Dark Beginnings

dark beginnings The Phantom Diaries: Prequel BY kailin gow

dark beginnings: Book 1 of The Phantom Diaries Beginnings Series Published by THE EDGE THE EDGE is an imprint of Sparklesoup LLC Copyright © 2010 Kailin Gow All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher

except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact: THE EDGE at Sparklesoup P.O. Box 60834 Irvine, CA 92602 www.sparklesoup.com First Edition. Printed in the United States of America. ISBN: 1597489719 ISBN: 978-1597489713

DEDICATION THANK YOU EDITORS AND TEAM AT THE EDGE FOR WORKING SO HARD TO MAKE THE WORLD OF VERONIQUE AND THE ARAGONS COME ALIVE. ALSO THANK YOU TO DARLA FOR THE BEAUTIFUL COVER. AND LAST, BUT NOT LEAST, THANK YOU READERS FOR GIVING THE PHANTOM DIARIES A CHANCE. THANK YOU BELOVED FANS OF PHANTOM DIARIES AND MY OTHER BOOKS FOR ALL YOUR SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGEMENT. YOU GUYS ROCK!

Prologue Paris 1859 Just weeks after her eighteenth birthday, Veronique was finally allowed a bit of freedom. As the horses slowed their pace and trotted up to a charming and elegant townhouse, she stared out the carriage with excitement and anticipation of the adventure to come. Paris, she thought. If there ever was a city alive and vibrant, it was Paris. “Mademoiselle Veronique.” A tall, thin and exceptionally well-dressed woman stepped out with true regal finesse and glided down the steps to greet her. “How wonderful it is to finally meet you.” With a helping hand from the driver, Veronique got out of the carriage and quickly straightened her skirts before facing her new chaperone. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Madame Fourquin. My father has told me so much about you.” As elegant and beautiful as she was, the sunlight revealed a little more of Madame’s age. Little lines were evident in the corners of her eyes and deep creases surrounded her smile. Maturity had been a strong point for Veronique’s father. He’d been adamant in his desire to see

her well versed in etiquette and fine manners and Madame Fourquin was deemed perfect for the task. “And how is Monsieur Dumouchel?” While the driver tended to Veronique’s bags, Madame Fourquin led Veronique to the door of the impressive townhouse. “Quite busy,” Veronique said. “Work on that opera house is proving to be a larger task than anyone had anticipated. They’ve been besieged by a number of delays and Papa is going to be in town for more weeks than he’d originally planned. “A more lengthy stay in Paris is never an unpleasant ordeal.” Madame Fourquin smiled and patted Veronique’s arm. “I totally agree, but Father has a different view on the matter. Work is work, whether it’s in Paris or Devonshire it doesn’t really matter much to him.” The interior of the townhouse was just as elegant as the exterior promised. Fine woodwork, intricate details and luxurious fabrics were the mainstay. The furnishings were all small and delicate. The boudoir, a fanciful burst of dusty pink with plenty of lace, was touched by Madame’s feminine hand. The foyer, grounded with heavy wood furniture was topped off with a whimsy of white and yellow fabrics that brightened the room. “What a magnificent home you have, Madame Fourquin.” “I do love to keep an immaculate residence. I hope

you’ll be vigilant in maintaining your quarters tidy.” “Of course.” Madame Fourquin led the way up the stairs and turned to the third door on her right. “Your room has an exceptional view of the gardens, but also overlooks the street below.” The large room was more than Veronique had expected. Decorated almost exclusively in white, the room was elegant while still retaining a youthful charm. A thick tapestry hung on the far wall, depicting a summer’s day picnic while the other wall boasted a whimsical charcoal caricature. “How creative and unique,” Veronique said as she approached the sketch. “Wherever did you find such a piece of art?” “I do enjoy encouraging new talent in Paris. This was done by a young man who I found to have much promise.” Veronique approached the framed sketched and read the scribbled signature. “Monet?” “Yes, dear. He certainly is impressive to watch as he works.” Madame Fourquin walked to the large armoire that would house Veronique’s wardrobe. “As you can see, you’ll have plenty of storage space. Veronique nodded, pleased with her new living space. The two large windows took up much of the remaining walls, letting in a breathtaking amount of sunlight and fresh air. Glancing down at the small garden, Veronique knew where she’d be spending many late afternoons, reading or tending to her needlepoint.

“This street is relatively quiet so you shouldn’t be bothered by passersby.” Veronique headed for the other window and looked down. The driver was still pulling out her valises, but he’d been interrupted by two young men who seemed engrossed in a deep conversation with him. Madame Fourquin came to stand beside her. “The young Aragon men,” she said with a touch of surprise. “Really?” Veronique said. She’d heard the name before, often associated with great wealth and power. She’d never imagined they could be so young and attractive. Though one was fair and elegant while the other was dark and raw, they both carried themselves with an air of unflappable confidence. “I do hope you’ll be comfortable here.” Madame Fourquin seemed eager to change the subject. “I’ve no doubt I will.” Veronique couldn’t take her eyes off the two young men. How wonderful indeed it was going to be living in Paris. ********* On hearing the feminine voice Martin Aragon looked up to catch a glimpse of the young woman by the window and was immediately enchanted. Though she demurely turned away and returned her attention to Madame Fourquin the moment he raised his glance to her, he was mesmerized by the exquisite beauty of this young woman. Her dark hair was pinned up in an innocent chignon that

displayed her lack of refinement, but added to her allure; naïve and unrefined. Martin was instantly drawn to the spark he caught in her eye as she conversed with Madame Fourquin. “Just my type,” Philippe challenged as he followed the direction of Martin’s gaze. “She’s nothing like your type. Even from here you can clearly see she lacks the haughty air you so admire in your women.” “I take great offense at that, Martin. My love of women far exceeds their lineage. Why just last week I spent an enjoyable time with a lovely milkmaid who was a minx and a half.” Martin chuckled. He knew his cousin far more than he should. A womanizer of the worst kind, Philippe had left a thick and deep trail of broken hearts across Paris and back. Few young women trusted him, though unfortunately, few could resist him. “Don’t look at me like that, cousin. You and I both know you are far from innocent when it comes to the hearts of young women. Though I can claim a small handful of conquests, I far from deserve the title of rake that you’ve acquired.” “Touché.” Martin smirked as his eyes played over the delicate features of the young woman’s face. She was lovely in the most enchanting and beguiling of ways. The many women he’d known in his young life paled in comparison to her fresh beauty. “If I remember correctly you're the Aragon with the

reputation for mischief and heartache.” Philippe slapped his gloves across his hand repeatedly as he eyed the young woman above. Martin yawned to show how bored he was with the conversation. His reputation was far exaggerated and the trail of heartache he’d left behind was greatly due to the young women he’d met. They failed to truly see him as he was and insisted he was more angelic than he ever could be. Despite his warnings to the contrary, they never believed him and ultimately learned the hard way. “What do you say to a small wager?” Philippe asked. An intrigued brow rose as Martin waited for him to go on. “The first to win the heart of the new mademoiselle in town.” Martin glanced up just in time to catch his future conquest walk away. This bet would be too easy to win. “You're on.”

Chapter 1 Veronique hummed a sprite tune as she settled into her new room. The excitement of Paris was electric and filled the air, even from this distance. Though kilometers away, she could just smell le Louvre, imagine la Tour Eiffel and taste the fresh baguettes and robust wines. Blended with all that was the scent of freedom. This

was the first time she’d ever been away from her father’s home. It was frightening, exciting, thrilling and enthralling all at the same time. What would Paris hold for her? What adventures would she now have the freedom to embark upon? The streets of Paris were hers to discover and she longed to stroll them at her leisure. Of course, Madame Fourquin would always be at her side. Her valise lay open on the bed, filled with the finest garments she had. She ignored how outdated some of the items were and pulled them out to hang in her simply but spacious armoire. Finances had been tight of late and her wardrobe had suffered. Perhaps now in the heart of the world’s fashion capital she would find a few items to refine her look. A gentle knock at the door was followed by Madame Fourquin’s entrance. “And how are we settling in?” “Everything is perfect. The room is more than large enough and I’ve not even filled half of this armoire.” With an attempt at discretion, Madame Fourquin glanced down at the dress still laid out on the bed. “Yes, I know.” Veronique shifted uneasily. “It is fearfully outdated.” “I’ve a few free hours and a good friend I’d like to visit. Marie Rousell just happens to be one of the finest dressmakers this side of le Louvre.” Veronique was instantly excited by the prospect. Only hours into her new residence and Madame Fourquin was already proving to be all that her father had hoped for

and more. In dire need of a woman’s presence since the passing of her mother years before, Veronique longed to forge a strong bond with this new woman in her life, and what better way than by planning a new wardrobe? Their arrival at the dress shop was loud and boisterous as the older women exchanged a few pleasantries. Quickly brought up to date with each other’s lives, they turned to Veronique. “I’ve told Mademoiselle Dumouchel how talented you were, Marie, and here we are.” Indeed, she was talented. Veronique placed an order for three simple yet elegant day dresses and two ball gowns. Fascinated by the brilliance of the luxurious fabrics, she couldn’t resist the splurge. She loved the leg of mutton sleeves, sloping shoulders and conical skirt. “You’ll be more than prepared to be presented now, Mademoiselle.” Madame Fourquin seemed proud of the purchases made. Stepping out of the enchanting boutique, Veronique smiled as a young and dapper man approached them. His hair was fair, with neat curls that framed his face. He looked familiar, but his name escaped her. “Madame Fourquin,” he greeted. His hand was quickly extended to her. “What a pleasure to run into you on such a fabulous spring afternoon.” “Monsieur Aragon. How handsome and elegant you look.” Veronique instantly remembered the young man she’d seen at her window. How incredibly handsome he

was at this proximity. His features were elegant yet masculine. His eyes shifted to Veronique with a touch of recognition that left her feeling uneasy. “Oh, my heavens. You do always leave me forgetting my manners.” Madame Fourquin turned to Veronique. “This beautiful young lady is my new charge. We’ve just spent the last few hours enhancing her wardrobe.” He bowed deeply and with reverence, making Veronique chuckle. Never had a man of his standing displayed such manners towards her. When he took her hand and tenderly laid his soft lips over her skin, she was stunned by the effect he had on her. “It is my greatest pleasure to meet you, sweet Mademoiselle.” His smile was sincere, yet filled with mischief. “Pleased to meet you, Mons…” “Ah, ah, ah.” He shook his head and waved a scolding finger at her. “Please, call me Philippe.” “Ah, yes, of course.” She smiled demurely and calmly while inside her nerves were shattering. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Philippe.” The playful twinkle remained in his eyes as his gaze scanned her face. If he didn’t stop soon, she would surely burst into a shamefully adolescent blush that she would never live down. “Have you ladies had time to dine during this shopping spree?”

