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“Why is that?” Immediately Tristan regretted the words. At one time he had known how to flirt with women. Now he suspected everything anyone said of having a double meaning.
She smiled prettily, showing a dimple. “Because you are quite the most handsome man I know, that is why.” She crooked her arm in his.
“You flatter me, citoyenne.”
“I never flatter,” she said, her eyes suddenly serious. “I do find you inordinately handsome. Such a pity.” She looked left, then right. “Is there any wine?”
Tristan felt as though his head was spinning. Speaking with her was like tracking a bee that flitted from flower to flower gathering nectar. “I will fetch some wine for you.”
Despite her pronouncements on the topic of flattery, he fully expected to find her fluttering her lashes at another man when he returned. Instead, he found her with her hands folded before her, waiting quite patiently—and quite alone—for his return.
“Thank you,” she said when he handed her the wine. She sipped it and nodded. “Oh, this is very good.”
He inclined his head. “Robespierre refuses to drink bad wine.”
“But you have not refilled your glass, citoyen.” She nodded at his empty hand.
“I must return to work after the festivities.”
She gave him a look of mock seriousness. “Surely you can indulge in one toast with me.”
“I had better not.”
She shrugged delicately.
“Citoyenne Martin, if you don’t mind my asking, are you a guest of one of the members of the Convention?”
She nodded. “Of course. So tell me, citoyen, what do you do when you are not policing theaters?”
“Oh, a great many things.” She had not really answered his question.
“Ah, I imagine. And have you always been a gendarme of the theater or did you have another occupation before the glorious revolution?”
He smiled despite himself. She certainly had a way with words, and he found himself enchanted even as he fought to remain immune to her charms. “I am the son of a printer.”
“Really?” She gazed at him, her green eyes so focused on him he felt as though he was the only man in the room. “What sort of printing? Books or pamphlets or perhaps the papers?”
“Pamphlets andlibellesfor the most part, although we occasionally printed a book.”
“And you apprenticed in the trade?”
He nodded.
“Do you think you will ever go back to it? I have found that once the smell of parchment and ink seeps into your senses, it becomes quite addicting.”
Tristan had been leading her slowly about the room, but now he paused to stare at her. “Do you know something about the printing press, citoyenne?”
“My grandfather was a printer, though he published plays.” She leaned close to him, and he caught the scent of spring—daisies and dahlias and daffodils. Her breath tickled his ear. “He particularly enjoyed printing the sonnets of Shakespeare. But as that is a sore subject between us, I won’t mention it again.” She leaned back, and Tristan had the urge to pull her close once more. Instead, he forced his legs into motion, escorting her once again.
“Your father was not a printer?” he asked, clearing his throat of the tightness that had constricted it.
“My father was an actor. My mother as well. I came to Paris with them to perform at the Comédie Française and when they returned to England, I stayed.”
“Why?” he asked. He hadn’t meant to speak so bluntly, but he was intrigued despite himself.
She shrugged. “I was young and wanted independence, I suppose.”
“You are still young,” he said. He did not think her older than five and twenty.
