Had it only been a few days ago that Claire had thought her life was perfect? She’d forgotten quite how relentless and exacting Thibault could be. As entremetier, she was in charge of a crucial link in the chain of production, and she was determined not to let him down.
Claire had taken longer than she’d expected to get into the swing of things in a new kitchen. She had to learn Thibault’s system, focus on one section of the kitchen alone, and remember that her place was not to be the boss anymore or to argue when she didn’t agree with something the sous-chef told her to do.
“Again.” Thibault’s calm order to her to make a complicated sauce again from scratch rang in her ears until she started hearing it in her sleep.
Determined to prove herself to him, Claire practiced every morning before working a long and exhausting shift at the restaurant. By Saturday evening, she was so tired, she fell asleep on the Métro on the way home and nearly missed her stop.
It was late, past the brasserie’s closing time, and a fine drizzle made her glad of her raincoat. She would have let herself in to the apartment building and dashed upstairs to shed her wet things, but she noticed the office light in Le Chat was still burning.
“Mademoiselle! Thank goodness you’re here!” Louis must have been lying in wait because he stuck his head out of the front door and flagged Claire down.
“Is something wrong, Louis?” Claire followed him inside, hanging her raincoat on the stand at the front of the brasserie.
“It’s Chef. He’s hurt.” Louis threw the words behind him as he led the way.
“What?” With a surge of fear, Claire followed, her heart pounding.
“I told you not to tell her.” Hervé spoke around teeth that were clenched on the end of a bandage. He’d been tying it himself around his right hand. Clearly he’d rejected any offer of help from Louis.
“What happened?” Claire moved to inspect the damage.
“A burn,” said Louis. “It wasn’t me!” He held up his hands, palms out. “One of the new apprentices, he—”
“It’s not so bad,” Hervé interrupted. “There’s no need to fuss. Go up to bed. You must be exhausted.”
“Don’t be silly.” Now she looked at him properly, Claire realized his face had a sickly pallor underneath the stubble. “Just how bad is this burn?”
Ignoring Hervé’s protests, Claire sent Louis for the first aid kit. “Quickly, now.”
When Louis returned, she took out gauze and antiseptic and a salve and laid them out on the table. Gingerly she unwrapped the makeshift bandage with light, quick hands, pretending not to hear the sharp groan from Hervé as she attempted to lay the wound bare. The bandage had stuck to the wound.
Sucking a breath between her teeth at the ghastly sight of raw flesh, she said, “Oh, Hervé. I think we need to get you to a doctor.”
“No. It will be fine. Just . . . antiseptic.” He winced at the mention of it, preparing for the pain. “I doused it with vodka but I guess it will be best if you use this stuff.”
Stoic as he was, Hervé couldn’t help flinching and crying out with pain as she swiftly disinfected his wound and applied a new dressing. She’d heard of people using fish skins to keep burns moist but she wasn’t sure if it worked. And anyway, she couldn’t go out to buy fresh fish until early the next morning. “You’d best come upstairs to sleep tonight,” she said to him when she’d dismissed Louis and cleaned up the remnants of her handiwork.
Just barely, he managed to raise one side of his mouth in an attempt at a wicked grin, puffing out, “Thought you’d never . . . ask.”
“I’ll take the couch,” she said, smiling and shaking her head at his joke. “Come on.”
She grabbed a bottle of cognac on the way out—for medicinal purposes—and having locked up, took Hervé upstairs.
There was only a lamp burning in the entryway when Claire let them into the apartment. “The others must have gone to bed.”
She switched on the lights, guided Hervé to her room, and told him to sit on the bed. She poured him a large glass of brandy, which he drained immediately. Kneeling at his feet, she took off his shoes and set them aside, ignoring his protests. “You can’t do it. You won’t be able to use that hand.”
She sat back on her heels, deciding how best to proceed. “Stand up, I think,” she said, rising to her feet.
Before he could protest, she was undoing the snaps of his suspenders and removing his trousers. “This isn’t how I wanted this to happen,” Hervé protested. He seemed to be laughing now, despite the pain. Maybe the brandy was working. Claire didn’t know whether to be amused or exasperated.
