Page 85 of Our Strange Duet

“I’ve been thinking it over for a while.”

Had I?

I took a deep breath, steadying myself as all my thoughts came falling from me in a rush. “The truth is, I’ve loved our time together. These last few months have been a balm to my soul. Everything is better with you in my life.”

Raoul squeezed my shoulder. “I feel exactly the same.”

“But…as lovely as our time in Deauville was, it wasn’t entirely real. We made this perfect bubble there, all light and merriment and fun. We left Paris and the troubles at the opera behind. But we never talked about them. We never thought about them,” I said. “I didn’t, at least,” I hurried to clarify as I felt him begin to protest. “It was so easy to pretend we were simply on holiday and that when we returned, everything would be the way it had been before.”

“It can,” he insisted. “It will.”

I shook my head and looked down at the sheets between us. I couldn’t say what I needed to while meeting his gaze. “It won’t,” I said, keeping my voice as firm as I could. “I…I’m scared to return to the opera. I…I don’t want to sing there anymore. Not if there’s a chance that he—”

“He’s gone, Christine. Gilles and Richard haven’t received notes in months. Not since Il Muto. You’re safe now.”

“I feel safe with you,” I allowed. “But I don’t know how I could ever return to that stage. Every time I start to picture it—stepping out onto the apron, readying for an aria—I see the chandelier fall again. Over and over. This wasn’t the first nightmare I’ve had about it, Raoul. I have them every night. Every night, for months, he’s tried to take me away, tried to part me from you. I…I can’t go back there and sing again.”

“Then you’ll sing elsewhere,” he said easily, always quick to offer a solution. “There are any number of companies who would be overjoyed to have your talents. Nothing is holding us to Paris. We could travel everywhere. You could sing anywhere.”

“No.” I dared to glance up, checking in with him. He looked wholly confused.

“What are you saying, Christine?”

I couldn’t stand being so exposed under his gentle gaze, and I pulled up the bedsheet to cover my shivers. “Your mother was right. I can’t be who you need if I’m off pursuing a career on the stage. You need a wife who is always at your side. Who understands all of the pressures and responsibilities you have as vicomte.”

“Yes, but—”

“I want to be that for you,” I said, hurrying to cut him off. “I want to be here, with you. I want us to make our lives together, make our home. I don’t…I don’t need to sing,” I said, lying to him as much as to myself. “I just need you.”

He stared down at me, eyes bright with wonder and love. “You’d resign? For me?”

I nodded, unable to speak the words aloud again.

“Oh, Christine. Darling. I’d…I’d never ask this of you.”

“I know.”

He pressed his lips to mine, kissing me deeply. “I promise you’ll never regret this,” he swore fervently. “I promise our lives will be so full of happiness, so full of each other, you’ll never miss it.”

I nodded again.

He kissed me once more, drawing me closer, before he pulled away with a groan of theatrical dismay. “Richard and Gilles are going to have my head. How will I ever break the news to them?”

“The way we’ll do all things from now on,” I said, slipping my hand in his and pulling him back into the pillows. “Together.”

Chapter 28

I watched from my window seat as a barrage of snowflakes danced through the air, temporarily painting my little street white. After spending most of December in Burgundy, I’d forgotten how quickly Paris turned everything to shades of muddled gray. Already a horse and carriage had plowed through the accumulation, marring the clean slate with a set of hoofprints and a steaming mess of piss.

It was nice to be home.

Though I’d spent my every waking moment in Chagny becoming familiar with its pace and expectations and falling in love with its rustic charms, I still missed Paris. I loved this time of year best, when holly and ivy wound round every streetlamp, when cheeks flushed bright with both the cold and the holiday merriment, and when the air was filled with the scents of roasting chestnuts and burnt sugar.

When Raoul had mentioned needing to go back to the city after Christmas, I’d jumped at the chance to join him. Time away from the estate—and his mother, with her endless lists of wedding preparations and vicomtesse training—would be a welcome reprieve.

Raoul had begged me to join him at the town house, but I’d hungered after a quieter alternative, wanting to structure my days however I saw fit, and had returned to my apartment instead.

Everything had happened so fast.