”
Manuela lifted herself on her tiptoes and brushed her cheek against the duchess’s. The contact was so electrifying it took her a moment to get her breathing under control. “I am free tomorrow evening,” she informed Cora cheerfully, as if the woman wasn’t trying to skewer Manuela with her eyes. “But you must collect me at the Palais des Beaux Arts. They’re finally allowing international artists to see their pieces before the exhibit opens to the public. You’ll find me with mine in the South American wing.” She smiled, then pressed her cleavage to Cora’s arm. The duchess reacted with a very satisfying inhalation of breath, and Manuela smiled wider.
“I am not one to boast, but they are two of my best.” She pressed her chest just a little further in to Cora and winked. “The paintings, I mean.” The other woman stared at her for an agonizingly long time, so long that Manuela began to wonder if she’d pushed too far. It wouldn’t be the first time that her impulsiveness backfired, but in the next moment that slender body was pressing Manuela into the wall until all the air escaped her lungs.
“When I come to you tomorrow,” Cora said, lowering her head so that loose strands of hair tickled Manuela’s cheek, “it will be with a very long list of rules for this little scheme of yours, Miss Caceres Galvan.” Her throat went dry, and she had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from moaning. “The first thing we will have to establish is that there will be no touching and absolutely no more kissing.”
“We can work out the details when you are in a more amenable mood,” Manuela hedged.
Cora was not amused. “It would be in your interest to inquire about my reputation in negotiations before then.” She pushed back just as Manuela was contemplating pressing her lips to the curve of her neck. It took everything she had not to cry out in frustration. “Oh, and try not to get caught breaking into any more buildings until then.”
Eight
Any hope Cora hadharbored regarding her control over her arrangement with Manuela Caceres Galvan had disappeared somewhere between her almost having the girl next to a platter of oysters and the near catastrophic run-in with Blanchet. And now here she was, swallowing up the length of the gravel path leading up to the Palais the Beaux Arts, so she could launch herself headfirst into a farce that would most likely end in disaster. At least she did have a contract for the heiress and intended to get the damn thing signed without falling prey to all those supple curves and bubbling laughter...at least not again.
“Where did you say we could find her, Maggie?” Cora asked of her secretary, whose much shorter legs forced her to follow behind her at a harried clip. With a sigh, Cora slowed down as Maggie gasped for air.
“All the South American paintings are on the top floor of the Rapp Gallery, Your Grace,” Maggie informed her as they reached the entrance of the building. She’d been visiting the fairgrounds long enough to recognize the large domed structure behind the west side of Eiffel’s shrine to phalluses, but she had not gone inside the palace of fine arts. The building, which she’d heard contained more than seven hundred paintings, was designed by architect Jean Camille Formigé, who was also tasked with crafting the sloping park in front of the La Basilique du Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre.
She mounted the steps to the closed doors of the building, bracing herself for the impact of Manuela Caceres Galvan. It wasn’t that Cora could not handle a wildcat, it was that her own reactions as she did the handling were becoming increasingly unpredictable. Cora had never been amused by mercurial, flighty girls who pranced around breaking into gardens at night. She’d always been attracted to sensible women who took themselves and their place in the world seriously. Like that Doctor Montalban, for example. It wasn’t that she couldn’t be taken with a bit of frilly lace and a nice bosom, but she rarely continued to think about them two blasted days after the fact.
Cora had been prepared for many things when she summoned the heiress to a meeting, and had she met her for the first time at the luncheon, Cora would’ve have assumed her predictions were right. That the heiress was a product of her world. A little cynical and reckless, if utterly unwilling to give up her comforts. But the woman she’d met at Le Bureau who had climbed furniture barefoot to get a closer look at a fresco, that woman was in love with life. A woman who knew exactly what she was giving up and was granting herself one last taste of it. A woman who evoked her most protective and predatory instincts all at once.
Cora examined the corridors of paintings as she made her way across the first floor of the building. She passed the sections for the United States, Belgium, Sweden and a few other European countries. Some of the artists she knew, like Sarah Dodson, an American who had been a pupil of Jules Joseph Lefebvre, a friend of Cora’s. She stopped for a moment to look at one of Sarah’s pieces, The Morning Stars. It was intriguing and ethereal, with its pastel colors and prancing nymphs. She wondered what Manuela would make of the blurry maidens in ecstatic dance. Then she reminded herself what she was about today and kept walking.
