Much of the blame really should be put on her. Whatever possessed her to make such a spectacle of herself? She’d kissed him! She’d never kissed a man before. Had never wanted to. And who would have imagined how...moving that kiss would be? Although it did pale in comparison to the kiss he gave her.

After what seemed like forever, they arrived at the house. He escorted her inside, then turned to her in the foyer.

“Once again, I owe you an apology, India,” he said coolly. “I put you in an awkward position in public, and for that I am truly sorry. Apparently, whenever I wish to kiss you, it does not end well. However, it was a kiss. Nothing more than that. And you’re right. It was a mistake. Good day.” He started toward the parlor, then paused and returned. “I nearly forgot.” He pulled a large coin from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her. “Something to remind you of the day.” He nodded and took his leave.

She stared after him for a long moment.

She’d been kissed for the first time. In a public place. By a man who was as much scoundrel as gentleman. A man with whom there could be no future. A man who now was obviously furious with her.

She looked down at the object in her hand. It wasn’t a coin but a medal. On the side facing her was a depiction of the Eiffel Tower dwarfing world monuments including Saint Paul’s Cathedral and the pyramids, together with the dates of the tower’s construction and opening. She turned it over. On the other side, in French, was written that this was a souvenir of ascending to the summit of the Eiffel Tower. She’d never had a souvenir before.

How terribly ironic that now she had a souvenir of a day she couldn’t possibly ever forget.


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


“SHE’S INSANE, I tell you.” Derek strode into the parlor. “The woman is mad, utterly completely mad.”

Val leaned against the mantel. His eyes widened at the appearance of his brother.

“I can’t believe that I thought, perhaps, for no more than a moment really, it just popped into my head and—”

“Someone you met on the street no doubt,” Val said in a manner that struck Derek as anxious, and nodded toward a high-backed chair.

“Don’t be absurd.” Derek stalked to the cabinet where Val kept good Scottish whisky and fine Spanish sherry for whatever lady might be with him at the moment. “Admittedly, the thought had crossed my mind, only when we had discussed why she didn’t want to be married. Have you ever heard such words from a female? I’ve never met a woman like her. She’s an enigma. The most confusing creature on earth.” He yanked the cabinet doors open. “We seem to have discussed marriage quite a bit in a theoretical, philosophical sort of way but not as it pertained to the two of us. At least not the two of us together. I never mentioned anything remotely like spending the rest of our days together.” He grabbed the decanter of whisky. “All I wanted was to kiss her. One, simple kiss—not a lifelong commitment!”

Val winced. “I really don’t think—”

“Worse—she rejected me!” He sloshed a healthy portion into a glass. “Not that there was anything to reject. But it’s insulting nonetheless. And offensive. And unpleasant.” He tossed back a fast swallow. “Most unpleasant. Rather like being stabbed. In...in the heart! Yes, that’s it exactly. Even if one isn’t certain one’s heart is engaged, she stabbed me in the heart nonetheless. The woman made assumptions based on nothing more than a request for a kiss. She simply skipped over any number of—I don’t know—steps I suppose, that this sort of thing requires.” He downed the rest of the whisky.

“Steps?” Val stared with a look that might have been horror on his face and jerked his head sharply toward the chair. What on earth was the matter with him?

“Yes—steps! In this day and age, one kiss does not mean ‘marry me.’ One does not plunge into marriage.” Derek refilled the glass “Particularly not with a woman who drives you stark, raving mad! What kind of woman refuses to marry you when you haven’t asked? When you haven’t even thought about it?”

“I have no idea,” Val said cautiously.

“I’ll tell you what kind of woman!” He took a large swallow. “The kind who—”

“No!” Desperation sounded in Val’s voice.

“Well, I for one would like to hear that.” A familiar voice rang from the back of the room.

Val cringed.

“Mother?” Derek turned and stared.

The Marchioness of Westvale rose in the graceful manner she had long ago perfected from a chair in the shadows of the room. “Good day, Derek. You’re looking well.”

Val groaned.

Derek threw his brother an annoyed look. “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?”

Val snorted. “I tried.”

“Your poor dear brother practically snapped his neck off trying to indicate there was someone else in the room. You were simply too agitated to notice. Although I must say I’m delighted he didn’t succeed. Your tirade was entirely too interesting to miss.” Mother smiled pleasantly.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He moved to her and kissed her cheek.

