The Princess & the Pea (9 page)

"It was a delightful evening, Jared," she said softly. "Beautiful. Almost... like magic."

He handed her into the cab. "You were right, I think. I believe in magic far more than I ever suspected." He hesitated, an odd, haunted look flashing across his eyes, his tone abruptly serious. "May I see you again tomorrow?"

She tilted her head and smiled. "I have not yet seen the city from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Perhaps we could meet there? Late morning?"

He nodded sharply, closed the cab door and signaled to the driver.

Cece leaned back against the worn leather seat and savored a sense of anticipation. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would tell her of his feelings for her. She hadn't the least doubt his emotions were as deep and intense as her own. One could not possibly share a kiss like that without feeling something far greater than mere lust.

He was unlike anyone she'd ever met. She didn't doubt he would one day achieve his dream. She could see his commitment in the deep blue of his eyes, touch his strength of purpose in the power of his arms around her and hear the fervor of his dedication in every word he spoke. This was a man one could willingly sacrifice one's own dreams for to help him achieve his. This was a man with whom to share a life. A future. A love.

She sighed with contentment and rested her head on the back of the seat. A smile from somewhere deep within her blossomed slowly on her face. She had never known sensations like this before. But then, never before had she been well and truly kissed.

Jared strode toward the Champ de Mars, the Eiffel Tower looming before him. He spotted Cece's unmistakable figure some distance ahead and his determined step faltered, then slowed.

He pulled to a stop and studied the scene, far enough away to watch the sisters without fear of detection. Cece, tall and lithe, sported a stylish if somewhat absurd hat, and he smiled at the sight of it. She stood over her sister's seated form beside what appeared to be an artist's easel.

At once his smile faded. He clenched his jaw and fisted his hands at his sides. A leaden weight lay in the pit of his stomach. A heavy vise gripped his chest. For all he wanted to hear her voice, revel in her smile, hold her in his arms, his courage failed him.

He did not fear what he had come to tell her, although it was perhaps the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do. Now that he saw her, at most a few strides away, he suspected—no, he
knew
—that if he spoke to her face-to-face he would not be able to resist taking her in his arms. And then he would never let her go.

Jared had spent a long, sleepless night wrestling with unanswered questions of responsibility and honor and desire and, God help him, even love. With the dawn came the inescapable truth that this new and previously unknown feeling was surely love. What else could be so compelling? What else could be so painful?

Cece laughed, and even at this distance the sound tugged at his heart, a sound resonant with energy and the sheer joy of living. This was a woman who could be more than a mere wife: this was a woman who could be a partner. His partner. A mate not simply for his life but for his soul.

Together, they could make his dreams come true. Together they could build his lone automobile into an empire. Together, they could share what would surely be as close to what he, or any other man, could ever come to paradise on this earth.

Jared didn't care if she was the daughter of a butcher or a king. And perhaps in another time, another place, love alone would be enough. Today ... it was not.

Slowly, he withdrew' an envelope from his waistcoat. He had written the note it held by the first light of day in the event he did not have the fortitude to do what he must. It was not so much a question of strength, or even courage, but rather honor. With Cece's blatant disregard of convention, enthusiastic response to his kiss, and trusting innocence, he had no doubt he could make her his, take her for his pleasure alone. But given the depressed state of the family finances, he was not free to offer her more. He could not make her his wife.

He turned, and his gaze fell on a group of small boys playing on the grass. He gestured to the oldest, a lad of about eight. "Boy?"

"Oui, monsieur?"

Quickly Jared explained the errand, pointed out Cece to the child and handed him the note and a coin. The boy grinned slyly and winked. It seemed even at this tender age a Frenchman was a Frenchman, and well versed in the little intrigues of love.

Jared sent the child on his way. He cast one last greedy glance in Cece's direction, as if to burn her image into his mind forever, men quickly strode away.

