Page 39 of Rogue Lyon

Meredith peered from the carriage window, taking it all in. Workers rushed to and fro and there was an atmosphere of productivity and anticipation. Shop windows crept passed and she marveled at the material on display, the delicatessens with queues outside and the stalls selling everything from small paintings to jewelry to roasted nuts to glasses of dark wine.

Eventually, as the sun was setting and spreading amber shadows over the city streets, they pulled up outside Le Meurice, a classic hotel festooned with arches and tall sash windows. Topiary trees stood sentry-like by the large, brass-trimmed front door and a roll of red carpet crept onto the sidewalk.

As they alighted, a fresh wave of excitement gripped Meredith. Never in her life would she have imagined swapping the rolling green hills of Wales for the glamor and decadence of Paris.

Instantly, two doormen rushed to collect the trunks from their carriage. Jules gave the driver a hefty tip, then with his hand on the small of Meredith’s back, led her into the hotel.

She paused and gaped around. Dazzlingly-bright flowers tumbled from vases, the ceiling and walls were lined with gold gilding, and a large painting that she could instantly recognize as quality took pride of place beside a wide staircase. And the air, it smelled of honey and vanilla, sweet and seductive and a welcome change from the scents of the city through which they’d just been driven.

“What do you think?” Jules asked.

“I think…it’s incredible.” She nodded at a door to her left. “And a restaurant too.”

“Oh, yes, it has quite the reputation for being excellent. I will take you there to dine.”

“You will?”

“Of course. We must eat, after all.”

She nodded and licked her lips. Days of traveling had made her both weary and hungry.

At the reception desk, Jules smiled at the young man holding a pen and standing before a wall of keys. “Bonjour. J’ai deux chambres réservées chez vous.”

He spoke French with the receptionist for several moments.

Meredith’s eyes widened yet further. Jules could speak French? That was a surprise. Oh, and he sounded so nice when he did. Seductive and mysterious. A small thrill went through her, settling in her lower belly as he continued.

After a few sharp exchanges, there was a pause and Jules turned to her with a frown.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We have only one bedchamber reserved.”

“I… I don’t understand. We had two at each inn and you said…”

“I know, and I am sorry. It seems the hotel presumed we were married, as I booked both rooms under my name.”

“And they just… They just presumed?”

“Yes, they are full to capacity because of the art exhibition, which is proving to be most popular, and it was that or cancel our reservation. I suppose we should be grateful that we have somewhere to rest our heads at all.”

“But… But we are not married.” She glanced around, her heart thumping. “It would be most scandalous to share a bedchamber.”

He sighed and the horizontal worry line between his brows deepened. “I suppose I could try to find an inn out of town and let you have the room here at Le Meurice.”

Meredith rubbed her temple; an ache was starting up. “Let’s look at the room first. Perhaps it has a divider, a screen, or heavy curtain and a semblance of modesty can be maintained.” It was bad enough she’d forgone a chaperone, yet now to be sharing a bedchamber with her male companion. What on earth would Mrs. Dove-Lyon say? And her poor mother, she’d have a funny turn if she ever found out.

“Merci.” Jules took the key from the receptionist. His jaw was set tight. “Apparently, our luggage is in the room waiting for us.”

Meredith had no choice but to cross the hotel lobby and climb the stairs. With each step, she imagined the gossip about her and Jules Habsburg growing. Swelling like a rising tide about to crest and swamp her, drown her, wash her away, never to be seen in the ton again.

“Please try not to worry too much,” Jules said as he put the key into the lock of room number nineteen and turned it. “No one knows us here. Like the staff, they will presume we are married.”

“But we are not.” She held up her bare left hand. “No ring. See?”

His mouth tightened as he pushed the door open. “We will get you a fake one.”

Nancy had been right. Jules was not the marrying kind, though it seemed he was up for spinning a yarn to the good people of Le Meurice about a fake marriage.