“Quiet, you.” Avoiding looking at him directly, she hung his trousers over a chair, then returned to unbutton his collared shirt. He wore a vest underneath, but she saw enough of his big chest to make her pause for an instant before resuming her nursing duties.
She made him drink another glass of brandy before saying, “Do you think you can sleep now?”
Muzzily protesting, he swung his legs onto the bed and let her pull the covers over him. She had to bank the pillows at his side so he could rest his injured hand on them.
What else? She was worried about the possibility of infection. She’d seen worse burns, but they could still be very dangerous, and a chef without the full use of his hands was no longer a chef.
Instead of sleeping on the couch as she’d intended, Claire decided to sit in the armchair by the window so she could be there if he needed her in the night.
Wryly, she smiled. Who could have guessed that the first night they’d spend together would be like this? She settled down to rest, and must have been asleep in seconds, because the first thing she knew, light glimmered at the edges of the curtains and she could hear sounds of Margot going about her usual morning routine in the kitchen.
“The brasserie!” Out of habit, Claire sat up, before realizing that it was Sunday and she didn’t need to be anywhere, much less the brasserie, where she no longer worked. A second after that, she realized she was not in bed, as usual, but in an armchair.
Recollection flooded her mind. She looked over to the bed but it was empty. Someone—Hervé, obviously—had put an extra blanket over Claire as she slept. That was the wrong way around. She was supposed to be looking after him.
Had he left? She supposed he must have.
Rubbing her stiff neck, Claire went out to get coffee, and stopped short. The three of them—Hervé, Margot, and Gina—were sitting at the table helping themselves to Hervé’s eggs Florentine.
“Tell me you didn’t make that,” said Claire.
“You don’t think either of us did, do you?” asked Gina. “Anyway, that’s beside the point. We both woke up to find a strange man in our midst. I think we are owed an explanation, missy.”
“But it’s not like that,” protested Claire. “Hervé injured his hand last night. He was in a lot of pain, so I brought him upstairs.”
Gina lifted an eyebrow.
“I slept in an armchair!” said Claire, half laughing, but also strangely close to tears.
“Well that was just silly,” said Margot.
Hervé got up. “I’d better get moving.”
“But it’s Sunday,” said Claire. And thank goodness for that. How would he manage at the brasserie?
Hervé shrugged. “I’ve got things to do.” Then his eyes softened as he looked at Claire. “But if you’d like to come with me, I’d welcome the company.”
On the evening of the masquerade, Claire took the night off from the restaurant and Gina put the cover on her typewriter. Margot did her own hair and makeup, but the other women fussed over her as if they were actually helping, and that was just as good. To feel pampered and cherished in this way was such a novel sensation, Margot savored every minute.
But she was regretting bitterly that kiss on the doorstep that she’d shared with Andrew Mountbatten. She’d politely refused his offer to be her escort this evening, fibbing that she had to be there early to oversee the final touches to the party arrangements. Charlie had understood and offered to send a car to pick her up, which she’d accepted gratefully and with relief. She didn’t trust herself around Andrew Mountbatten.
When all was ready, Gina donned Margot’s cotton gloves and helped her into the gown. As Claire did up her fastenings at the back, Margot felt like a princess in a fairy tale—one that could not help but end happily. That this was an illusion destined to last no longer than Cinderella’s pumpkin coach was a thought she could put out of her mind for now.
“Magnifique!” breathed Claire. “But what are we missing?”
Gina stepped back, arms folded. Then she clicked her fingers. “Gloves.”
She brought Margot the elbow-length gloves she’d worn to the embassy ball. “Pity we aren’t the same shoe size. Those are divine.” Margot’s heels were Roger Vivier, bought with her staff discount from Dior. She lifted the skirt of her gown and pointed a toe, admiring the soft sparkle of diamantés on the slender strap.
Gina gave Margot’s skirts a final tweak. “There. You are ready.” The doorbell sounded.
Claire jumped up. “And just in the nick of time.”
“Charlie said she’d send a car.” Margot’s stomach flipped over. In all of the excitement of getting ready, she’d forgotten to be nervous. “Will you ask the driver to wait a minute? I need to get my purse.”