Putting her behind him, figuratively and literally, also meant an end to his ambitions for his automobile. His own dreams were inconsequential compared to his family's need for him to marry wealth and guarantee their financial survival. There wasn't a chance in hell that the heiress he so badly needed to find and wed would understand her husband, a member of one of England's noblest families, dabbling like a common tinkerer in the development of motorcars. Not like Cece.

His resolve hardened and his step quickened. There would be no more delay in his marriage plans. Jared meant what he'd said to his mother: he would make every effort to win the next American heiress to come along, regardless of who she was or what she was like. It was past time to put away foolish dreams of automobiles and a tall, dark-eyed nymph.

If nothing else, he had been fortunate to at least taste that curious, intriguing ache artists exalted and poets wept over. Fortunate ... or cursed? He didn't know and didn't care. Each step carried him farther from her. and he acknowledged one searing truth.

Jared Grayson, the twenty-first Earl of Graystone. would never be the same again.

"Why didn't you just tell them we were going to the Louvre again?" Emily gazed suspiciously at the canvas set before her.

"Don't be silly, Emily," Cece said airily. "Even Mother and Father would have questioned yet another museum jaunt." And it was imperative that she not arouse the suspicions of her parents at this point. Soon, perhaps, she would reveal everything to them. Well, not quite everything.

She had decided to tell Jared of her feelings for him. It was what a modern woman, a woman headed firmly toward the twentieth century, a woman who believed in progress, would do.

"But this ..." Emily gestured helplessly at the artist's paraphernalia confronting her.

"This is perfect." Cece's tone rang firm. "I simply told Mother after all the masterpieces you had seen you wanted to attempt to paint yourself. To discover the artist within you. After all, you love—"

"I know, I know," Emily gritted her teeth. "I love art." She shook her head. "I still can't believe Mother accepted this farfetched story of yours about my sudden interest in smearing paint on canvas." She glared at her sister through narrowed eyes. "She didn't even ask me about it."

"I told her not to," Cece beamed smugly. "I must admit it was quite clever. I simply suggested that she not make a fuss over your artistic endeavors until you knew whether or not you had any real talent." She shrugged in a modest manner. "I told her it would embarrass you."

Emily's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Embarrass me? What could be more embarrassing than sitting here, in front of the Eiffel Tower—and all of Paris, I might add—and attempting to paint? I don't know how to paint."

"Honestly, Em," Cece sighed in exasperation. Why couldn't the child be a bit more cooperative? And where on earth was Jared? He should have been here by now. "How difficult can it be? Lord knows, when I was incarcerated at Miss Rutherford's Finishing School for Young Ladies they had us painting anything that didn't move. We were forced to commit to paper for all eternity everything from that astonishingly ugly building to leftover fruit from the day's luncheon. Didn't they teach you to paint?"

"Watercolors," Emily said under her breath.

"There, you see."
Cece
said triumphantly. "I knew it."

It was Emily's turn to sigh. "Perhaps you were unaware of this, but at Miss Rutherford's I was far better known for spilling paint than placing it on paper."

"Oh, dear," Cece drew her brows together in a thoughtful frown. "That could well explain Mother's obvious astonishment when I explained your artistic aspirations."

"No doubt," Emily said dryly.

Cece brightened. "Be that as it may, you are older now and perhaps talent is something that can be developed even if one has no natural gift."

Emily tossed her a pointed stare. "I thought this was simply a ruse for this morning only, so that you would be able to meet your Mr. Grayson." Her eyes widened with horror. "Surely you do not intend for me to continue with this cultural farce? This travesty against the very world of art itself?"

"Only so long as is necessary. Now," she said briskly, "why don't you begin?"

Emily turned helpless eyes to her. "How?"

"How? Well..." Cece surveyed the materials she'd had the hotel concierge purchase for her. Emily had worried needlessly. These were oil paints, not watercolors. No doubt this would be much simpler, not at all difficult, easy as pie. And Emily needed to begin her efforts: otherwise Cece would feel at least a twinge of guilt when Jared arrived and she left her sister to her own devices. She wished he would appear. It grew increasingly difficult to concentrate on something as insignificant as art when her future with the man she loved was at stake. "Here."

