Her parents had taken her to Deauville, and he had followed her there, and then on to Rome…Pompeii…Capri…London and finally back to Paris. Everywhere she went, he had friends, and he would conveniently appear, and as often as possible go for long walks with her, or escort her to balls, and spend extremely boring evenings with her parents. But she was like a drug to him now, and wherever he was, wherever he went, he knew he had to have her. Absinthe had never been as fascinating as this girl. And by August… in Rome… as she looked at him, her eyes were filled with the same unbridled passion.

Her parents were nervous about him, but they knew the family after all, and he was well mannered, intelligent, and it was difficult to ignore the fact that he was the sole heir to an enormous fortune. The fortune meant nothing to Marielle, her parents were comfortable, and it was something she never thought about. She thought only about Charles, the strength of his hands, his shoulders, his arms, the wild look in his eyes after they kissed, the chiseled beauty of his features, like an ancient Greek coin, the gentleness of his hands when he touched her body.

He had no intention of ever returning to the States, he'd explained early on, he and his father hadn't gotten along since he'd gone off to the war at fifteen, and returning to New York afterward had been a nightmare. He felt as though the place was too small for him, too boring, too restrictive. Too much was expected of him, and they were all things he had no intention of doing. Social obligations, family responsibilities, learning about investments and holdings and trusts, and the things his father bought and sold which one day he would inherit. There was more to life than that, Charles had explained to Marielle as he ran long, gentle fingers through her silky cinnamon-colored hair, which hung long past her shoulders. She was a tall girl, but she was dwarfed next to him, and with him she felt delicate and frail and yet wonderfully protected.

He had lived in Paris for five years when they met, and it was obvious that he adored it. His life was there, his friends, his writing, his soul, his inspiration. But in September, she was due to sail home on the Paris. To the gentle life they had in store for her, to the men she would meet, and the girls who were her friends, and the small but elegant brownstone on East Sixty-second. In no way did it compare with the Delauney home, only ten blocks north, but it was respectable certainly…respectable…and very boring. In no way did it compare with his garret on the rue du Bac, rented to him by an impoverished noblewoman who owned the entire hotel particulier below it. Charles had taken Marielle there one day, and they had all but made love. But at the last moment, he had come to his senses, and left the room hastily for a few moments to compose himself. And when he returned with a serious air, he sat down next to her on the bed, as she tried to straighten her dress and regain her composure.

“I'm sorry…” His dark hair and fiery green eyes made him look even more dramatic, but there was an anguished air about him too, which always touched her. She had never known anyone even remotely like him, or done the things she suddenly wanted to do with him. She knew she was losing her head over him, but she couldn't help it.

“Marielle…” He spoke very gently as the soft reddish brown hair concealed half her face. “I can't do this anymore…you're driving me mad.” But he was doing the same to her, and she loved it. Neither of them had ever felt anything like this before.

She smiled at him, seeming very old and wise, as he leaned over and kissed her. He felt almost drunk when he was near her. The only thing he knew for sure was that he didn't want to lose her. Not now, not ever. He didn't want to go back to New York for her, now or later, to plead for her hand, or negotiate with her father. He didn't want to wait another hour. He wanted her now. In this room, in this house. In Paris. He wanted her with him always. “Marielle?” He looked at her very soberly and her eyes grew dark.

“Yes?” She spoke very softly. She was so young, yet she was so in love with him, and he knew her well enough to sense how strong her spirit.

“Will you many me?”

He heard her gasp, and then she laughed. “Are you serious?”

“I am…God knows…will you?” He was terrified. What if she said no? His whole life seemed to depend on what she would say in the next minute. What if she wouldn't marry him? What if she wanted to go home with her parents after all? What if it was only a game to her? But he knew from the look in her eyes that his worries were foolish.

“When?” She was giggling she was so excited.

“Now.” And he meant it.

“You're not serious.”