She snatched up the little clutch Gina had lent her and filled it with her things: handkerchief, comb, lipstick. What else? Money, just in case. Her hands were shaking as she closed the clasp.
“Get a grip, Margot MacFarlane.” She whispered the words to herself but they only made her feel more wretched. She might pretend to be the same fun-loving girl she’d been the last time she was in Paris, but a lot had changed since then. What if tonight turned out to be a disaster? Charlie had been counting on Margot to help create something spectacular.
Her other fear, that mixing with the social circle to which Mountbatten belonged would be sure to end in her husband finding out where she was, had not gone away. However, the more time passed, the more often she saw people she knew at Dior. She had never heard one word from her husband following those encounters, and that had made her fear lessen as time went by. Besides, Gina was right. Even if he did find her, what could he do, after all?
Lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders, Margot looked at herself in the mirror. The young woman staring back was no Cinderella. Her belief in fairy-tale princes had shattered long ago. But that didn’t mean she needed to deny herself happiness where she found it. No matter what, she meant to enjoy herself tonight.
Her white, lacy mask, which Béatrice had made for her out of remnants from the Dior ateliers, was positioned on a long stick. Originally, Margot had decided to attend only if her mask could be kept firmly in place, but she no longer wished to hide.
With a deep, bracing breath, she glided out to meet her driver.
On the drawing room threshold, she hesitated. Gina seemed to be making Charlie’s chauffeur unusually welcome. She was in the process of handing him a martini. How odd.
Then the driver turned his head and with a shock, she realized why. Andrew Mountbatten stood there, dressed to the nines in a black tuxedo. His dark hair was brushed back from his face, but as if an impatient hand had already run through it, his fringe flopped over his right eyebrow.
Margot’s heart gave a sharp, heavy pound. “What are you doing here?” She thought she’d made it clear to Charlie that she didn’t want to accept Andrew’s invitation to escort her tonight.
“Getting the third degree from us,” quipped Gina with a smile.
“Speak for yourself,” said Claire. “Me, I’ve been very pleasant.”
“Wait till she’s on her third martini,” Gina said.
Andrew did not react to their banter. Margot could tell he hadn’t been listening. He was too busy staring at her. “Margot. You look . . .”
“He’s speechless,” said Claire with delight. “Margot est très jolie, monsieur, n’est-ce pas?”
“‘Pretty’ isn’t the word.” He set down his glass and offered her his arm. “Shall we?” He nodded to Gina and Claire. “Delightful to meet you.”
“Delightful,” drawled Gina.
It would have been bad manners to dig in her heels and refuse to go anywhere with him, much as instinct told her to do so. Andrew Mountbatten didn’t deserve to be rejected in front of her friends, even if he had overstepped the line Margot had so carefully drawn between them.
She slipped the thin chain of Gina’s purse over her wrist, transferred her mask to the same hand, then tucked her other hand into Andrew’s crooked elbow. This wasn’t at all how she’d expected the evening to begin. In spite of her nerves and all the reasons she shouldn’t encourage him, she couldn’t suppress a giddy leap of the spirit as she went with him to the door.
“Have a wonderful time!” called Claire.
From Gina: “Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!”
Margot was surprised to find that Mountbatten’s vehicle of choice was an old Daimler, and that there was no chauffeur in sight. After helping her into the passenger seat, he slid behind the wheel. “Right,” he said, putting the car in gear. “Off we go.”
Margot grinned. “I’d expected something a little sportier.” Her father owned a car like this back in Sydney and at this reminder of him, her heart ached. She would write to him and to her mother, too. It had been too long.
“Oh, this isn’t mine,” said Andrew, “but ball gowns don’t tend to do too well in sports cars.”
“Ah,” she murmured. “My gown thanks you.”
At a crossing, he stopped and turned to regard her. “It’s not just the gown, and it’s not just your beauty, either. You are sparkling, tonight, Margot. Every time I look at you, you take my breath away.”
She was finding it hard to breathe herself. “Thank you,” she managed to say. “You scrub up rather well yourself.”
Her flippancy broke the tension between them. He laughed as they moved off again. “Thank you. I am not terribly keen on formal parties but my sister tells me this one will be memorable.” He glanced at her, then shifted gear and smoothly took a corner. “You’ve been kind. She is quite lonely, here in Paris.”
