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Nine
Angelette adjustedher tall hat, black with a silk ribbon as the only adornment, to shield her face from the sun. The pale orange redingote she wore buttoned at her cinched waist and was open at the chest and down the front to display her white underdress. The wide lapels and capes on the sleeves made it good for wear in all weather, except perhaps the heat of July in Paris. She’d worried her clothing would identify her as a noble, but thus far the nobility was not being attacked on the streets. As soon as he stepped out of the house on the Rue Saint-Honoré, she made certain Hugh was behind her and then reminded herself to breathe again.
She couldn’t stop her mind from wandering back to the night before, when he’d stepped into her chamber and not long after stepped out of his clothing. Now that she knew what he looked like under his dark green coat and tight breeches, it was hard not to imagine taking them off him again.
“You may cease scowling at me like that,” she said.
“I don’t like this. If something happens—”
She held up a hand. “If something happens, then I’ll be at your side. If I’m to stay here on my own, I must see what I’m dealing with.”
“True enough.”
Surprised by the easy victory, she tucked her arm through his and they began to walk toward the Palais-Royal. The houses on this street were mostly owned by the nobility. Angelette did not know if the residents had fled the city or were in hiding. All was quiet and all was shuttered. She glanced over her shoulder at the de Mervilles’ house. It too looked quiet and empty.
“You can do as much good in London—perhaps more even—as you can here. Perhaps if you left, you would be running to something, not away,” Hugh pointed out as they strolled. His voice was even and his stride casual, but she did not miss the way he looked right and left, his eyes like a hawk’s, alert for any trouble.
She wished she could see the matter as he did, but from every angle she looked, departure seemed to be nothing more than a retreat. “My sister is in London, and my mother lives in the north of England, but my life is here.”
“Perhaps you could make a life there.”
She scoffed. “Living with my mother? Imposing on my sister and her husband?”
“Living with me.” He paused and she tilted her head to see his face from under the brim of her hat.
“I know we threw propriety to the wind last night, but I’d rather not sacrifice my reputation and the honor of my family by becoming your mistress.”
“I don’t want a mistress.” His bright eyes looked down at her, and she wasn’t certain what she saw in them. Something warm and inviting. Something that made her want to kiss him again. She blinked. No matter if the street was deserted, she could not kiss him.
“What do you want?” she asked, and her voice did not sound like her own.
“A wife.”
Her arm dropped and she stepped away from him, her back pressing against the wall of the house behind her. “Are you...” She swallowed.
“Shall I get down on one knee?”
“But you don’t even know me.”
He gave her a look of pure incomprehension. “I know you. I know you’re stubborn and loyal. You’re smart and brave and cunning when you need to be. You’re passionate and giving and not afraid to take what you want either. You are everything I have ever wanted.”
She stared at him. “But what if we don’t suit? I’m irritable in the morning and I like my solitude. I dislike riding, but love long walks. You don’t know any of those things. You don’t know my favorite color or flower or—”
“I’ll have a lifetime to learn. All I really need to know is whether or not you’ll have me.”
“But...” She sputtered. “Do you even love me?”
He wet his lips with his tongue, and her heart seized, afraid he would say no. “I have never been in love,” he admitted. “I can’t say that I know what it feels like, but if this is not it, I don’t know what is.” His gaze, clear and steady, bored into her. “Do you love me?”
“I...”
A shout and the scuffle of feet made both of them turn back toward the direction they had been heading. A group of about six men, boys really, had stepped out from a side street and were marching up the Rue Saint-Honoré. They wore coats, some military in style, and trousers, but most were barefoot. All had small round pieces of red, blue, and white cloth pinned to their breasts.
“Who are you?” one of them demanded as the group neared. “Are you friends of liberty or the enemy?”
