Page 75 of Our Strange Duet

I tossed the pen aside and rubbed at one cheek, trying to put my thoughts in order. I reread what I’d already written out and frowned.

I sounded…manic. Blissfully jubilant and without a care in the world. And I was—I truly was—but it seemed too much happiness to compress into a note for Meg. Meg, who was still in Paris. Meg, who was working and striving and earning her way through life, while I…

I glanced around my chamber, wondering exactly what words I would use to define the past few weeks with Raoul.

It was a lovely room, the nicest I’d ever called mine, and situated in one of the corners of the east wing. Two sets of towering windows flanked a canopied bed and gave breathtaking views to the beach below. Everything was done up in cheerful yellow florals and tufted green velvet. I sat at an antique writing desk made of gleamingly polished rosewood. A matching armoire was on the other side of the room, filled to bursting with an embarrassment of riches. Everything had been gifted to me by Raoul and was the latest in fashion, made to my exact measurements.

New afternoon dresses dripping with Chantilly lace, parasols trimmed with striped tassels, boots made of leather so soft and fine I was nervous to wear them for fear of scuffing their toes, and evening gowns in every color of the rainbow: Raoul had thought of everything and gave and gave with a zealous generosity that left me reeling.

I looked from the overfilled armoire back to Meg’s letter and abruptly ripped it up. I couldn’t send that to her. I couldn’t be that person, lording her good fortune and abundant happiness over all. I would rewrite the whole thing, letting her know we’d arrived and settled in, and I would go out first thing this afternoon and use my winnings from the track to buy her the hat I’d seen in one of the window displays in town. It had a cluster of silk forget-me-nots in the same shade of blue as Meg’s eyes, and I knew she’d love it.

Before I could pick up the pen and start over, I heard footsteps outside my room and spun round to see Raoul filling the doorway.

“You’re up early,” I observed, noting that the crystal timepiece on my desk read just after nine. I was surprised to see him looking as fresh as he did. He’d spent the evening before with a group of friends who were also summering in town—playing cards and downing bottles of Bordeaux as they complimented each other on their very excellent taste in wine.

But Raoul’s smile now was warm and languid, his eyes bright and sharp. “I fell asleep last night musing on how beautiful you must look at sunrise and decided I should force myself into finding out.” He stepped into my chamber, crossing in close to examine me. “I see I was right.”

“The sun rose hours ago,” I teased, then tilted my head to offer my lips to him as he swooped in for a kiss. His fingers gripped the back of the desk chair in a way that had me wishing he’d taken hold of my waist instead.

“Irrelevant.”

His lips murmured over mine with a soft insistence, parting them so that his tongue could slip in, and then—

“Raoul!” I exclaimed, breaking away with a nervous laugh. I wasn’t opposed to such kisses—I rather quite enjoyed them—but I’d only ever experienced them under the cover of shadows, not when it was broad daylight and any ambitious chambermaid with a dustrag could come traipsing in. A heated flush crept across my chest just thinking of it. What was it about this man that made me want to embrace such reckless behavior?

“I want to take you someplace special today,” he announced, straightening and stepping back so that we’d look the picture of propriety should someone walk by the open door.

“Special,” I repeated. “Special how?”

“You’ll see. Will you join me for breakfast?”

“Is that the special thing? Poached eggs and crêpes?”

Raoul laughed. “Do poached eggs sound special to you?”

“If Geneviève is making them, then certainly.”

“There is truth in that. She really is a marvelous cook.” He offered his hand. “Shall we?”

I glanced back at the desk, where Meg’s letter lay in long torn strips, like bits of confetti and streamers. I’d write to her later. After whatever this was. Turning to Raoul, I allowed him to assist me from my chair. “Gladly.”

“So…the pelting rain and lightning. Is that the special thing?” I asked later that morning, and had to shout to be heard over the power of nature’s melee.

Storm clouds had rolled in from the west as we’d dined, but Raoul had been adamant he would not allow them to spoil his grand surprise.

“All is going according to plan,” he insisted.

He’d had the carriage drop us off alongside the Promenade des Planches before ordering the driver to wait in the area for our return.

Gales of wind whipped off the sea, driving rain into our eyes and making it nearly impossible to discern where the gray water ended and the sky began.

“If that’s true, one might worry that this is a terrible plan,” I called out to him, then jumped as thunder rumbled overhead.

Only as we came to the end of the boardwalk did Raoul look uncertain. His hair was plastered to his face and dripping into his eyes. We were soaked to the skin. My little parasol had done nothing to protect us from the driving torrent, and as I tried to better position it, a strong gust snatched it from me. We watched in astonishment as it sailed down the empty beach.

Raoul turned to me, his face suddenly worried. “Perhaps this wasn’t exactly my best idea. I only wanted…” His brow furrowed, and he grabbed my hand with a burst of determination. “No. We’ve come all this way. It’s only a few steps farther.”

“What is?” I asked. It was almost impossible to see him, almost impossible to feel anything but the cold and the rain and the wind.