“But she has tons of friends,” protested Margot. “She certainly brings flocks of them to the store.”
“Hmm. But you know what those kinds of friendships are like. Flimsy, easily discarded. Volatile, even. I’m glad you’ve befriended Charlie—dare I say—in spite of your reluctance to encourage me?”
The last part of that sentence had been intended to fluster her. Coolly, she ignored it. “There is no need to thank me. I don’t make friends out of kindness or charity.”
“Will you allow me to thank you for your help with the party, then?”
She smiled. “That, I will allow.”
“Here we are.” The crunch of gravel under the car’s tires heralded a long, tree-lined avenue that ended in a magnificent château. But rather than join the queue of vehicles processing like a train of caterpillars down the long driveway, Andrew rolled down the window and spoke to the attendant who stood at the barrier to a side road. A rapid exchange of French and then the attendant shifted the barrier and waved Andrew through. Margot swiveled to looked back and saw the barrier being replaced again after them.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Shortcut,” said Andrew. “Well, usually I’d say it’s the scenic route but tonight it will get us there faster.”
As promised, despite skirting a small ornamental lake, they arrived at the back of the château in no time. Margot got out without waiting for Andrew to help her, entranced by the reality of the concept she had only visualized in her mind.
Instead of deciding on a Marie Antoinette concept, which had seemed to Margot quite an obvious choice, she had suggested Charlie choose a carnival theme, with an adult-sized carousel and traditional fun fair entertainment, from a coconut shy to pétanque, with the prizes all sourced from Dior’s Grande Boutique. Fire-eaters on stilts and harlequins juggling clubs strolled through the crowd. A small fountain ran with pink champagne.
The atmosphere was lively and unexpected—even a little brash—but why go through life always being dignified? Everything had come together brilliantly. “Can I get you a drink?” asked Andrew, indicating the fountain.
“Yes, please.”
As he moved away, Charlotte, resplendent in an azure silk gown complemented by the aurora borealis necklace from Dior, hurried up. She gripped Margot’s hands tightly and bounced on her toes, her eyes sparkling through her butterfly mask. “Come and meet some people.”
“But I’m waiting for your brother,” said Margot.
Charlie followed the direction of Margot’s gaze. “Oh, dear! He’s been buttonholed by the British ambassador. You’ll be waiting a long time.”
By now, a group of men had gathered around Andrew. Having filled two glasses with pink champagne, he was laughing and angling his body away as if trying to extricate himself.
Really, Margot thought with an inward sigh, no man had a right to be that dashing unless he was arrogant or stupid as well, and Mountbatten was neither. To top it off, he loved books and he respected her opinions. Best of all—
“Enjoying the view?” Charlie’s voice in her ear made her start. “Not that I can see it myself, but most women find him devastatingly attractive.”
Margot swallowed, shook her head. “I was merely waiting for my champagne.”
“He likes you very much, you know,” Charlie said, and for once, there was a serious note in her voice.
Margot didn’t know what to say. The truth would lead to expectations she couldn’t fulfill.
“It’s the first time I’ve seen him like that since Fleur,” said Charlie. “The girl he wanted to marry.”
That caught Margot’s attention. The stab of jealousy she felt did not bode well. She must not forget she was a married woman, hardly free to indulge in romance or love. Or jealousy, for that matter.
“Oh, you needn’t worry too much about her,” said Charlie. “It was nearly a decade ago. Ancient history. The family forbade the match. Fleur was a divorcée and the Mountbattens, you know . . . We’re direct descendants of Queen Victoria, so we’re not allowed to marry anyone who has been divorced.”
A stone dropped into the pit of Margot’s stomach, cold and hard and heavy.
It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t. Then why was Margot finding it hard to catch her breath? Still she stood silently, hoping Charlie would continue, praying she wouldn’t.
“Fleur died, you see,” Charlie said softly. “Andrew was bitter and angry for a long, long time. He hasn’t been serious about any other woman since. Until you.”
As if he heard Charlie’s words, Andrew glanced over and his gaze locked on Margot’s.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Charlie with a soft laugh, gliding away.