“I’m afraid not,” Madame Fourquin replied. The tilt of her head made it evident she’d welcome his invitation. “Then may I propose we dine together at André’s Bistro around the corner? I hear they’ve recently acquired a new Bordeaux and I’ve been dying to try it.” “That sounds absolutely divine.” Madame Fourquin quickly hooked one hand around Veronique’s arm and slid the other into Philippe’s offered arm. Whether it was her chaperoning instincts that bade her to keep them apart, or simply her desire to monopolize Philippe’s attention, Veronique couldn’t be sure. The corner bistro waved them in with the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread, warm soups and strong cheeses. Seated at a small table, Veronique was just as intrigued by the artful hangings on the wall as she was with Philippe’s intent gaze on her. “This is…” Veronique didn’t know what description to give the restaurant. Quaint wasn’t quite the word and neither was elegant. Several risqué posters hung on the walls leaving only the word tawdry on her lips. “You don’t appreciate this art form?” Philippe asked. Veronique bit her lip. “I suppose it’s all just too new to me. Excuse my naiveté, but I would have thought such displays scandalous.” “Artists have a variety of ways of depicting life. Some seek out the purity and innocence of their subjects while others dig deeper to find the more sordid and raw aspects of the human race.”

“While I can appreciate a lovely painting, I know very little about art,” Veronique admitted. “Something we’ll see too soon enough,” Madame Fourquin interjected. “My father has an extensive collection of works he proudly displays around the estate. Granted his pursuit of such art works is to impress the galleries, not appreciate the works on their merit.” “What can I bring you?” A young lady arrived at the table prepared to take the order. Her attire reflected the posters and Veronique tried not to be shocked. But the emotion she really tried to keep in check was the biting sense of envy and jealousy she felt. Envy for the young woman who was obviously at ease with her provocative dress and a hint of jealousy for Philippe’s sidelong glance into the woman’s deep cleavage. Perhaps the ball gown she’d just ordered was too prim. Biting her lip and glancing once again at the young woman’s dress, she promised herself she’d return to the dressmaker to make the proper adjustments. “Does that sound good to you, Veronique?” Drawn out of her reverie, Veronique looked at Philippe with no idea of what he spoke. “Do you approve of what I ordered?” “Of course.” She smiled and wondered what he had indeed ordered. A perfectly crisp and hot baguette arrived moments later with a large wedge of soft and creamy cheese. The Bordeaux was perfect, though Veronique had little in the

way of experience with fine wines. The effect of the scant bit of wine she’d tasted remained with her as they exited the bistro and strolled through the streets of Paris. While Philippe regaled them with stories and tales of his youth, Veronique tried not to giggle like a schoolgirl. “As shocking as it may seem, I was once contracted to model for the great Enzo Milano.” “Were you truly?” Her eyes wide with innocence, Veronique was impressed and shocked. “He’d been commissioned to paint a series of female nudes and he wanted to add a male in the mix.” Now undeniably shocked, Veronique gasped and heard it echoed from Madame Fourquin. Philippe winked at Veronique and continued to convincingly tell the tale to Madame Fourquin. “I was young and wild and wanted nothing more than to contradict my parents. The more they tried to hold me back, the more I wanted to go out and sully my reputation as well as theirs.” Veronique smiled and wondered just how much of his tale was true. Looking at him today, it was difficult to believe he could ever conceive doing such a thing. He looked every inch the fine young gentleman and though the touch of mischief was always in his eyes, the true refinement of his upbringing superseded it all. “When the paintings were revealed, my father nearly disowned me. My mother fainted and lay in bed for over a week.”

“I always knew you had a wild streak beneath that aristocratic veneer,” Madame Fourquin said. Her eyes danced with amusement and seemed to silently congratulate his youthful escapade. “Believe it or not, it sold for almost twice as much as any of the female nudes. I was asked to pose again, but had to refuse. There was only so much my poor parents could take.” Veronique’s gaze remained on his face throughout the telling of the tale. He was enigmatic and charming beyond anything she’d ever known. Though initially shocking, she was mesmerized by his ability to be so refined, yet so untamed. While the docile and innocent young lady in her hoped the story was a complete fabrication, the underlying nymph that sought thrills and excitement fervently hoped it was true.

Chapter 2 “The arts are highly regarded by the aristocracy. Fine paintings are greatly appreciated and a commissioned portrait is the ultimate gift. And the ballet; Paris having one of the finest troupes in the world, ballet is a very popular outing among the elite.” Sitting in the front parlor, Veronique listened as Madame Fourquin educated her on the finer things life had to offer. But despite it all, she questioned what the elite did to truly enjoy themselves. While fine paintings and ballet

had their merits, it did seem rather tame and mundane. “And then there is the opera.” At this, Veronique’s eyes widened. Yes, the opera. Bigger than life theatrics. Music that filled the soul and evoked every emotion. Lyrics that could bring tears to the staunchest eyes. Outrageous costumes. Breathtaking sceneries. Heart wrenching tragedies. “The Aragon family, great enthusiasts of everything that pertains to the opera, have embarked on the building of the finest and largest opera house in all of France, if not the world. No doubt you’re already well aware of this.” Veronique nodded. “Yes. Father has told me much about the elaborate plans for this house. Already he’s been at the building site for well over three months, overseeing and supervising some of the more intricate work. From the little he’s told me, it does appear to be extravagant in every way. “Pardonnez-moi, Madame Fourquin.” A young servant poked her head in. “There is a young man at the door, a Monsieur Aragon, who wishes to speak to Mademoiselle Veronique.” “Do show him in,” Madame Fourquin replied with restrained pride. No doubt, having an Aragon in her midst was a great honor. Veronique tried to hide her eagerness to see him again. Excitement bubbled over and it took every ounce of restraint to keep it from showing. The moment he crossed the threshold, her heart rate increased and her palms were suddenly drenched.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything of great import.” “Your presence is always welcome, young Philippe. And to what is it that we owe the pleasure of your calling today?” “Truth be told, I was hoping to ask your assistance.” He glanced at Veronique, his eyes briefly but intently holding her gaze. “I’ve a gift I must find for the anniversary of a dear old aunt. I thought perhaps the opinion of two ladies would aid in the search.” “Ah, yes. Madame Mathilde Aragon is to turn sixty. How delightful of you to think of her.” Madame Fourquin smiled wistfully. “Unfortunately, however, my schedule prevents me from tending to such a fine endeavor.” Veronique held her breath as she awaited the outcome of the exchange. Would Madame Fourquin permit her to leave with Philippe unchaperoned? “In that case, would you perhaps consider allowing Veronique to accompany me?” Gone was the mischief he’d so cavalierly displayed on their first outing. He was now in complete command of his every word and gesture, displaying the full breadth of his aristocratic lineage. The perfect gentleman, he left Madame Fourquin little reason to deny his request. “I’ve absolute faith in you, Philippe. Just be sure you have Mademoiselle Veronique back home before supper.” “Rest assured. Her safety could not be in finer hands.” Completely charmed, Veronique smiled. “I’ll go put

on something a little more appropriate.” She met Philippe twenty minutes later at the front door wearing her best new dress. His carriage brought them to the heart of Paris and Veronique was once again mesmerized by the intensity of the city. “I’d thought a pendant would be suitable, but then I wondered if a brooch might not be a better option.” “Surely, your beloved aunt has everything she could ever desire.” “And that’s what makes it all the more difficult to find something suitable.” They browsed through several small boutiques, looking at jewelry, fingering delicate lace napkins and linen, and taking in the sweet scent of perfumes. When Veronique commented on the exquisite scent of a floral perfume, Philippe’s gaze stayed long and strong on her. “It does suit you in the most perfect of ways. Not too strong and overpowering. Delicate, and charming, with a touch of summer. I dare say the essence of who you are lies in that little bottle.” The blush was surely evident on her cheeks, for she felt the heat rise to her face as her heart rate increased. “Please, Madame,” he said to the store clerk. “Wrap up an ounce of this magnificent bouquet for the young lady.” Shocked, Veronique gasped. “No, please. You don’t have to… I can’t possibly… Madame Fourquin surely would not approve.” “It is my pleasure and don’t fret over Madame

Fourquin. She’ll be pleased to see I’ve rewarded you well for your time. You may even say that it is a little selfish of me. I do so enjoy how the scent plays on your skin.” The woman behind the counter seemed completely taken in my Philippe’s words. She stared adoringly at him and held her hand over her heart as she sighed. “Here you are, Monsieur Aragon.” She held the delicate little white paper bag out to him. Though she glanced sidelong at Veronique, she barely seemed to take her into consideration. “My daughter, Huguette, is still talking about how much she enjoyed speaking with you the other day. She found you to be incredibly charming and she greatly looks forward to seeing you again.” “Please, do say hello to Huguette. Though the dinner hall was exceptionally crowded that evening, I do remember sharing a few words with her. You must be very proud to have such a smart and studious daughter.” “Oh, and she is quite groomed in the ways of etiquette. Her future is destined to be great.” Though far from holding any claim on Philippe Aragon, Veronique was nonetheless stunned to see the woman so blatantly push her daughter on him right there in front of her. How positively gauche. After a few more pleasantries and salutations, they exited and walked down the street at a leisurely pace. “I’ve not aided you much,” Veronique finally said. “Out to purchase a gift for your beloved aunt, I’ve only succeeded in diverting your attention.” “And a delightful diversion it is.” He clasped her

hand in his and brought it to his lips in the most elegant fashion. “Let’s set aside shopping for a gift for the moment and head over to the opera house that is being built. It’s just around the corner and I would love to show you around, if you don’t mind.” Keeping a firm hold of her hand in his, he led her to the building site. “My father is helping with the supervision. Perhaps we’ll see him,” Veronique said. “Is he now? It would be an honor to meet him.” Instead they were greeted by the rugged young man she’d seen at Philippe’s side outside her window. “Well, well. What brings you out here on such a fine day?” Though the question was clearly directed at Philippe, his dark gaze was steadily on Veronique. His eyes never wavered and she felt the intensity of the attraction. Philippe turned to Veronique. “I have the disenchanting obligation to introduce you to my cousin, Martin.” Martin was everything Philippe was not. Rugged, dark and with an air of danger about him. Though he clearly had the upbringing of an aristocrat, something was distinctively different from Philippe. His hands showed signs of hard work and lacked the elegance of Philippe’s long and tapered fingers. Martin’s fingers, though finely manicured, were thick and strong. Standing beside one another, it was easy to see how massive Martin was in comparison. Though they stood eye to eye, Martin’s shoulders almost doubled that of