“I must say, your presence in Paris is an unexpected surprise.”

“As is yours.” His mind raced back over everything he had said since he’d stepped into the room. Bloody hell.

Celia Newell, the Marchioness of Westvale—formerly Mrs. Saunders and then the Marchioness of Brookings—was, to most of the world, a charming, attractive woman who did not look at all her true age, not that even her sons knew exactly what that age was. She was a perfect hostess and a delightful conversationalist. She was a sought-after guest at dinner parties or country house sojourns or any kind of social event. But when something caught her interest she was, as well, very much like a dog with a bone. Derek braced himself. Unless Stephen, Lord Westvale, had managed to curb her innate tendencies toward meddling in the five years of their marriage, she would never let Derek’s display of ire pass unmentioned. Especially as it concerned a woman.

“Is it really?” She cast Val a chastising glance. “You didn’t tell him we were coming?”

Val shrugged uneasily. “It slipped my mind?”

“Percival.” Mother’s brow furrowed delicately. “You are hosting a ball in this very house not more than five days from now. I do hope that didn’t slip your mind, as well.”

“You’re having a ball?” Derek stared. “Here?”

Val ignored him. “Of course not, Mother,” Val said smoothly. “You simply had the arrangements well in hand when you were last here, so I wasn’t the least bit worried about it.”

She studied him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. “Aside from final details, I suppose there’s little left to do.” She turned her attention back to Derek. “Stephen and I were here last month for the opening of the exposition. I must say I was surprised by how many people I know are here. Why, London society must be totally bereft of anyone of interest at all. Although the season is winding down, I suppose.” She sank back into her chair. “There hasn’t been a grand ball in this house for years.” She aimed a hard look at her stepson. “Of course, if Percival had a wife, I’m certain that social oversight would be corrected.”

“Keep in mind, I spend only a few months here every year. Paris is not my primary residence,” Val pointed out, wisely avoiding any reference to his unmarried state. He had come very close once, a few years ago, and had yet to again find whatever it was he was looking for in a wife. But there was no question he quite enjoyed his unencumbered status.

Mother, however, took Val’s—and Derek’s, too, for that matter—failure to wed as a personal affront. Fortunately, Lord Westvale proved a continuing distraction from her crusade to see her sons married. Derek rued the inevitable day when the couple became too comfortable with each other and Mother could fully turn her attentions back to her unmarried sons.

“Nonetheless, there are social obligations that do need to be fulfilled on occasion,” she said firmly.

“Yes, Mother.” Val nodded, playing dutiful son to the hilt.

And leaving Mother free to give Derek her full attention. “When I last saw you in London, you made no mention of coming to Paris.”

“When we last spoke, I didn’t know I would be.” Exactly how much should he tell her?

Her brow arched upward. “So this was unanticipated on your part? A spur of the moment sort of thing?”

On one hand, the more she knew, the more she might be able to help. “One could say that.”

“And Edward did not protest?”

On the other, the more she knew, the more dangerous she might be. “Not at all.”

She studied him closely. He resisted the urge to shift from foot to foot like a guilty schoolboy. “That doesn’t sound like Edward. He was quite serious about you—how did he put it?”

“Accepting your responsibilities, giving up a pointless life of excess, debauchery and misdeeds? Becoming a man?” Val offered.

“Thank you.” Derek clenched his teeth. “I had forgotten the exact wording.”

“Anything I can do to help.” Val’s expression was solemn, but amusement shone in his eyes. “I think you need to tell her everything.”

“Again, you have my thanks,” Derek snapped, but Val was probably right. Besides, one way or another, Mother would surely find out everything anyway. She always did. “Very well.” He added another splash of whisky to his glass, then drew a deep breath. “When you and Lord Westvale left London, you charged me with looking after Aunt Guinevere. A duty, I might add, that you have not shouldered particularly well.”

“Nonsense.” She sniffed. “I call on Aunt Guinevere frequently. Dear, sweet, fragile lady that she is.”

Val snorted back a laugh and headed toward the whisky decanter.

“Then you are aware that she and two of her dearest friends have started an organization ostensibly to assist women with information and travel arrangements but that in truth does little more than provide her and the other ladies a steady income?”