The little white dog craned his neck from his mistress’ embrace, sniffing the air near the parcel, and she instinctively moved her pet away.
“It is no trick,” said Avers, gesturing for her to take the parcel.
It was his good fortune to come across the Comte’s mistress by chance and be able to engage her so easily. The purchase of the dog biscuits was calculated. She would be forced by politeness to speak to him further. That was if she stopped looking daggers at him.
“I shall not pay you back for this,” Mademoiselle Cadeaux said, taking the offered parcel and immediately brandishing it back at Avers.
This action caused the dog to try and leap from her arm to get the package between his teeth and she very nearly dropped the creature. “Lutin, stop it!”
“I wouldn’t dream of accepting payment,” he said, the calmness of his tone at odds with hers.
She eyed Avers and then said ungenerously, “You were robbed. That man is a thief. The biscuits are only worth half of what you paid.”
“To aid a beautiful woman and her beast, I consider the biscuits worth at least four sous,” he said smoothly.
He had not expected such a display of raw emotion from a well-practised mistress. And the anger was about spending money which he had no doubt was given her by the Comte. Intriguing.
So, was it not the money she was angry at, but rather his assumption that she needed his help at all? Most women would be happy having a gentleman rescue them from such a situation. Worse, the compliment he had just paid her had not resulted in a smile.
No, she was frowning at him. If he had been susceptible to feminine beauty at this time in his life, he might have found the petulant, delicate face charming. But he was not. The last year had taught him just how false such charm could be. He was immune. That fact suited his cause, for he intended to gain Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s good graces, and use her access to the Comte to smooth his journey into the French noble’s confidences. Now, if only he could deal with that frown.
CHAPTER FIVE
The annoying Englishman did not appear to be leaving. Emilie continued to frown at him, and he continued to smile lazily at her, completely unaffected by her expression or her tone.
He was insufferable.
Paused as they were, in the midst of a stream of people following the central path through the gardens, Emilie found herself jostled more than once. Lutin began growling in her arms.
“Good day—” she began, determined to leave this interfering Englishman in her wake.
“It’s getting rather crowded,” the Duke cut in. “Perhaps I may escort you and your canine companion to one of the smaller paths for respite?” He offered her his arm.
Respite? Had she been so transparent in her frustration with the crowds? How vexing. This man had caught her unawares and she was allowing him to read her like a book. Her outburst a few moments ago had already made her feel foolish. Why must men behave as though she constantly needed managing?
Another person jostled her and Lutin barked. She soothed the little dog, cooing in his ear, and then looked back to the Duke of Tremaine’s offered arm.
“Very well.” If he was not going to leave, she may as well make use of his taller figure. He would be excellent at parting the crowds.
She slipped her hand, still holding the parcel, onto his arm, and to her surprise he took the biscuits from her.
“Allow me to carry them for you,” he said, depositing the package in his pocket.
The kind gesture from the self-serving aristocrat surprised her. It would have been insignificant if not for two reasons. Firstly, the Duke had, up until now, appeared as selfish as any other well-born gentleman. Secondly, no one went out of their way to show kindness to a woman of Emilie’s station.
They had almost reached the centre of the Jardin des Tuileries when the Duke turned them left. The crowds began to thin. On either side were formal gardens, shrubs and flowers arranged in lines and borders, and ahead a set of shallow steps leading up to an elevated path.
In spite of his small display of kindness, Emilie was formulating an excuse to take her leave of the Duke—with the hard-sought dog biscuits in her possession—when he spoke again.
“Might your brave hound like to stretch his short legs? As delectable as being in your arms must be, I can’t help but think the beast should be set free.”
Emilie resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his sycophancy and any warming she had felt towards him immediately cooled. “Now we are past that last entertainer, I shall put him down,” she said. “Lutin cannot abide monkeys and he has had an altercation with that little black one before.”
The Duke looked back to where she indicated. A young dark-haired man was laughing and joking with the crowds, a tiny monkey wearing a striped suit sitting upon his shoulders, pretending to pick fleas out of his hair and throw them at the crowd. Cries of surprise and laughter rang out.
“Ah, a simian tormentor.” Tremaine nodded knowingly. “You know best, Mademoiselle.”
She was at once pleased that he had deferred to her better judgement and suspicious that his tone was not in the least sincere.
She had received the distinct impression, when they first met, that he disapproved of her. It was to be expected from the more conservative in Society. However commonplace it was for a noble to have a mistress, there were those who disapproved, and she had assumed this Duke was one of them. An irony, considering his penchant for cock fights, elopements and gaming.
Yet here he was flattering her and not leaving her company. What did he want? Did he hope to steal her attentions away from the Comte de Vergelles who he had seen her with before? Or did he just take perverse pleasure in provoking others?
They reached the end of the path and ascended the few steps up onto the gravel walkway that ran along the edge of the Jardin des Tuileries. There were now very few others walking in the same direction. A group of ladies were some fifty yards ahead and another couple strolled a fair way behind. Observing these distances and considering it safe, Emilie removed her hand from the Duke’s arm, and bent to place Lutin on the floor, allowing him to wander on his lead and sniff to his heart’s content.
“Tell me,” the English nobleman said, offering his arm again.
Emilie wished very much she could refuse, but it would be impolite not to take it. She could not quite read the Duke, and she could read people well—but he appeared as a series of contradictions that made her feel uneasy.
“How long have you been in Paris?”
The directness of his question put her on her guard. She said nothing for a few moments and then, as if she had not heard him, asked, “Are you in Paris long, Your Grace?” Was it cruel to hope he said no?
“As long as my uncle deems fit,” he replied, amusement in his voice.
“Ah, the cock pit,” Emilie said.