Philippe’s. “Veronique wanted to see how the opera house was coming along and we hoped to see her father while we’re here. He’s supervising…” “Monsieur Dumouchel?” Martin asked.” “Yes,” Veronique said with hopeful optimism. Martin glanced over his shoulder to a melee of workers. Following his gaze, Veronique spotted her father among the hard working men. “Father,” she called out. Even from a distance she could see how his eyes lit up at the sound of her voice. He quickly excused himself and made his way over to the trio. “What a pleasant surprise on such a difficult day.” He pulled her into his arms and gave her a tight hug. “I do say, I needed something to raise my spirits today. It seems nothing is going as it should. Several workers haven’t shown up. Materials are late in arriving.” He stopped abruptly and glanced from one Aragon brother to the next. “Of course, everything is still on schedule and work is progressing rather nicely.” “Your father is one of the finest supervisors we have. He takes every task to heart.” Martin showed genuine admiration for Monsieur Dumouchel. “And on that note, my little darling,” her father said as he held Veronique’s hand. “I must leave you and return before things get out of hand. You never know what can happen when workers are left to their own devices.” He kissed her cheeks, nodded to the Aragons and returned to

the workers. Martin turned to Veronique. “Mind if I join you on the tour of the site?” “Actually, I was hoping to…” Philippe tried to interject. “Of course not. We’d be happy to have you along. Seeing how I’ll have little opportunity to speak with my father, you could give me insight to what’s really going on out here.” “Perfect. The work being done here is truly fascinating.” Martin completely shunned Philippe. Veronique just barely noticed Philippe’s subtle grunt of irritation, but it faded into the background as her eyes remained steadfastly on Martin. Though Philippe’s company was pleasant and pleasing, something about being with Martin was irresistible. She wanted to be near him and have an opportunity to speak with him more. Martin clasped his hands together and gazed around him. “We’re presently standing in what will be the performers’ entrance and the corridor to dressing rooms, fittings rooms and what have you.” Putting a gentle hand to Veronique’s elbow, he walked along the corridor and guided her along. “It doesn’t look like much now, but some of these rooms are set to be quite opulent.” He gazed at Veronique and winked. “We wouldn’t want our prima donna to lack any creature comforts.” “I wouldn’t quite use the word opulent,” Philippe interjected. “Your exaggeration is appalling.” He turned to

Veronique and took her hand to quickly slip it through his arm. “Do forgive him. He comes from simpler beginnings and is easily impressed. His view of opulence is actually quite basic.” Simple or not, Veronique was completely impressed with Martin. Though she wanted to remain polite with Philippe, the desire to stay close to Martin tugged strongly at her. Feeling torn in two, she snapped herself out of her quickly developing crush on Martin and concentrated on Philippe. After all, he was the one who’d brought her here and she owed him a modicum of respect. Other than chuckling briefly, Martin ignored Philippe and led them through to the main stage. “And here is the jewel of the house.” Veronique left Philippe’s hold and walked to the very edge of the stage. The orchestra pit was just at her feet, complete and prepared to welcome dozens of musicians. Plush seats were lined in an arch around the stage, disappearing into the highest balconies. “There isn’t much work left to be done here. Just a few final touches. Intricate woodwork to adorn the balconies. It’s tedious work. There are well over two thousand seats and only the balconies remain to be completed. It will be fabulous, won’t it?” Martin’s voice was a hush in her ear. She felt suddenly weak and in dire need to be held. Tilting back, she leaned into his chest and was instantly secure in his strength. He need not even hold her. His proximity was enough to leave her with a deep sense of

security and safety. In the silence that followed, only the sharp snap of Philippe’s angry footsteps could be heard. “Of course the masterpiece of this auditorium will be the splendid and exquisitely crafted crystal chandelier that is set to hang just at the center of it all.” His voice filled the cavernous space and echoed its own response. “It is all rather grand. How marvelous to be able to witness some of the world’s greatest operas in such a setting.” Veronique continued to scan the enormous space with awe. “Then I do hope you’ll be my guest at the opening,” Philippe was quick to offer. Though Martin was looking the other way, Veronique still caught the slight tightening of his jaw. Was he displeased with his cousin’s invitation? “I’d enjoy that very much.” “Not that I want to encroach on your abilities as guide, dear Martin, but may I direct Veronique to the fine lounge that is to welcome the most elite of Paris.” Without waiting for an answer, he hooked Veronique’s hand over his forearm and led her to the wide circular staircase that led to the upper balconies. Martin took his place behind them. On the second landing, the climb seemed to overtake him. “Let us take a moment to catch our breaths, shall we?” Martin jumped at the opportunity. Taking a firm hold of her arm, he led her up, leaving Philippe to pant his way

behind them. Her heart fluttered with excitement. He had her almost running up the steps. On the fourth floor, with the sound of Philippe’s footsteps echoing down below, Martin stopped and edged Veronique back to the wall. “I’ve a desperate need to be close to you,” he breathed. “I’ve no notion how you’ve bewitched me so, but you’re presence pulls at me like nothing I’ve ever known.” He leaned in close to her, his eyes deep in a fog of passion. Philippe’s footsteps steadily made their way closer. Martin glanced quickly down the stairs then turned to Veronique to steal a kiss. Though rushed, his kiss was soft and filled with promise. “Tell me I’ll see you again,” he whispered. He cupped her cheek and ran his thumb over her lips. “Right here, in the opera house. Meet me.”

Chapter 3 She’d relived that tender moment dozens of times. Whether in the middle of the night when she awoke from a dream where she was nestled in his arms, or in midafternoon while Madame Fourquin tried to show her the most ladylike ways to eat a croissant, sip her tea and fold her napkin, thoughts of him continually bombarded her. “Mademoiselle, are you listening?” For the third

time that morning, Madame Fourquin had had to ask the question. “Very much so, Madame. It is all just a little more than I’d anticipated learning and I’m trying to memorize everything you're telling me.” She felt awful for the fib and longed more than anything to share with someone as wise and experienced as Madame Fourquin everything she was feeling. Her lack of experience with young men left her at a total loss as she now found herself attracted to not one, but two extraordinarily good-looking men. But, as chaperone, Madame Fourquin was the last person she could open up and speak to. As pleasant and doting as the chaperone had shown herself to be, this topic simply couldn’t be discussed. No. This one she had to keep to herself. Just as she’d been keeping to herself all the outlandish plots she’d conjured up in order to see Martin again. Between Philippe who seemed so insistent and Madame Fourquin who was so enamored with Philippe, the opportunity to slip away to see Martin seemed impossible. “Your father was very explicit in his requirements, so I am pleased to see how diligent you are. You have the natural elegance and eloquence to be a grand lady indeed. But perhaps I am pushing you a little hard. Let us leave it at that for today and we’ll take up again tomorrow.” “Speaking of my father,” Veronique said as the gears in her head turned with deviant thoughts. “I thought I would perhaps visit him so that I may let him know of my progress. I’ve learned so much in such a short amount of time and I want him to be proud of how far I’ve come.”

This made Madame Fourquin beam with pride. She stood, straightened her skirt and clasped her hands primly before her. “How kind of you to think so. Please be sure to say hello to your father on my behalf.” She turned to leave, but quickly turned again to gaze at Veronique. “Do tell him that I take you to be a splendid pupil and pleasant charge.” “I’ll be sure to do just that.” “Gaston will take you into town and wait until you’re ready to return.” “You’re too kind.” Veronique had anticipated the long walk, but was relieved at Madame Fourquin’s offer of her carriage and driver. The moment Madame Fourquin turned down the hall to head to her quarters Veronique hurried up to her room to make a quick change. She wanted to wear the new dress she’d received that morning. Steel blue, it was the perfect shade for her coloring and she knew Martin would love it. She brought her hand to the bottle of perfume Philippe had bought her, then thought better of it. Wearing a scent favored by Philippe while with Martin felt like a betrayal. She’d forego perfume altogether. Once in the carriage she fussed over her dress, her gloves, her hair and then back at her dress again. Fidgeting and anxious, she sought something, anything to occupy her hands. Would he be there? Was he working today? Would her father keep her from sneaking away to see him, just for a blessed moment? The thought left her dizzy anew. Seeing him again. It was all she’d thought of since that single kiss almost a

week earlier; an eternally long and tortured week. She arrived at the site and saw a number of workers milling around what appeared to be a problem. “It doesn’t fit, I tell you. I tried three times. You cut it too long.” Veronique gazed at them as she stepped out of the carriage. “I cut it to the exact measurements you gave me,” the other man argued. They studied the intricate piece of wood. “Dumouchel didn’t want us cutting off the design.” “If we don’t cut a portion of the design, it’ll be good for nothing. You may as well start a fire with it.” Veronique smiled as she approached the men to make her way to the main entrance. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” they chanted in unison. She was tempted to saunter beneath their intent gazes, but refrained and maintained a ladylike stride. Once inside, the sound of hammering and sawing filled the air. Far from the glorious sounds of the opera that were to one day echo against these walls, the cacophony was enough to leave anyone’s ears ringing by day’s end. Glancing around she was once again enchanted and mesmerized by the enormous grand staircase that dominated the huge and cavernous space. Though many of the details had yet to be completed, it was a marvel of audacious marble work. After taking a moment to breath it all in, she realized the opera house was far too large for her to just roam about idly. How would she ever find Martin in

the maze of intermingling corridors and dark narrow passages? Of course, asking anyone about his whereabouts was out of the question. Walking as though she knew exactly where she was headed, she tried to find the corridor that would lead to the stage. She found a small practice room and what looked like a costumer’s atelier. Then a workshop that was ready to produce any scenery any opera could require. Before she knew it, she was completely and hopeless lost. She returned to a stairwell, remember having gone up a flight or two, but realized it wasn’t the same stairwell and she exited into a narrow corridor that gave way to what seemed to be an intimate music room. “And so you find me.” Startled and inhaling a scream, Veronique turned to see Martin standing with his hands set deep in his pant pockets. “Martin.” “I’d begun to think you wouldn’t make it back, or perhaps didn’t want to come back.” Veronique tried to chuckled, but it came out strangled and weak. “Work has advanced considerably since I last came.” She dreaded the thought of even hinting at how badly she’d longed to come back. “I’m impressed with how much these men can do in so short a time.” “We did hire the best craftsmen in the country.” He took a step closer. “The Aragons pride themselves on always having the best of everything. We’re also proud to be the best at what we do. When we took on what many

considered to be an outrageous endeavor, we made sure we’d succeed.” Another step brought him inches away from her. His smile was warm while his eyes held something wicked and wild. Veronique gulped for air and suddenly felt faint. Was this what it was like to feel passion? Was this the result of having so much desire for one man? How she longed to have him touch her again. “You’re an intriguing young woman,” he whispered. He brought his hand up to her face and let his fingers play with a wisp of hair at her temple. “Beautiful beyond reason, you're completely unaffected.” His lips brushed over her cheek and she wanted to die in the moment of pure pleasure. Closing her eyes, she anticipated more and her lips parted to receive him. “I love your innocence.” With that he took her hand and led her down a darkened shaft of stairs. “Let me guide you down through the belly of the beast.” Still trembling on the effects of that chaste kiss, Veronique followed him and was only vaguely aware of the darkened corridors he led her through. “This leads to the orchestra pit and the underside of the stage. We have the most advanced staging system in the world and performances here will be like no other. Set changes can be made much faster than before and performers have easy access on and off stage and back to their dressing rooms.” While all very interesting, Veronique had trouble concentrating on his words.