“I am.” He stood up and began to pace the room, like a very handsome young lion, running a hand through his hair as he made plans and watched her. “I am very serious, Marielle.” He stopped dead and looked at her, everything about him taut and electric. “You still haven't answered my question.” He rushed to her side, and held her tightly in his arms until she laughed he was being so absurd.

“You're crazy.”

“Yes, I am. And so are you. Will you?” He held her tighter and she pretended to scream. He held her tighter still, and she laughed uncontrollably and then he kissed her, teasing her until he forced an answer from her lips between the kisses.

“Yes…yes…yes… I will.” She was breathless, and they were both smiling. “When will you ask my father?” She sat back with a blissful expression, and Charles's face clouded over.

“He'll never agree. And if he does, he'll insist we go back to the States and start a serious life there where he can watch us.” He looked like a caged lion again as he spoke and once more began to pace the room. “I'll tell you right now, I won't do that.”

“Won't ask my father, or go back to New York?” She looked suddenly worried, as she stretched her long, graceful legs in front of her, and he tried desperately not to notice.

“New York, for sure…and…” He stopped and looked at her again, his black hair looking wild, his eyes boring into hers. “What if we elope?”

“Here?” She looked stunned, and he nodded. He was serious, she knew him well enough to know that. “My God, they'll kill me.”

“I won't let them.” He sat down next to her, as they both thought it over. “You sail in two weeks, if we're going to do it, we'd better do it quickly.” She nodded quietly, thinking it over, weighing it in her mind, but she already knew there was no choice, no question, no decision. She would have gone to the end of the world with him. And when he kissed her again, she was certain.

“Do you think they'll forgive us eventually?” She was concerned about them as well. Like him, she was an only child, and her father was so much older. And they expected so much of her, particularly her mother. Marielle had been presented to Society in New York the winter before, and now they had done the Grand Tour, their expectation was that in a short while, she would find a suitable husband. And in some ways, Charles was certainly that, in terms of his family at least, but there was no denying that his lifestyle was, at the present time, a little eccentric. But in time, her father would say, he would settle down. But when she tried to broach the subject to him that night, he suggested that she wait until he did that.

“Wait and see how you like him when he comes back to New York, my dear. And in the meantime, there are lots of handsome young men waiting for you there. There's no need to fall head over heels over this one.” A young Vanderbilt had pursued her for a time that spring, and there was a handsome young Astor her mother had her eye on. But they were of no interest to Marielle now, and never had been. And she had no intention of waiting for Charles to move back to New York. She was quite certain he never would, not the way he felt about New York, or even the United States, and more specifically his father. He was happy where he was, he had flourished in the past five years. Paris suited him to perfection.

They eloped three days before her parents were to set sail, leaving a note for her parents at the Hotel Crillon. She felt more than a little guilty about the grief they would feel, but on the other hand, she knew her parents well enough to know that they'd be pleased she was marrying a Delauney. She wasn't entirely right on that score, given the reputation Charles had for running wild, but it certainly soothed them a little. Her note had urged them to go ahead and set sail, and she and Charles would come to New York to visit them over Christmas, but they were not as cavalier as that, and they waited patiently, and very angrily, for the young lovers' return, with every hope of annulling the marriage and squelching the entire affair before it became a proper scandal. Of course the ambassador knew what she'd done, because they'd sought his help, and he had made discreet inquiries. But all he knew was that they had gotten married in Nice, and he had reason to believe they had driven across the border into Italy shortly after.

They had an exquisite honeymoon in Umbria, Tuscany, Rome, Venice, Florence, Lake Como, they had ventured into Switzerland, and two months later, as October drew to a close, they made their way leisurely back to Paris. Her parents were still at the Crillon and when the honeymooners returned, there was a note waiting for them at Charles's lodgings.

Marielle couldn't believe they were still there, but she was amazed to discover that they had indeed waited. And two months had done nothing to warm their hearts on the subject of their only daughter's elopement. When Marielle and Charles appeared at the hotel hand in hand, looking happy and peaceful, they demanded that Charles leave at once, and announced that they were setting the annulment en route in the morning.