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“Lead the way, monsieur,” she answered amiably, before taking the stairs.
The walls leading up to the second floor were papered in a light blue that was similar to the design from Le Bureau. Unlike the very erotic pastoral scenes of the pleasure palace, Au Rocher de Cancale’s featured an array of nautical ones. Fishermen and sea captains embellished the rooms, she supposed as a nod to the eatery’s famous seafood dishes. And of course, recalling the decor of the brothel instantly brought her encounter to the forefront of her mind. That morning she’d woken up thinking of her mysterious woman. She’d barely opened her eyes when she had already reached for the sketchbook next to her bed. For hours she’d applied herself to capturing that wide mouth and those perfectly shaped lips. She’d even foregone breakfast and had instead sat in the sunroom dabbling with purples and grays on her palette until Aurora and Manuela had tempted her to the table with the promise of freshly brewed coffee.
“Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît.” The server’s gentle but clearly urgent tone forced Manuela out of her daze. How long had she been standing at the top of the stairs? “I will make sure that the duchesse is ready for you.” That was said with a bow and a very sharp click of the heels.
“Of course,” she said apologetically, as her nerves began to get the best of her again. She made herself stand up straighter, making sure the curls around her face were framed properly. It was not every day one met a duchess, even if it was one who was only after her land.
If anything, she’d have a delectable meal and could use the news to appease her mother’s many demands for information. Manuela winced as she thought of her mother’s recent reminder not to do anything in Paris that would make Felix reconsider their marriage. Lunch with a duchess would give Consuelo Galvan de Caceresexactlywhat she wanted—something to brag about to the friends she was visiting in London.
The door finally opened, and the enthusiastic footman ushered her in. To Manuela’s frustration, instead of finding the older woman, she was led down yet one more passage. The restaurant was like a maze.
As she made her way down the hall to where she hoped to finally meet this elusive duchess, Manuela began to regret accepting this invitation.
She didn’t want to think about Baluarte or fill her mind with choices that didn’t really exist. Even if she agreed to sell the land, she’d chosen her path. Her fate was sealed, and she was squandering her precious free time by agreeing to this meeting. She ought to be with Antonio doing a little sleuthing about her lady in trousers instead of traipsing through this building to have lunch with some stuffy old woman.
What if her beauty with the amethyst eyes was frantically searching Paris for her too? She could see her now with that tall, commanding way of hers, standing like a general in her silk trousers ordering an army of footmen to leave no stone unturned until they found Manuela. Her heart skipped at the image. She’d arrive at the Place des Vosges after her tedious lunch with the stodgy duchess and be set upon by two elegantly uniformed servants. They’d pluck her from the street and put her in an extravagantly decorated carriage. They’d diligently convey Manuela to a stately palace in the outskirts of Paris, where she’d marvel and gasp at the lush manicured gardens. Once inside, she’d be guided into a sumptuous parlor, and there her goddess would be, with her inky-black hair flowing around her shoulders, her arms wide open.
“Here we are,” the footman said, rudely snatching her out of her glorious reverie. And for all that her friends didn’t trust her self-control, Manuela exhibited an enormous amount of it when she resisted blurting out an exasperatedFinally. She was so annoyed by all this pomp and circumstance that even if she had been considering selling this Duchess of Sundridge her land, she’d now turn her down out of pure spite.
Aurora always said that the trick to entering a room with confidence was to do it in a righteous rage, and Manuela found that in this instance it was very sound advice. When the door opened, she was much too irritated to be distracted by nerves and made her way inside at a clip. She might have to give this so-calledduchessea piece of her mind.
Manuela had worked herself into such a state that it took her a moment to locate the other woman. There was a circular table at the center of the room, but she was not sitting there. She stood by a large window looking at the street below. Her hair was very dark in the sunlight, and she was certainly not shaped like a matron. She was tall and slim with the body of an equestrian, Manuela thought. Her clothes were very austere. No bustle, ruffles or any of the fripperies that were the latest Parisian fashion. Her green morning suit was well cut and elegant, but nothing one could describe as ostentatious.
The duchess was probably one of those rich women who prided herself on her supposed frugality. Too restrained for lace or tulle, but happy enough to close down an entire restaurant on a whim.