“Your father has been instrumental in making all of this work.” Mention of her father brought her out of her reverie. He was the reason she was supposedly here. She should make an effort to at least see him, if for only a moment. “When one of the mechanisms refused to work, he was the one who found the problem and brought a solution. He’s very ingenious.” “Yes, he’s always had a knack for solving problems.” As Martin led her back to the main floor, she tugged on his hand to stop him. “I must see my father.” She pulled her hand free of his. “And I mustn’t be with you when I do.” “I understand,” he said. “Your father is supervising work being done on several of the balconies. I’m sure he’ll be very happy to see you.” Indeed, he was happy and surprised, but the demands of his work kept him from chatting too long with his daughter. “I’ll be going back to Val-de-Reuil later this week to tend to some matters at home,” he said. “Will you be alright here in town alone?” “Perfectly, Papa.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek while hiding her contented smile. If he left town for a little while, she would have more freedom of movement. “Madame Fourquin is never far from my side and I’ve already come to know the city so well.” He pinched her cheek. “That’s my little girl.” As Veronique stepped out into the sun filled

afternoon, she anticipated the week to come. What she didn’t anticipate were the mixed fillings the Aragon men would conjure up in her.

Chapter 4 “Good afternoon, Madame Fourquin.” Philippe stood erect and formal at the threshold to the parlor with a pleasant bouquet of flowers gripped tightly in his hand. Veronique couldn’t help but smile at how charming he was. He had Madame Fourquin eating out of his hand. “I do hope yellow roses please you.” “Ah, Monsieur Aragon. Quelle surprise. You are one elegant and enchanting gentleman. It’s always such a pleasure having you come around.” She took the flowers with the silly grin of an innocent mademoiselle. “And what do you have planned for this afternoon.” His gaze shifted to Veronique who was equally intrigued as to what awaited her. He’d already given her a private tour of le Louvre, had brought her to la Tour Eiffel and had surprised her with a sumptuous and extravagant dinner at one of Paris’ most exclusive restaurants. “I’ve planned for a lovely ride through the countryside. Perhaps stop for an elaborate picnic in the fresh meadows of Dreux. If time permits, a lovely stroll

would be pleasant.” Madame Fourquin’s hand fanned her face and chest and she sighed with envy. “D’être jeune encore.” She left them, a faint blush evident on her cheeks. “It does all sound very enchanting.” “Your chariot awaits.” He offered her his arm and led her out to his carriage. “You're spoiling me,” Veronique said. “As you should be. If your father has seen fit to send you into Paris all the way from Val-de-Reuil in order to prepare you to be presented, it’s because he has grand expectations for your future. A man would be a fool to not see the potential you have.” The cobblestones of Paris gave way to a dirt road that led them further and further away from the noise and excitement of the city. Fields spread out on either side of them and stretched out to the distant horizon. Small farm houses coupled with old barns that seemed barely able to stand dotted the fields. “I hope the ride and fresh air have opened your appetite.” Veronique smiled, pleased with the ease of being with him. He was kind and always the perfect gentleman. “As a matter of fact, I’m famished.” “Then I know the perfect little pond to stop at.” He turned to the driver and called out, “L’etang du roi.” “Do you know all of France?” Wherever he’d taken her, he seemed to always know exactly where to go and what to expect.

“Only the parts that speak to me.” The carriage came to a gentle stop and Philippe quickly hopped out and turned to offer his hand. Though strong and warm, what Veronique sensed more than anything else in his grasp was his confidence. “This is a beautiful place. I’m thoroughly impressed.” “Wait until you see the feast I’ve had prepared.” It was indeed more fare than Veronique had ever seen. Crusty breads that were still warm, various cheeses that were as aromatic as they were flavorful and two different wines to accompany them. Mutton, chicken and pâté de foie gras. He’d thought of everything. As he set everything out on the quilted blanket he’d laid out, Veronique watched the workings of his hands. Everything was precise, every movement, regal, almost calculated. Even the setting of a country picnic left him in a serious state. She suddenly realized she’d hardly ever heard him laugh in the many times she’d seen him. A short chuckle here and there, a snicker on occasion and, of course, the sardonic laughter only Martin seemed capable of drawing from him. A smile came to her lips at the thought. Martin was incorrigible and seemed to always do what he could to aggravate and irritate Philippe. When the three had had lunch the week before, Martin had taken every opportunity to tease and taunt him. “Taking into consideration your hyper sensitivity to the sun, I’ve asked that we be seated at the far side of the

bistro.” Martin has said as they were seated. “I certainly wouldn’t want to be responsible for any reddening or rash.” “I do not get a rash from the sun, Martin,” Philippe had fumed. “I simply attempt to keep the sun from blemishing my skin, unlike you who strolls about looking like the very workers we employ in the fields. One is likely to confuse you for the help for all your lack of refinement and…” “At least they won’t confuse me with a pansy.” “A what?” His eyes had darted to Veronique while his cheeks had flushed crimson. Now, as she looked at him under the glaring rays of the summer sun, she wondered what had happened to his sensitive skin. “And where did you just wander off to.” Philippe was holding a glass of wine out to her and looking at her strangely. “Pardon?” “You seemed miles away.” “I was just breathing in all this fresh country air.” It was a wonderfully warm spring day, but the air still held remnants of the cold winter they’d just left behind. “And you were as beautiful as can be.” He leaned in closer. His lips, already stained from a sip of wine, parted and curled with the hint of a smile. “You're as beautiful as a summer day and as irresistible as a vintage wine.” “And you're more charming than a young woman from the country can stand.” He threaded his fingers through hers and leaned in

close as he raised his glass. “I doubt you’ve any idea how I cherish these moments with you. Every encounter leaves me with a touch more knowledge about the woman you are and that knowledge appeals to me more and more.” She brought her glass to meet his and took a tentative sip. The thought of admitting she’d never tasted a drop of wine before her lunch with him at the bistro left her horrified. She’d relied on his conversation with Madame Fourquin to camouflage the fact that she’d not enjoyed the taste in her mouth, but now she felt her face contort into a funny grimace. “Has the wine gone bad?” Philippe quickly took a sip, swirled it around in his mouth in a rather humorous way, swallowed and sucked on his tongue with consternation. “This is by far the best Bordeaux I’ve had the pleasure of drinking.” Veronique flustered and wanted to hide under the blanket. What a horrible blunder. How unsophisticated and downright rude to grimace at the perfectly good wine he offered. And he now seemed so dismayed and distraught. “I apologize, Philippe. This is only my second attempt at drinking a Bordeaux. Back home I’d never had the pleasure of drinking such fine wines. Perhaps my tastebuds aren’t ready.” “Granted, it can take a mature palate to appreciate such fine tones and rich subtleties.” He took another sip, savored it and turned to her as he swallowed. “Perhaps you need a gentler way of getting your first true taste.” He

leaned in closer while his fingers tightened around hers and tugged gently. Unsure of how she felt, Veronique remained frozen. He’d been so sweet and she knew how hard he was trying to get to know her. But her lips had already tasted Martin and…. Thoughts were wiped from her mind as his lips collapsed over hers. Though the kiss was delicate for all of a second, it quickly became heated and heavy. Philippe set his glass of wine on the blanket where it promptly fell over, spilling out its precious content. He stiffened a moment, huffed in the depths of his throat. Veronique opened her eyes in time to catch his sidelong glance at the mess. “No matter,” he quickly said. “The wine cellar at home has dozens of bottles.” His words contradicted his actions. The passion in his kiss diminished slightly and he seemed truly disturbed by the loss of such a valuable liquid. In a heartbeat, however, he’d forgotten all about his Bordeaux. His fingers worked their way to the nape of her neck and played with the tender skin, leaving Veronique tingling all over. Surrendering to the kiss, she felt his weight shift and found herself leaning back further and further. She fought to stay upright, but he was persistent, leaning his weight on her more and more. “Philippe,” she gasped when her back hit the blanket.” “My luscious Veronique.” His lips played over the

line of her jaw and down over her neck. Another shocked gasp escaped her as his lips moved to the edge of her décolletage. “These weeks of getting closer, touching you in the most chaste manner, breathing in the fresh scent that forever accompanies you and learning how perfectly divine you truly are…” His lips fell heavily over hers and his tongue plunged in without the slightest finesse.

Chapter 5 Veronique sat on the edge of her windowsill waiting for a sign of Martin’s approach. It’d been over two weeks since she’d last seen him and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d so anticipated a moment. Their last encounter had been thwarted by nosy workers, constant demands from supervisors and her father’s sudden return to the work site of the opera house. Other than a brief touch of his hand, he’d only managed to give directives for their next meeting. She was to look out for him between noon and one o’clock every afternoon. When the moment was right, he would walk past her window. All she needed to do was tell Madame Fourquin of an urgent and personal errand she had to tend to as she rushed out to meet with him. Filled excitement and anticipation, she’d diligently waited by the window those

first few days. But as day after day passed and he never came into view, she dreaded facing the fact that he might have forgotten about her. With tears working their way to her eyes for the third straight day, she stared out the window, once again promising herself this would be the last day she’d wait. Philippe had been taking her out regularly, all with the approval and blessing of Madame Fourquin, of course. He’d made enticing promises, romantic overtures and had introduced her to some of the finer things in life. He was the man who would take her life to great places. He was the man she knew her father would approve of. He was the man she could really settle down with and be happy. Who needed a dark, brooding and unreliable man like Martin, anyway? And as those very words crossed her mind, the man in question turned the corner and turned her heart upside down. Tall, dark and with a gleam of danger in his eyes, he was everything she knew she shouldn’t want. Her hands rushed to cool her heated cheeks and she hurried to grab her shawl off the bed on her way out. Having already forgotten what she was to tell Madame Fourquin on the way out, she avoided her altogether. “Pauline,” she called to the young servant who busied herself dusting. “I must rush out to tend to an errand. Please tell Madame Fourquin I shall be back before supper.” With her gloves in hand and a smile of blissful anticipation on her lips she stepped out and caught sight of

Martin just as he turned the corner. Not wanting to appear too rushed by passersby, she maintained a calm stride though her heart pressed her to run to Martin. Following the direction she’d seen him take, she increased her pace. The moment she turned the corner, she collided full on with something hard and unyielding. “Where are you rushing to?” His voice reverberated with amusement as his hands reached out to steady her. Momentarily shaken, Veronique found her breath again before even thinking of looking up to meet his gaze. She knew it was him; the sheer breadth of his chest and the scent that she remembered so well told her. As her gaze worked its way up to his face, embarrassment consumed her as she realized how she had literally thrown herself into his arms, but as the laughter in his eyes intensified, she let go and chuckled at her own actions. “I thought you’d walked on.” She took a step back and out of his hold, patted her chignon and flicked her skirt. “I certainly didn’t want you to think…” She caught herself. What didn’t she want him to think? That she’d forgotten about him? That she’d not been watching out for him? That she no longer wanted to spend time with him? “Didn’t want me to think you’d not recognized me?” His smile was pure mischief, while his eyes held a dark and almost dangerous amount of passion. “Are we going to spend the afternoon discussing this or do you have something more suitable in mind?” “I definitely have something in mind, though I highly

doubt you’d find it suitable.” It was impossible, but his eyes darkened even more as his gaze dipped down to her breasts for a tantalizing moment. “However, in the meantime, I did have something rather special in mind.” He took her by the hand and led her to a carriage down the road, but instead of helping her aboard, he led her to the lone horse stationed in front of it. “When was the last time you rode?” “The last time?” She stared at him then turned to the horse. Her father had been adamant; a young lady did not ride. A young lady sat in a carriage with her gloves in hand and her fan at the ready. “I was probably eight.” “Perfect.” He pulled himself up in the prim little saddle and held a strong hand out to her. “Perfect?” she muttered to herself. She scanned the street unsure what she should do. Perhaps if she spotted someone approaching she could use that as an excuse to refuse him. After all, she couldn’t be seen getting onto a horse’s back, right in broad daylight… with a young, handsome man at the reins. “Are you coming?” His voice was low and throaty. Despite all her apprehension and despite all of her father’s words about being ladylike reverberating through her brain, she raised her hand to Martin’s. Exerting a scant amount of strength, he had her sitting before him on the majestic dark horse. With more grace than his large hands would have predicted, he eased the horse to a comfortable gait and soon had them on an old dirt road that led south of Paris.

