“No?”
She shook her head. “There were a few women at Versailles who weren’t pretty but still seemed to fascinate gentlemen.” She frowned. “I wish I’d paid more attention to how they deported themselves.” Her brow cleared. “Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll play the role very well. I’m not unintelligent, and if I do something wrong, you can always tell me. You’ve had more experience dealing with the demimonde than I.”
“I’m to be your instructor, then?”
“No, you must only—” She broke off as she met his gaze in the mirror. She realized she had gone too far. What demon prompted her to goad Jean Marc in the direction she had no intention of traveling? He was looking at her as he had that night in the dining room,and she again experienced the strange hot breathlessness. She glanced hurriedly away. “Never mind, I’ll probably do very well alone.”
His black eyes glittered as he took a step toward her; the movement was stalking, predatory. “But the role you’ve chosen requires my complete cooperation.”
“Not necessarily.” She turned quickly and started for the front door. “Only when we’re in public must you pretend to find metrès intéressante. You can do that.”
Jean Marc opened the door. “Oh, yes, I can do that.”
The Café du Chat was brightly lit, noisy, and the patrons a mixed group of students, workers, and well-dressed merchants who were accompanied by ladies of various stations ranging from poorly dressed stolid peasants to flamboyant birds of paradise who laid no claim to domesticity.
“You see, I’m not at all out of place.” Juliette sat down at a small damask-covered table in the corner of the room. “I’m certain that red-haired woman with the short fat gentleman is not his wife.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps I should study her.”
“Don’t bother. I’d never consider her for a mistress.” Jean Marc motioned to a burly man wearing a leather waistcoat and white apron who was bearing a tray to another table. “And we’re not here to further your knowledge of demimondaines.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Juliette unfastened her cloak and let it slip from her shoulders to the back of her chair. “Her face is a trifle hard but very pretty and has—Why are you laughing?”
His gaze was on the low square neckline of her wine-colored gown. “Forgive me, but have you not…blossomed?”
“You think it’s too much? I have a small bosom, so I stuffed six handkerchiefs down my front to push me up and make me appear more womanly. Don’t gentlemen prefer ladies with large breasts?”
“I believe you can dispense with the handkerchiefs.”His gaze lingered on the bared flesh glowing against the wine-colored velvet. “Large breasts are not required.”
“That’s a relief.” She made a face. “The handkerchiefs are not at all comfortable. The lace borders scratch and make me want to pull them out.”
“What an interesting—” He stopped as the burly man he’d summoned appeared at his elbow. “A bottle of wine and fruit juice for the citizeness.” He paused and lowered his voice. “And a word with Citizen William Darrell.”
The man’s chubby, cheerful face didn’t change expression. “Will you have some of my fine lamb stew? It’s the best in all of Paris.”
“I think not.”
The man turned and wound his way across the room to the kegs against the wall. He returned and set a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. “It’s too late in the year for fruit juice.”
“Water,” Juliette said impatiently. “And William Darrell.”
“Water?” The waiter shrugged and turned away. “I will see.”
“What’s wrong with the man? He’s not paying any attention to us.”
Jean Marc poured wine into one of the glasses. “You should really get over your aversion to wine.”
Juliette’s gaze was following the waiter. “He’s serving someone else. Why doesn’t he—”
“A lovely fan for the citizeness?” A tall woman with glossy chestnut hair plopped down onto the chair between Jean Marc and Juliette and placed her straw tray of paper fans on the table. “Every citizeness wants a pretty fan to show where her loyalty lies.” She unfurled the fan in her hand. “Here’s one of the glorious capture of the Bastille. I painted it myself. See the red glow of the torches and the—”
“The citizeness doesn’t want a fan,” Jean Marc said.
“Perhaps one of Danton or Robespierre.” The woman fumbled through her tray and triumphantlywithdrew a fan. “Here’s Citizen Danton. Notice the noble brow.”
“This is aterriblepainting.” Juliette took the crudely executed fan and shook her head. “And it doesn’t even look like Danton. Danton is ugly.”
“But such a man has noble thoughts.” An engaging grin lit the woman’s freckled face. “I paint the ideal, not the man.”
“You paint carelessly, and ideals do not excuse such a terrible misuse of color and form. Have you no respect for your craft? How can you offer—”