Manuela took a few steps farther into the room until she was close enough to speak to her hostess without having to yell. This was tiresome, and Manuela would make sure to tell the high and mighty Duchess of Sundridge exactly that—if she ever deigned to turn around.
“Your Grace,” she said curtly. The woman’s back went up in surprise as though she’d been lost in thought. Something about the way she set her shoulders released a riot of hummingbirds inside Manuela. Her body tensed in anticipation and a funny tremor erupted throughout. She thought of something she’d read about animals sensing when an earthquake was approaching. That they could feel the vibrations of the incoming disaster long before humans did and would scurry away to find shelter. What was her body telling her? And why was this woman not turning around?
“I began to think you were going to leave all these oysters for me to eat, Señori—”
The duchess whirled to face her with the quickness of a woman much younger than what Manuela had imagined and froze midsentence. A blade of sunlight piercing through the window cast the duchess’s countenance in shadow for just a second, but even before she stepped back into the light, Manuela knew. The proud set of that chin and the lines of her graceful, slender neck were burned into her memory.
This couldn’t be real. She had never been this lucky. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep in the carriage. Or maybe Aurora’s constant droning about rules had finally put her in a hypnotic state.
But for a mirage she was stunningly vivid. “Is it really you?” Manuela took a careful step forward, her heart slamming so violently in her chest she was having a hard time breathing. Of all the... “I thought you’d be a stuffy old lady!” she exclaimed giddily. The duchess did not seem delighted by this coincidence. Her face was pinched and drawn, that seductive mouth now flat. Manuela’s true identity was clearly not a happy surprise for this woman.
“Miss Caceres Galvan,” the duchess finally said, stepping toward her with an outstretched hand, her voice politely distant. “Thank you for coming to see me today.” Was she supposed to pretend they didn’t know each other?
Youdon’tknow each other,a voice that sounded a lot like Aurora told her. It took her a moment to get a hold of herself. Her mind was in chaos and her feelings hurt, which was ridiculous.
“Your Grace,” she finally said reaching for the proffered hand. Just as it had been last night, the touch was shocking. How could this woman be so serious, so cold, when Manuela felt as though they were exchanging electricity through their palms?
“Take a seat, Miss Caceres Galvan.” At the duchess’s invitation, one of the footmen promptly pulled out a chair from the table for her to sit. The duchess remained standing on the other side, glancing at her with her ramrod-straight posture and such a shuttered expression most people would not notice the flutter in her jaw or the looks at Manuela’s dress she kept stealing.
Most people wouldn’t, but Manuela was an artist: she was trained in perceiving even the most minimal gestures, to capture any mannerisms hinting at a mood or that could assist in evoking a sentiment on the canvas. The duchess might be skilled in concealing emotions, but Manuela was just as talented in recognizing them. “No need to be so formal, Your Grace,” Manuela said sweetly, as she lowered herself into a plush chair. “Please, call me Manuela. We had such a warm first meeting, I feel as though we already know each other.” The minor flutter in the woman’s jaw evolved into a moderate vibration as Manuela leaned back and beamed at her.
“Champagne, madame?” offered a very handsome young man to her right.
With one eye on the duchess, Manuela turned her attention to him. “I would love some,” she chortled, like the prospect of a glass of the sparkling wine was the absolute highlight of her day. “You are quite good at that,” she praised as he poured the wine into her cup. He blushed, and the duchess’s mouth pursed forbiddingly. How had this same woman laughed delightedly at the sight of Manuela atop of her sideboard? “I do love the bubbles.” She directed that remark at the duchess, who was still standing by her own chair.
“Leave us, please.” The server was out of the room with impressive speed, which left them finally alone.
“Are we going to continue pretending last night didn’t happen?” Manuela asked genially as her lunch companion took her seat at long last.
“Miss Caceres Galvan,” she started, her tone dripping with condescension, and Manuela’s temper got the best of her.
“Manuela,” she requested in her sweetest voice, glancing into those lavender eyes, which were stormy with a mix of frustration and something far more volatile. She was sorely tempted to see what would happen if she tossed a match into that open flame.