Once the horse’s hooves left the cobblestones to hit the dirt, his gait relaxed and so did Veronique grip on the pommel. The stale air that could sometimes hover over Paris gave way to fresh breezes that caressed the fields surrounding them, sweeping the scent of jasmine and lilac into the air. “I’ve thought of you these past weeks,” Martin whispered in her ear. A delicate frisson traveled over her body. His breath in her ear, his arms holding her steady and his chest brushing against her back all combined to leave her dizzy and barely able to speak. “And what have you thought?” she finally managed. Though more nervous than she cared to let on, her voice came out clear and rather coquette. “I’ve thought of this very moment, the moment I would have you close to me, the moment I could be alone with you.” His lips brushed across her temple. “And what have you thought?” What could she tell him? That she’d gone from moments of anticipatory rapture to impatient rage these past weeks? That her nights were constantly disturbed by dreams of him? That the classes she’d taken with Madame Fourquin this past week had been a complete and utter waste of time because she’d not heard a word her chaperone had said to her? “Well, I must admit I questioned how reliable you were. You know I’ve seen Philippe several times and he has been true to his word on every take; prompt down to

the very minute.” She’d underestimate the effect her words could have on him. After a moment’s silence she glanced sidelong at him and caught his distant gaze at the horizon while his jaw was held tight. Had she said too much? “Do you know what Philippe does… other than run down to pick you up in his gilded chariot?” The bitterness was sharp on his tongue. Veronique gazed down at the horse’s braided mane. She’d made a major faux pas and had to find a way of righting her wrong. Her hand slid over his as he kept a relaxed hold of the reins. “Je m’excuse, Martin. Pardonnez-moi. Of course I understand how important your work is down at the opera house. I should never have insinuated….” Her hushed voice, now completely void of fun and amusement, was swept away on the breeze. There was nothing more she could say. She knew she’d hurt him, or at the very least his pride. “Philippe leads the life of a pampered prince.” He pulled his hand out from under hers and held it out, his fingers fanned apart. With an intent gaze at his hand, and turned his palm up then down. His palms showed a callous or two while the top of his hand was nicked and cut, proof of the hard work he put in every day. “His most arduous task of the day is choosing a cravat.” “Martin, I didn’t mean to imply…” “That I’m unreliable.” He tilted her chin up to him and looked at her square in the eyes, eyes that had lost all their amusement. “Would you care to add undesirable,

unpredictable and unworthy while you're at it?” As guilty as she felt for her words, she couldn’t help but enjoy the streak of jealousy she saw in him. Had he no idea how he truly drove her mad? Could he not see how he was the man she wanted to be with more than any other? Hardening her gaze to match his, she said, “I believe you're letting your rivalry with Philippe get to your head.” “And I believe you're letting Philippe’s aristocratic flair get to yours.” “Are you telling me that I’m easily influenced by airs and money?” She didn’t appreciate his tone nor his words and could feel the anger slowly simmer deep inside her. “No, I’m simply saying that Philippe is playing you exactly as he’d planned. He’s being sweet, playing the good boy and giving you a glimpse of what your life could be if you were to be with him. And like the sweet little mademoiselle that you are, you're gliding right into his game; you're falling for it all.” “Sweet little mademoiselle? I’m not as naïve and innocent as you make me out to be, Martin. I’m quite capable of thinking for myself and I do not fall for the games men play so easily. Yes, Philippe is being sweet. What of it?” He harrumphed with arrogance and stared off towards the horizon again. “Perhaps I misread you. Perhaps I saw in you a young woman fighting to be free, struggling to get out from the strangling hold of her father; a young woman who wanted a taste of real life. If sitting prim and poised before your needlepoint is more your idea of a

fun…” “Monsieur Aragon,” Veronique snapped. “You have no idea who or what I am. I take great offense with your insinuation that I’m a boring lady in waiting.” And with that declaration she gripped the reins and urged the horse on. She got him into a quick canter then spurred him into a full on gallop. “I am wilder than you can imagine.” The words rushed out and carried on the wind, though she hardly cared if he’d heard her or not. The quickened and dangerous pace she pushed the horse to had her wondering what she was trying to prove to Martin, but the truth was it was herself she wanted to convince. She was so much more than what her father wanted of her. She had so much more to offer than coquette manners and ladylike airs. Every pound of the horse’s hooves echoed the beat of her heart and her excitement intensified. The wind in her hair and in her skirts tingled on her skin and made her feel more alive than she could remember ever feeling. Martin melded into her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her on the rapidly moving animal. Riding sidesaddle was perilous at this speed, but not with Martin there to keep her solidly atop the beast. The countryside passed by them and she knew it was just a matter of time before she’d pushed the animal too hard. “Look out,” he called out. Veronique caught sight of the small fox a second after Martin shouted out and far after the horse had seen it.

Before she could even try to control the horse and veer it away, he’d decided to deal with the unexpected appearance his own way. With a plaintive neigh, he reared. Veronique felt herself slide back on the saddle, but could do nothing to right herself. She was certain she’d fall off, but Martin held her in place and took the reins from her hands. “Since you’ve not ridden in over a decade, perhaps we should start you off safe and slow.” He got the animal under control with a minor flick of the reins. Feeling petulant as well as embarrassed, Veronique said nothing. Her first foray into a wild adventure and she’d already blundered. Martin stopped the horse, slid down to the ground and reached up to her, but she turned away from his help. “Don’t be angry with me because you couldn’t control Arago.” She turned to glare at him. “Arago? You named your horse after yourself? How obnoxious can you be?” Setting his hand on her thigh, he chuckled, a sound that was a little more knowing than teasing. “Not Aragon; Arago, after Francois Arago, the physicist and astronomer. Have you never heard of him?” “Of course I have.” She had absolutely no idea who Francois Arago was, but was not about to let Martin know that. “I just can’t imagine that you have.” “I may not have the sophistication of that cousin of mine, but I have managed to learn a thing or two along the way.” He stretched his hand up to her once more. “Are you

coming down or are you going to stay up there all day?” Biting her lip, she held his gaze a long moment before turning her attention to the horse’s braid. She repeatedly twirled one braid between her fingers. “I don’t think I appreciate the tone you're taking with me.” “Oh,” he lamented as he grabbed her hand and pulled her off Arago. “Stop pouting and come on.” “Why are we stopping?” She regained some composure, but still felt shaken. Arago’s reaction had been more violent than she’d originally thought and she now realized her hands were chaffed and raw from the strain she’d put on the reins. Martin took a hold of each hand and looked at them. His eyes softened as he saw the redness and a slight trickle of blood on one hand. “Well, for starters, we’ll tend to this. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” Though his gaze remained concerned, there was a trace of anger. “I hadn’t realized it until now.” “Come sit down.” He guided her to a smooth mound of short grass and sat her down. “Don’t move.” Still wanting to be angry a while longer, she forced down the smile that was threatening to make its way to her lips. He was even more adorable than she remembered. Watching him walk down to the small stream that ran along the side of the road, she questioned his actions, but realized she had complete faith in him. When he pulled out a mouchoir de poche she understood. He stooped down to the running stream and dipped the mouchoir in. Cradling the dripping cloth in his huge

hands, he came to her, a look of deep concern still furrowing his brow. He knelt before her and tended to her minor wounds as though they were the most important thing on earth to him. The incongruity between the strength and power of his hands and the gentleness with which he touched her was mind-boggling. Veronique swallowed as his gentle touch soothed away the remaining anger she’d been clinging to. He was being so unbelievably kind to her, it was impossible to be angry. “We’ll need to come out here more often if you're to learn to really ride.” “I can really ride,” she argued with a smirk. He brought the wet mouchoir to her hand, causing her to wince and pull back from the sudden pain. “I do apologize. It won’t hurt much longer.” Traces of blood stained the white cloth, but Martin seemed unperturbed. “How about I take the reins here on out?” “How far did you intend on bringing me?” “To the ends of the earth.” His voice was a tender whisper that brushed against the palm of her hand as his lips worked to ease the pain his cleansing had caused. With slow and precise motions, his hand glided up her arm, followed by the soothing sensation of his lips. At her elbow, he turned her arm out and set his lips in the crease while his hand slid under the short gigot sleeve of her dress. Veronique was breathless and helpless to stop him.

For all the power he had to forcibly pin her down if he chose to, he rendered her incapable of fending him off with the simple use of his lips. “Martin,” she mumbled in a tone that was part protest, part encouragement. “These past weeks have been excruciating; thinking of you, dreaming of you and longing to be so close to you again.” The depth of his groan was filled with passion. The sloping shoulder of her dress allowed him easy access to her collarbone and neck. His lips and his tongue played at the base of her neck in a way that had her leaning into him for more. Her lids suddenly heavy, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the myriad of sensations that coursed through her. Her body and soul were completely open to him, and, without hesitation, she would follow him to the ends of the earth if he dared asked her to. Unsure and shy, she brought her hands to his arms, fingering the fabric that covered the tense muscles. Suddenly feeling drunk by the power she felt beneath her fingers, she tugged at him, urging him to get closer. She wanted more from him. He stopped. “No,” she hushed. Her eyes silently begged him to stay close. He backed away, but remained knelt before her. Though she wanted to come straight out beg him to continue, she knew that was something she’d never do. “As much as I hate to stop, I must.” She saw the burning passion in his eyes and was

pleased to see how difficult it was for him to leave her touch. “Arago will surely continue on his own if we don’t return to him.” He stood and held a hand down to her.

Chapter 6 “You’ve received a message, mademoiselle.” Veronique looked up to see Pauline with a small while envelope in her hand. “For me?” With timid steps, Pauline entered the boudoir and held out the envelope with the embossed letters on it and read, “Mademoiselle Veronique Dumouchel.” Taking a few slow and distinguished steps towards the young servant, Veronique just barely managed to contain her excitement. “Merci, Pauline.” She smiled and resisted the urge to run her fingers over the richly embossed letters until she was once again alone. The paper felt rich and important in her hand. Surely it was an invitation, but an invitation to what. She couldn’t fathom. Unable to wait any longer she tore the envelope apart: Chère Mademoiselle Veronique, It would be our pleasure to have you at a soirée

being held in honor of Madame Mathilde Gagné Aragon.