As if compelled, Andrew shouldered past his companions and moved toward Margot.
It was too much. The enchanted romance of the evening, wearing this wonderful gown, and a man like Andrew seeking her out with that look on his face.
With a great lump in her throat, Margot turned and started walking toward the coconut shy, where the crowd was thick. She threaded herself through the gaps, doing her best to elude Andrew’s pursuit. She didn’t look back to see if he followed her.
She reached the edge of the crowd and realized she’d been heading toward the place where Andrew had parked his car.
“Margot, wait!”
She turned to see him loping down the slope toward her, his hands now empty of drinks. “Is something wrong?” he demanded. A lick of fringe was falling into his eyes. Impatiently, he thrust a hand through it to push it back. “What did Charlie say to you?”
“It’s not anything that Charlie said.” Margot met his gaze. “I don’t belong here, that’s all.”
His dark eyes regarded her seriously. “You mean you don’t belong with me.”
“I’m not with you. Not in that way.”
“Margot . . . I am utterly captivated by you. And call me arrogant but I can’t be the only one who feels it.”
“I’m married, Andrew.” Her voice shook. “My real name is Margot, not Marie. Margot MacFarlane.” She would never use her husband’s name again.
He stared at her, stunned. Hoarsely, he said, “What?” If she’d ever doubted the sincerity of his regard, the horrified expression on his face convinced her. He stepped back, his hands dropping to his sides.
She longed to explain, to tell him all of it, that she’d left her husband behind in Australia and was never going back. That Andrew hadn’t been mistaken in her feelings for him.
Suddenly she was furious, resenting the years that had been stolen from her. Had she really thought that a Dior gown—no matter how glorious—would turn back the clock, allow her to reclaim those lost years, her innocence, her ability to trust?
Somehow the fact that Andrew Mountbatten couldn’t marry her even if she secured a divorce made it worse. Now it wasn’t just a matter of overcoming the fears her husband had instilled in her; the very fact of having married him would taint her forever. Just when she’d begun to feel more like her old self.
Suddenly she realized she was weeping. She turned away, wishing she could run back to the apartment, but they were miles from Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
A hand settled on her shoulder. “Margot, my sweet girl. Don’t cry.” Andrew’s voice was warm and steady. “Let me take you home.” Wryly he added, “I promise I’ll behave like a gentleman.”
She’d expected that they would spend the drive home without speaking and dreaded it the way she used to dread the cold silences she endured throughout her marriage whenever she’d displeased her husband.
But as she stared, unseeing, at the moonlight glinting on the ornamental lake as they whizzed past, Andrew spoke. “Had any more thoughts about going into business as a literary agent?”
Glad of the change of subject, she answered, though with some constraint, “I thought I’d start small, with Gina’s book, and go from there.”
“If you’d care for some guidance, I’d be happy to assist,” said Andrew. “No strings attached.”
“I’d be grateful.” But she had no intention of taking him up on the offer. That didn’t seem like the right thing to do.
“I hope you won’t feel awkward about it,” said Andrew. Gently, he added, “I don’t think my feelings will change, but I am well able to control them, you know.” She sensed, rather than saw, him smile into the darkness. “That’s one thing we British are rather good at, you know—repressing our emotions.”
When at last they arrived at Le Chat, the brasserie was still buzzing with patrons. Margot got out her key and Mountbatten took it from her, sending a thrill of fear and anticipation through her. She couldn’t help thinking of the last time they’d stood in this doorway.
He unlocked the door to the foyer of the apartment building. Handing the key back to her, he said, “Will you promise not to be a stranger? I do want to help you set up your agency. We can meet in my office if you like.”
“Thank you,” she said. She swallowed hard. “Thank you for not trying to push me or . . . or persuade me.” It was a novel experience to have a man respect her decision when it went against his own interests.
His smile held a trace of self-mockery. “Oh, I haven’t quite given up yet. You don’t love your husband or you would be with him now, not with me.” His voice roughened. “Damn it, Margot, I don’t know how this happened. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted a woman before.”
His words rocked her so hard off-balance, she had to put her back to the wall to steady herself. Before she could think of a response, he turned on his heel and walked away.