She selected a tube of paint and squeezed a black glob onto a small wooden palette.

"Oh, that is artistic." Emily said sarcastically.

Cece ignored her. She dabbed a brush in the rich, shiny goo and slashed several quick strokes on the canvas.

"There." Satisfaction rang in her voice. She handed the brush to Emily. "I told you it was easy."

"Easy, yes." Emily's tone was dubious. She stared at the elongated triangle. "But what is it?"

Cece gazed critically at the attempt. "Why, it's the Eiffel Tower, of course."

Emily crossed her arms over her chest. "If it is, it's leaning."

Cece tilted her head. "Not if you look at it properly."

The girls exchanged glances, and then burst into laughter.

"Mademoiselle?"

Cece turned at the unexpected interruption. A young boy, slightly grubby and more than a little impish, thrust an envelope into her hands. The child tipped his hat, grinned cheekily and skipped off.

"What was that all about?" Emily said curiously.

Cece laughed. "Probably just a fledgling art critic." She turned over the envelope. There was nothing written on it, not even her name. Odd. Who could ... Jared.

Jared was to meet her here even now. Why would he ... ? Her breath caught. Slowly, she ripped open the envelope, noting, in the back of her mind, the slight trembling of her hands.

She withdrew a single folded sheet. The vague scent of bay rum drifted up from the paper.

My dearest Cece,

I regret the formality of a note instead of speaking to you directly, but it is perhaps for the best.

Her heart fell.

I have been remiss in not informing you of certain responsibilities and duties that weigh heavily in my life. Obligations I dare not ignore.

Her throat tightened.

You accused me of being an honorable man, and for the first time in my life it is a claim I regret. Honor demands truth, and truth dictates that I inform you that I can never offer you the future you so richly de
serve. Therefore, our association is at an end.

Pain stabbed through her.

You will remain in my heart forever.

Jared.

She stared mutely at the words before her, then instinctively crushed the note in her hand.

Emily's brows furrowed in concern. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Cece struggled to keep her voice level, fought the hysterical desire to weep, to vent the ache that threatened to overwhelm her. "It appears my plans have changed."

Instant understanding shone in Emily's eyes. "Oh dear," she murmured.

Cece blinked back insistent tears and forced a light tone, as if she hadn't a care in the world, as if her soul had not shattered. "It's quite unimportant. Nothing to worry about. Now," she adopted her best businesslike manner, "why don't you see if you can capture some of those lovely blossoms on canvas?"

"But—"

"No, Em, it's fine."
Cece
said with a firmness that belied the growing misery within her.

Emily cast her an appraising glance, tinged with sympathy, then silently turned back to her work. Cece watched her dab paint on canvas and the sisters fell silent for long moments. Cece murmured an occasional appreciative comment, but her mind was far from artistic pursuits.

Never before had she lost her heart to a man. Never before had she even considered sacrificing her own dreams to support and encourage those of a man. Never before had she suspected the existence of pain like this.

How could he? How could he callously toss her aside after they'd shared their thoughts, their hopes, their desires in life? And beyond that, how could she have been so completely wrong to believe, even for an instant, that he shared her feelings?

Jared. His very name burned somewhere deep in the core of her being with a fiery ache.

If this was the price one paid for love, she wanted no part of it. She squared her shoulders in an unconscious gesture and determination flowed into her. She would pursue her own desires of the independent life of a journalist. But first they would return to London, where she would do everything in her power to entice and conquer Marybeth's earl in a duel of hearts.

For a moment she almost pitied the man. He had no idea that an obstinate American was about to storm the castles of his life. No idea of the fury triggered by his arrogance to one woman and the arrogance of a fellow countryman to another. No idea he was the object of a complete stranger's unrelenting ire.

It was no longer a question of British snobbery toward Americans, nor even of her disdain for men who married for money. No, now it was a crusade for any woman who had ever been duped in the name of love, for every tear wept and every heart broken. She would make an example of the earl he would not soon forget.