Repondre, s’il vous plait. Philippe Aragon She was pleased and surprised by the invitation. Philippe had been rather aloof, almost indifferent the last few times she’d seen him. He’d given no reason for his cool approach to her and she’d not had the heart to ask. Perhaps he’d realized she was not of his standing. But what she dreaded more was the thought of having done or said something that could have left him angry with her. Now as she looked at the invitation, she reread the salutation. It wasn’t affectionate, barely cordial. Was this simply a formality? An invitation because she’d aided him with the purchase of a gift for his aunt? “I’m told you’ve received an invitation,” Madame Fourquin said as she made a quiet entrance. “Do I dare hope it’s from that charming young Aragon.” “It is, indeed.” Veronique fingers continued to caress the embossment. “The family is celebrating Mathilde’s birthday.” “You’ve no idea how thrilled I am for you… and your father will be ecstatic. You and Philippe make such a handsome pair, and the match is even more than your father could have ever hoped for you. I do hope you realize how fortunate you are.” Though Madame Fourquin had never hid her preference for Philippe over Martin, Veronique was still

surprised to see how insistent she was on the matter. If the Aragon name was so prestigious and notable, why would a liaison with Martin be so atrocious? “The pale yellow gown you had made by Bertrand, the one with the ornate trim on the skirt, would be absolutely perfect for the occasion. Elegant, yet demure, fashionable, yet classic.” Bertrand Therrien designed some of the most beautiful dresses in all of Paris and he’d quickly taken to Veronique, promising her a variety of dresses for a variety of occasions. While Marie had been a darling to make some of her first dressed, Bertrand was in a league of his own. “Your very beauty inspires me to no end,” he’d said as he’d shown her the gowns he’d worked on. Each was lovelier than the last and she’d marveled at his talent and creativity. The high empire waist that had monopolized fashion for so long was now beginning to descending towards the natural waist, a look Veronique found more flattering and Bertrand agreed wholeheartedly. As the week passed and the night of celebration approached, Veronique found herself with little to say on the matter. Madame Fourquin took care of everything, even arranging for her hair to be done by one of the most reputable coiffeurs in the area. Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, Veronique smiled with pride. The little girl who’d grown up in the country with barely a dress to make it through the past few years, with rarely a dress that wasn’t more than a decade

outdated, without the intimate influence of a woman to show her feminine wiles and without the benefit of any social graces was now preparing for one of the biggest and most lavish parties of the season. *********** A night at the Aragon’s. All week she’d heard the servants whisper about her big night to come. They were awed and mesmerized by the notion. “You’ll out-sparkled every last one of them,” Madame Fourquin said from her post at the threshold. “I’m so nervous.” Veronique turned one way then the other, her eyes never leaving her reflection. “Thank heavens no one can see my knees because they are literally trembling quite violently.” Madame Fourquin approached with a small white box in her hand. “You’ve nothing to be nervous about. Not only are you lovely to look at, but you're a pleasure to speak to and everyone will be taken in by your natural charm.” She held out the box. “I thought this would be the perfect final touch.” Showing more excitement than she actually felt, Veronique reached for the box and threw the lid off. She expected a nice bauble or perhaps an outdated broche from Madame Fourquin’s younger days, and anticipated feigning great appreciation at her attempt to complete her look, but feigning was not required. Veronique audibly gasped as she set her eyes on the exquisite yellow diamond pendant that was surrounded

with several smaller white diamonds. “My late husband gave this to me on our tenth anniversary,” Madame Fourquin said as she reached for the chain and gesture to Veronique to turn around. “Every occasion I could find, I would wear it, and with great pride. Of course I’ve not had many occasions to wear it lately, so I thought….” Her voice thickened and trailed off. “But Madame Fourquin…” Veronique’s eyes were quickly veiled in tears while her fingers reached for the heavy pendant at her neck. “I don’t know if…” “You’ll wear it with pride, m a chère.” She gripped Veronique’s shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Had I had a daughter I would have wanted to see her wear this. I would be honored to know you’d worn it, and to such an occasion.” A moment of intense emotions kept them silent, but Madame Fourquin quickly recovered. “Hurry now. We don’t want to keep the Aragons waiting too long.” By the time they arrived at the Aragon estate, Veronique’s nerves had reached an excruciating level. Logic told her that her dress was perfect, her hair divine and that necklace… she couldn’t stop fingering the pendant. But being at the Aragon’s. What would she say? And to whom? With barely two steps taken inside the lavish home, Madame Fourquin abandoned her to chat with a handsome older man who seemed chagrined by her approach. For a few tense moments, Veronique stood there, not knowing what to expect and not knowing what to do. Two seconds

later she felt a warm presence at her back. “How utterly breathtaking you are.” Philippe took a gentle hold of her elbow and took a step closer. His chest pressed at her back while lips came to her ear. “And I see you wore the perfume I bought you. It is irresistible. How will I get through the night?” “Thank you, Philippe, but I’m such a bundle of nerves, I don’t know how I’ll ever make it through the evening without stumbling or…” “Tss, tss, tss,” he cooed. “You’ve nothing to fear, not as long as you're at my side. Shall we make the rounds? Tante Mathilde is anxious to meet you.” Philippe had a distinctly authoritative air as he paraded her through the crowd. At first this allowed Veronique to relax. He was so confident and self-assured, she simply followed along and allowed his introductions. When faced with the many young ladies who seemed completely enamored with him, he seemed proud to show her off. However, when he introduced her to the gentlemen, his hold of her tightened and became possessive. “Monsieur Desgrosseilliers,” he said to a tall and distinguished young man. “I would like to introduce you to my lovely companion, Veronique Dumouchel.” The young man’s eye lit up and widened with envy and a touch of desire. “Quelle plaisir de faire votre connaissance, Mademoiselle Dumouchel.” He was slow and methodical in his movements as he took her hand and

raised it to his lips. “Please be sure to add my name to you dance card. I’m a very talented dancer.” “You have plenty of fare to choose from,” Philippe quickly snapped as he pulled Veronique’s hand away. Pulling her away from the dashing young man, he turned to hiss, “Don’t be so gauche as to impose on my guest.” Veronique held her breath a moment and felt a strange and unpleasant sensation. Her brain, logic and everything she knew of society wanted him to have said ‘guest.’ As Philippe continued introducing her to the many people throughout the hall, she replayed the sentence again and again in her head. Every time the result was the same. He’d said conquest, not guest. Conquest - something didn’t sit right. And the fact that he would so blatantly refer to her as a conquest to another gentleman was unsettling. Veronique tried to keep up with the myriad of introductions. She shoved Philippe’s unflattering term to the back of her mind and concentrated on the moment at hand. “And, the guest of honor, my treasured and adorable Tante Mathilde.” The elderly woman, dressed in baby blue and weighed down with an extensive collection of precious gems, stood and looked eagerly into Veronique’s eyes. “What a beautiful girl you are.” She grasped Veronique’s hands and held them tight in her thin, but surprisingly strong fingers. “Philippe has spoken of your beauty, but his words didn’t quite convey the image of the creature I now see

before me.” Mathilde took a step closer and held an intense connection to Veronique’s gaze. “I’ve seen many young ladies come and go. The Aragon men have a knack for finding lovely creatures, but you… You're more than just a lovely face, aren’t you? Yes. I see your innocence, something few young ladies here can claim to have. But I also see something untamed, something pure and unbridled.” “Veronique is from the region of…” Philippe began. “It’s not a question of where she comes from.” Mathilde cut him off and waved his attempt at an explanation away. “It’s a simple matter of who she is.” For a moment Veronique was uncertain of Mathilde’s appraisal. Was it favorable or was this the old woman’s way of cutting her down? “I was a rather wild young girl myself,” she went on. “My father felt certain I would never marry well and would end up alone. He underestimated how enticing a wild child could be.” She spread her arms out indicating the crowd who’d convened in her honor. For the first time since arriving at the manor, Veronique let out a true sigh of relief. Mathilde approved of her. “I see you're even wearing the same perfume; the one Philippe gave me.” “It is such a lovely scent, isn’t it?” “If our dear Philippe treats you as well as he’s treated me over the years, you’ll be in good hands, dear

child. The Aragon men may not always be easy, but they do have a way of spoiling a woman.” Philippe leaned down to his aunt to kiss her cheeks then murmured his desire to show Veronique the remainder of the manor. “Go on then,” she said with a knowing smile and a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” Philippe said as he led Veronique to the lovely French doors that opened onto the gardens, “I’ll give you a little reprieve.” As the din of chatter diminished and the tranquil serenity of the night air enveloped her, Veronique felt the tension leave her shoulders. “A stroll through mother’s rose garden is always the perfect antidote to a loud and crowded party. Many an evening has been spent breathing in the scented air and marveling the beauty of these perfect blossoms. They never fail to raise one’s spirits.” Veronique didn’t hold back and let out a loud and heavy sigh. Hobnobbing with high society was more strenuous than she had anticipated. “I must admit, I didn’t expect such a large gathering. Your aunt must be very popular and well liked.” “Yes, but the Aragon name is really what draws so many.” He slipped his hand over hers and guided her along the dimly lit path. “You did seem quite popular in there. So many young ladies… all more lovely than the next and all visibly attracted to you.”