At any another time, she would’ve strolled through the gallery and taken her time examining the paintings. But today she was beholden to a certain island princess, who was expecting Cora to take her on an adventure across every ladies’ hall in Paris.Thatwould not be happening. The only way Cora would get through this month without causing a scandal was to stay well away from temptation. A tall order considering she’d be saddled with the embodiment of it for the duration of this farce. But Cora had a plan.
Manuela had requested that Cora show her the world women like the two of them inhabited in Paris, and she would. It would just be a slightly different set of women than those the heiress probably envisioned.
There was no shortage of septuagenarian lesbian couples in Paris the Duchess of Sundridge could call on for dinner, and she was planning to extract every invitation she could. A satisfied smirk lifted her lips at the thought of beating the little devil at her own game. By the time Cora was done, Manuela Caceres Galvan would be sick of parlor recitals and sapphic poetry readings. So engrossed was she in this minor fantasy involving sumptuous breasts and gnashing of teeth that she almost slammed into a window when she reached the end of the corridor.
“Where exactly did they say her paintings are?” Cora whipped around, realizing she’d crossed the entire gallery and was yet to find Manuela’s work. “I thought there were only two floors.”
“The gentleman I spoke to earlier said it was in the room at the top of these stairs.” Maggie pointed at a very narrow doorway, leading to a narrower staircase. “Perhaps up here?”
“You mean in the attic?” Cora asked, suddenly incensed. Maggie shrugged helplessly, and Cora clenched her jaw. There weren’t many people left in the building since it was after the grounds were closed to visitors for the day. But this area of the gallery didn’t seem like it got much traffic even when it was open. It was dusty and eerily dim. Clearly whatever they’d stuck up there was not meant to attract much attention. They took the steps carefully as they were not very stable, and by the time Cora reached the top she was indignant. Had they really selected Manuela’s work only to hide it in the farthest corner of the place?
“Maggie, why don’t you have François take you home in the carriage?” Once again that protective instinct overtook her. The heiress had been so proud when she told Cora about the paintings. She could only imagine how embarrassed she would be to find them relegated to the recesses of the building.
After Maggie left, she carefully climbed the remaining rickety steps, her furious indignation on Manuela’s behalf only increasing with each one.
The alcove she found at the top was not very large and she spotted Manuela immediately. Except that the woman she found was a far cry from the flirtatious, colorful creature from the night before or the scandalous vixen from their lunch. Manuela’s shoulders, which she’d only seen tilted in seductive poses, were hunched and her head hung low. There was an air of defeat surrounding her. Even in her birds of paradise colors she seemed subdued, like her inner light had been dimmed.
It hurt Cora more than she’d like to admit to see her looking so small and dejected. But still so damn beautiful. The jaunty hat on her head was riddled with ridiculous plumage. The daring red of her walking suit was like a beacon. The skirt began with a very dark red near the hem and the shades lightened as they reached her waist. The jacket was of a darker shade, except for a line running down the middle of her back. She looked like one of the flowers she claimed to include in her work, resplendent in crimson, until one came close enough to notice her crestfallen form.
A need to slay whoever had done this gripped Cora with such a ferocity her hands shook. “I’ve heard the Americans have paid off the French to hide any paintings that overshadow theirs,” Cora offered loudly as she got closer. The artist jumped at the sound of her voice, but she didn’t turn immediately. The thought of this luscious being, with her salacious smiles and lusty laughs, crying in humiliation in this musty, hidden corner made Cora unreasonably angry.
“My art is American too, remember.” It was an attempt at levity, but the strain was clear in Manuela’s voice. “I’m surprised you could find me here.” Cora would’ve never guessed she’d miss the barrage of shocking comments she’d been subjected to during their last two meetings, but here she was despairing after only seconds of witnessing this diminished version of her princess. “I should’ve waited for you downstairs, to save you the trouble,” Manuela apologized, turning to face her. Her eyes were too bright, and her smile a wan, feeble thing. Once again, Cora found herself ready to beg for a glimmer of the very things that just yesterday had driven her crazy.
“You were so humble in your advertisement of your skills, I had to come and see for myself,” she teased, in an attempt pull out a real smile from her. All she got was a small twitch of the mouth. It was absurd to miss the outrageous things that constantly came out of the heiress. And yet, she was dying to be pestered for a kiss or talked into some other wild scheme, anything other than this silence.