“None can even begin to compare to you.” “And each one of them would have thrown daggers at me had they been afforded the opportunity.” He chuckled and tightened his hold of her hand. “I can’t deny the competition that can arise at times. Mothers and fathers are constantly bringing their young daughters to our attention. They can be shameless in their attempts to marry their offspring to an Aragon.” Veronique almost cringed as she thought of her own father’s intention of marrying her off to an Aragon. Was she any better than those she wolves out there? Philippe stopped suddenly and turned, grasping both her hands in his. “Tante Mathilde saw in you the very spark I first saw when I laid eyes on you. I’m so pleased to see she approves and it only confirms my suspicions.” For a moment, her lungs clung to the breath she’d inhaled. What was he saying? What was he implying? She allowed her breath to slowly seep out as he approached. His eyes were quickly veiled with passion and desire and she had no doubt his aunt’s opinion of her were far from his thoughts. His lips brushed over hers; a gentleman’s kiss. “You're the one I’m meant to be with.” Veronique’s head spun with dizzying thoughts as she tried to make sense of his words. It was too soon. He was moving too fast. “I knew from the moment I glimpsed you that you were meant to be mine.” His lips pressed against hers, urging them to part. “Have you any notion how I’ve longed

to make you mine?” The sensations that coursed through her body rivaled with the thoughts in her head. This was what her father wanted, what Madame Fourquin strove for, yet it all felt so… His kiss intensified as his tongue pried her lips apart and embarked on a sensual dance that left her head reeling. The garden, the scent, the moon and the very air she breathed all disappeared leaving only the sensation of his mouth over hers. She wanted to resist, but his arms wrapped around her, crushing her to his chest and leaving her curious about what was to come. But when his fingers worked their way into the low back of her bodice, she knew she had to stop him. Breathless and heated with blush, she pressed her hand to his chest. “You're weakening me more than you should, Monsieur Aragon.” With eyes black with passion, he gazed at her with scrutiny and hunger. The rise and fall of his chest told her how eager he was to get closer to her, and while the desire to be with him filled her, she knew she had to put a stop to it all. Taking a firm grasp of her skirt, she flicked the fabric around her legs and turned away from Philippe. “Perhaps you’ve grown too accustomed to women falling at your feet, Monsieur Aragon.” She heard his gentle if not remorseful footfalls behind her. “I may have a wild side,” she called back, “and

perhaps I’m not as educated in the ways of the world as all the young women in there, but I do know what is proper between a man and a woman.” He grabbed her elbow, fiercely at first, but quickly softening his grip. “Do you have any notion of the effect you have on me, how you render me weak, how all logic escapes me whenever you're within reach?” She looked into his eyes, so filled with yearning. “For years I’ve had every young woman this side of Paris try to get just an ounce of affection from me. Never have I felt for any of them the way I feel for you. Forgive me if I go too far. Forgive me if my desire for you makes me lose all sense of what is proper and right.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her with the full intensity of the passion he had for her. His body was tense beneath her fingers as she ran her hands over his arms and up to his shoulders. He was so earnest, she wanted to surrender; so heated, her body would surely succumb to his. She relinquished control and let him guide her. In the moment she yielded and took a hold of him, he pulled away. “As sure as we’re standing here, you’ll drive me mad. How can I resist you much longer?” He ran his thumb over her swollen lips. “Let us return inside before I ravage you right here. Madame Fourquin must already be wondering where you’ve disappeared to.” The noise level had risen during their absence, making the return inside all the more difficult. But the reality of the moment had a way of bringing Veronique’s degree of

passion back to a more manageable level. She bowed, smiled and chatted briefly with the people she met, all while letting the intense heat of desire dissipate. Once in the ballroom, however, the climate changed. Electricity filled the air and Veronique knew she’d been thrown into the heart of the competition for Philippe’s affection. Girls who had previously gazed at her with polite reserve now openly stared at her with venomous spite. Mothers scrutinized her, analyzing the opponent to their daughters. Their gazes didn’t fail to take in the diamond pendant at her neck, nor did it miss the lovely details of her dress. A few brazen young ladies came forth and spoke to Philippe, treating Veronique as though she were the help, or worst still, not there at all. Their lovely little hands fluttered over Philippe’s arms and shoulders as they spoke trivialities and giggled into their gloved hands. Philippe’s hold of her elbow slacked and though he smiled and shrugged his chagrin, a glint of male pride harbored in his eyes. He was enjoying all the attention, Veronique thought. For all his words telling of his desire meant exclusively for her, he reveled in the unabashed hunger of these young ladies. While understandable, she was dismayed by the thought. “Monsieur Aragon,” an old woman pierced through the circle of hopefuls. “My daughter, the sweet and lovely Germaine, has become of age and I do believe she would make for a perfect…”

“But my daughter has been…” “Monsieur Aragon, you once promised me…” The crowd swept Philippe away on a din of broken promises and hopeful requests, leaving Veronique to stand among the crowd of strangers, alone and unsure. A frisson traveled across her shoulders and down her back. Her hands fidgeted and her uncertainty grew. Were all eyes on her? It felt like it as she glanced around, trying to find a friendly face. Her gaze found Martin, far in the corner, leaning against a column and looking intently at her. A faint smile played on his lips while his eyes devoured her, even from afar. Somehow she’d not thought he’d be there. This seemed too prestigious an affair for a man who had a visible streak of the devil in him. Though he was classically dressed, something about his manner, his stance stood him apart from every other man in the room. He was tall, that could have been part of it, but there was more. His shoulders were wide and strong, visible despite the formal attire. He was a warrior, she mused. Taking slow casual strides all while nodding to the people she passed, Veronique made her way to that distant and shadowed corner where he harbored. Every step left her breaths a little more shallow and her palms a tad more damp. It had been too long since she’d last seen him. He, on the other hand wasted no time as he left the

concealing darkness of his corner. His strides were quick and powerful as he made his way to her, his eyes glued to hers. Without so much as a sidelong glance, he grabbed a coupe de champagne from a passing servant, gulped down the contents and set the empty vessel down on the first surface he passed. For a moment she thought he would collide with her, his pace was so fierce, his strides too fast, but he stopped within inches of her, leaving little room as to his intent. “You are a true jewel in a room filled with worthless stones,” he whispered. He took her by the hand, kissed her fingers and glanced at her dance card. He cocked an amused brow as he read through a few of the names. “They’ll have to rip you out of my embrace if they want to get close to you. “It seemed a formality I couldn’t escape,” she explained. “Well, perhaps I can allow a grand old gentleman to lead you through the Virginia Reel, but this waltz is mine.” With grace and agility, he led her to the center of the dance floor and expertly guided her through Viennese waltz. The room hushed, leaving only the music to fill the air. Despite the incessant pounding of her heart in her ears, Veronique heard every note, every beat and faint harmonic. Her feet glided across the floor as though they’d always known how. Martin was a gifted dancer, his hold of her strong and in command, yet with a gentle, almost sensual quality. How her legs managed such an intricate dance, she would never know. She wanted to melt into him, to forget

the crowd that surrounded them and to harbor in his strong embrace the rest of the night. Prying her eyes away from his relentless gaze, she turned away and smiled, trying to alleviate the intense passion she felt churning inside her. Onlookers seemed surprised, shock and even appalled, though for what reason, Veronique could not fathom. Perhaps Martin didn’t have the reputation of a capable dancer, or was it his partner that attracted such quizzical gazes? “I hadn’t realized we’d be so scrutinized,” Martin said. “Though I must say it does bring a lovely flush to your cheeks. I do hope you're not embarrassed to be held by the likes of me.” “Of course not. You're an excellent dance partner and….” Her voice trailed off before she could expound on the many attributes she found so appealing. He was more than she could bear, and chances were he knew it. Though not as pursued as Philippe, certainly he had his share of ladies yearning to get closer to his rugged good looks and undeniable strength. No doubt he knew just how handsome he was; how physically alluring and appealing he was. His hand tightened at her waist and he pulled her unacceptably close to him. “I’m an excellent partner in far more than just dance.” His smile was playful, almost innocent, but the full intensity of his words was mirrored in his eyes. As he twirled her around the dance floor, his body

pressed boldly against hers and his eyes intent on reaching her soul, she caught a sidelong glimmer of something unpleasant. Her mind initially pushed it aside, refusing to accept the blur of vision she’d seen, but as she continued to dance around the floor, her gaze was able to focus more and more on the stiff figure standing among the crowd. His face was etched with anger, his arms clasped tightly before him. Veronique dared not look directly at Philippe for fear of seeing the accusation in his gaze, but she knew her waltz with Martin was not acceptable in his eyes. She pushed against Martin, trying to get him to relax his hold of her, at least hold a modicum of decorum before his cousin, but he seemed adamant, defiant even. “Martin,” she hissed as she set a firm foot down. “You’re being inappropriate and…” His eyes hardened as did his grip. “And you don’t like the fact that Philippe’s not too pleased with your choice of dance partners.” “Stop it,” she snapped. “Your behavior is unwarranted and unacceptable, Martin.” She fought her way out of his hold and turned to Philippe, but he’d disappeared. Leaving the dance floor she meandered through the crowd looking for him. A horrible sense of guilt and shame filled her.

Chapter 7 “You’re being awfully quiet,” Madame Fourquin said as their carriage turned the corner that would bring them home. “Did you not have a pleasant time at the Aragon’s?” “It was delightful,” Veronique murmured. Staring out into the black night, all she could really see was that flash of anger and… what? What was that odd look that had played on his eyes? Jealousy, yes, but with such intensity that she worried about him. “Mathilde was certainly pleased to make your acquaintance.” “She is quite a remarkable woman,” Veronique replied automatically. Keeping up with Madame Fourquin’s attempt at a conversation was proving difficult. Talk of fashion, feast and music had left her ears buzzing with too much information that far from interested her. “Are you getting out?” Startled, Veronique turned to Madame Fourquin who stood outside and realized the carriage had come to a stop. “I do believe your night at the Aragon’s has left you with your head in the clouds.” Nodding, Veronique forced a smile as she stepped out and sheepishly followed Madame Fourquin inside. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to retire to my room right away.” “Of course, m a chère. You’ve had an exhausting night.”

In her room, Veronique stood before the full length mirror for a long time. Was she truly a jewel as Martin had said? Was she worthy of all the attention Philippe lavished on her? Did Martin think of her late into the night as she constantly did him? Her fingers reached for the diamond pendant. Foreign and strange on her skin, she questioned whether she was truly meant for such gems. A life with Philippe would be an endless line of exquisite jewelry, fine fashions and easy living. He would do anything and everything to keep her happy. But Martin… she couldn’t get him out of her mind. Though Philippe was the one who had kissed her, and passionately so, it was the memory of Martin’s hand, his hold, his embrace that remained with her. It was his sheer proximity that rendered her so breathless and weak. The faint scent of him still lingered on her gown and she dreaded taking it off. With fantasies of him still filling her mind, she sat back on her bed, letting thoughts and the scent of him fill her. “Mademoiselle Dumouchel.” Veronique stirred to the distant sound of Pauline’s voice and looked around her. The sun was up, her bed sheets unturned and her gown crinkled and crumpled around her. “Yes,” she called to the voice behind the door. “You’ve received a missive.” After a quick glance around her room for an alternative to facing the young servant, she shuffled off the bed, straightened her gown as best she could and cracked

the door open just enough to be handed the note. “Merci.” She closed the door before Pauline could respond. While she hugged the note to her bosom, she pondered the source and content. Logic told her it was from Philippe, reprimanding her for her horrible actions the night before. There was even a fair chance it was from Mathilde. But in her heart of hearts, she knew there was only one person she truly wanted this note to be from. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes tight and cracked the seal apart to open the letter.

Chère Veronique, Urgent matters here are keeping me away from the opera house far longer than I’d anticipated. My supervision is greatly needed as work on some of the most important details is being done. I need your keen eyes and intensive knowledge of the architectural plans during my absence. Please take an afternoon in the coming days and ensure that all the work is being done as per specifications. You’ve poured over those plans with me so many times, I’m sure you’re just as familiar with everything that needs to be done as I am. I trust that you’ll be the reliable daughter you’ve always been and will do a job worthy of any skilled man in the field. Send me a report of what you witness. I’ll give further instruction if need be.

Your loving father Though thoroughly pleased to hear from her father and to learn of his deep trust of her abilities, she couldn’t deny her great disappointment that the note wasn’t from Martin. However, her father’s absence meant she now found herself with a legitimate reason to go to the opera house. With a reluctant sigh, she slipped the note in a drawer, far beneath her clothing to ensure no one found it. Her father had always insisted on keeping her architectural education hidden from the world of high society. Should Madame Fourquin learn of this talent, she would surely be shocked and dismayed. After a quick bath and change into a day dress, she scurried out of the house and headed to the opera house. It was a lovely day for a leisurely stroll and though she had quite a way to go, she was pleased by the easy breeze that caressed her face. She could feel her cheeks heat up as she approached the opera house and wished that easy breeze would alleviate it. Like a patron who knew her way around, she opened the door to the main entrance and walked in. The few workers she saw paid her little heed as she sauntered by with confidence. Act as though you have a right to be there and no one will ever question you, her father always said. She continued to meander through the impressive construction site, unhindered. After a quick glance in the fitting room, she finally

came to the main stage. A quick glance around told her much of the work was done. The aisles were carpeted, the seats, luxuriously plush and comfy, were in place and the ornate gas lamp fixtures on the wall already offering a warm glow. Her quick mind tallied up what remained to be done and what she should expect by her next visit. Just as she prepared to leave she remembered she’d neglected to inspect any of the balconies. She made her way to the first of the balconies, looking closely at the rich woodwork that lined the corridor and running her hand over the fine tapestries that were hung with care. Every inch of this opera house was opulent, almost extravagant. Walking out onto the balcony, she was captivated by the view of the stage. How magnificently enriching it must be to take in a world class opera from such a vantage point. She sat down, letting the velour tickle her palms as she pet the thick fabric. Everything read wealth, high society and class. Nothing had been overlooked. “You appear to be quite at home.” With a start she bolted to her feet and turned to the familiar voice. Martin, more handsome than a man should ever be, stood leaning back on the balcony railing. Completely relaxed and at home, his gaze took a slow and lingering journey over the length of her body. An involuntary shiver shook her and she had to reach for the railing to keep herself steady. “Martin, how sly of you to so silently sneak up on me like that.” He took a few slow strides towards her, like a cat

who knew his prey was cornered. Before she could think of a move to make, he’d boxed her in against the railing, his arms blocking her path on either side. As he grasped the railing behind her, his fingers brushed along hers. “You seemed pleased with the work we’ve accomplished thus far.” “I must admit, I’m quite impressed.” Her voice wasn’t as collected and calm as she’d hoped. “You do realize that I chose this velour myself, from eleven samples.” Surprised that he would be so involved with the process, she glanced at the seat she’d so lovingly stroked a moment earlier. “I never would have thought. Somehow I have difficulty imagining you fingering velour samples.” “Touché. I know nothing of velvet and would be surprised to learn there could be eleven types, but you were running your hand over it in such a tender and loving way, I guess I wanted to have a portion of the responsibility for that.” Veronique smiled, recognizing his smooth line for one meant to enthrall her. It worked, far more than she cared to let on. “Well, it certainly makes for a rather luxurious experience. How lovely to sit back and watch the splendor of an opera from here.” “Have you ever been?” “To an opera?” He nodded. “I can’t say that I have, something that is lacking from my cultural experience, I’m sure.”

“It’s a magical and unforgettable experience.” With firm conviction, he gripped her shoulders. For a moment she was certain he would kiss her. She wanted, more than anything else, for him to kiss her. Instead, he turned her around so she once again faced the stage below. His arms returned to either side of her, at once lending a sensation of being imprisoned, but also a deep sense of security. His chest pressed lightly into her back as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Close your eyes and imagine the music of Verdi. Feel the emotions of love, pain, betrayal, regret and remorse ring out with every note, every word. Hear the voice of Victor Capoul and let his voice fill your soul. Can you hear the emotions in his voice?” “Yes,” Veronique whispered. Though he’d died far before she could have an opportunity to hear him, she’d heard of the wondrous effect his voice had on an audience. “Now see the costumes; lavish, colorful and outlandish. Decors of magnificent manors and gardens, true to life, artistic and breathtaking.” He leaned into her more heavily, letting his own description fill him with longing for the music that would soon fill every corner of this expansive room. “When it all comes together; when the perfect talent, the perfect story, the perfect music blends as one, it can change a man, can leave you weeping and aching. It never, ever leaves you indifferent.” “You describe it all so well. I can almost imagine…”

“Imagining isn’t enough. You must come to see a show. The house is to open with Verdi’s Rigoletto. It is magnificent and the perfect show with which to start your opera season.” Warmth, moisture and tenderness touched the base of her neck and it was all she could do to contain a sigh as his lips made their way across her bare shoulder. Then, in a moment that both shocked and exhilarated her, she felt the workings of his tongue against her skin. The sigh was uncontainable and reverberated through the air. She sagged and leaned back into his strength. His arms closed in around her and she was enveloped by a sense of security as she’d never known. Why did he affect her so? His mere touch left her dizzy and now… Now she could barely think straight and knew it would take little for her to succumb to him completely. He had her. With little effort, with minimal attempts, he had her. His lips and tongue continued to work their way over her skin, along her collarbone and up her neck to her jaw. With eyes tightly closed, every ounce of her being was held on the movements of his mouth and the sensations it brought forth. It was shocking to realize how one man could leave her feeling so euphoric. The hands that had caged her in now grasped her waist, tender yet hungry. He turned her to face him, his lips never leaving her skin, but artfully working their way to her chin and up to her lips. A moan, loud and gruff, and heavy with desire

rumbled deep in his throat. So animalistic was the sound, Veronique momentarily opened her eyes to find the source. She saw Martin, completely absorbed in the embrace. A little voice of warning began to ring at the back of her mind, but she closed her eyes and shut the voice out. Her body was in control now and whatever warning her mind sent out was not to be heeded. As his hunger intensified, so did hers. Though she’d never been in such a heated embrace, though she knew nothing of the true intimacy between a man and a woman, her body seemed to. Her hands explored him, her finger running through his thick hair, down his neck and over his shoulders. When her hands worked their way down his arms, over his biceps, she was startled by the power he displayed. Only when the distant and faint sound of people entering the auditorium did she sense Martin tense up. His kisses cooled and he finally pulled away from her. Once the fog of euphoria had risen, the voices below them rang out loud and clear. “Forgive me,” he said in earnest. He inhaled, deep and thoughtful. “I believe I lost myself for a moment.” Her voice failed her and she could say nothing. The emotions, the sensations that had come to such an abrupt stop were now choking her. All she wanted was to return to the warmth and pleasure of that embrace. “Your beauty is intoxicating,” he whispered. “How can any man remain in complete control when in your presence?”

Veronique averted her eyes and felt the intense heat of a blush rise to her cheeks. Her hands still rested on his arms, her fingers plying the fabric of his coat and thrilling from the power that lay beneath. “I feel explicitly privileged to be here with you. With the eyes of so many young, wealthy and noble gentlemen on you the other evening, the thought that you're here with me, in my arms, leaves me dumbfounded. How did I get so lucky?” She glanced up at him, expecting a mischievous smile or coy smirk, but all she saw was his sincere gaze and hungry lips. “I know Philippe was angry, seeing you in my arms, and I can well understand him. You have a way of bringing out incredibly intense emotions in a man. While I loath the notion of a rivalry with such a close family member, I can’t fathom the notion of simply letting you go.” “I thought I saw Martin come in here a minute ago,” a worker below said. “I need him to sign his acceptance of the materials we’ve just received.” Martin swallowed and quickly put on the air of a serious and competent supervisor. “I must leave you now.” Veronique nodded and could already feel the cold his absence would soon leave her with. “Tell me I’ll see you again, soon.” “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

Chapter 8 On entering the house, Veronique knew they had a guest. A man’s overcoat was hung on the coat rack and she could hear the distant yet distinctive voice of a male. Did Madame Fourquin have company? Hesitantly she made her way to the parlor and was surprised to see it was Philippe talking so animatedly with Madame Fourquin. His somber tone of voice was now easily recognizable as was the excitement in Madame Fourquin’s voice. “Well, there she is now,” the elderly chaperone said as Veronique presented herself. “I do apologize,” she emphatically told Madame Fourquin. “The afternoon was so lovely, I had to go out and take in the fresh air. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I realize I should have left word of my absence.” “No bother, m a chère.” Madame Fourquin was positively beaming. “You're here now and so is your suitor.” Veronique glanced from Madame Fourquin to Philippe, their smiles conspiring to some mysterious plot that only intensified the blush she already felt burning her cheeks. “Monsieur Aragon has come to ask to officially court you.” “You're already courting me, Philippe,” Veronique said with a quizzical gaze at him. “I want to make it official. I want it known throughout

Paris that Veronique Dumouchel is properly and officially being courted by Philippe Aragon.” She smiled as she tried to make sense of what he was saying. Why was he so intent on making it official? What difference would it make? “I saw how the dashing young men gazed at you with ardent interest at Mathilde’s birthday soirée. Let it be known to them that you're mine.” “And what of all the mothers who attempted to shove their eager daughters at you?” Madame Fourquin chimed in. “Such gauche behavior is reprehensible and should not be tolerated.” “Quite right,” Philippe said with a victorious grin. “Every Parisian will know that I only have eyes for you, my lovely Veronique.” “As your chaperone, and, dare I say, friend, I wholeheartedly and unequivocally accept Monsieur Aragon’s request to court you.” Never had Veronique seen Madame Fourquin with such joy on her face. She was positively radiant. “And don’t forget,” she went on. “This also means you will no longer have a need to be chaperoned. It is perfectly acceptable for you to now be seen in the presence of Monsieur Aragon without me at your side.” “Indeed,” Veronique choked out. It was all too confusing and all too official. “All that remains now,” Philippe somberly said as he approached her and took her by the hand. “Is your acceptance.”

“I truly don’t see the difference it will make,” she began. Seeing the earnest plea in his eyes, she let fall her argument. “But it was rather unpleasant having those mothers so blatantly disregard me as they pressed their daughters to you.” “Perfect,” Philippe said. “It’s settled.” He brought her fingers to his lips and brushed a chaste kiss over them. “I’m so proud. One of my girls with an Aragon.” Madame Fourquin seemed beside herself. “I’m already far too eager to show the world you're mine, Veronique.” He gazed at her with love and affection clearly gleaming in his eyes. “And you're a perfect vision of the young lady on the town. Let us stroll arm in arm through the streets of Paris. My carriage awaits and will bring us where your heart desires.” He was being so charming, Veronique didn’t have the heart to deny his request. “Of course. I would love to spend the rest of the afternoon with you, Philippe.” Once in the carriage he seemed to lose all decorum. His hands were all over her and his lips soon found hers. With barely a moment of tenderness, his lips were hard and fiercely passionate as he pulled her to him. “I can’t tell you how I’ve missed you; how I’ve thought of this moment with you in my arms. Mathilde’s birthday celebration came to life the moment you walked in, and everyone knew it. Men’s heads turned like never before and, if mothers were so eager to introduce me to their daughters it was because they were painfully aware of the

importance you had in my life.” “I hardly think I had anything to do with that aspect of the evening. Surely mothers have been pressing their daughters into your lap far before I came along.” “Indeed, but never with such fervor and desperation.” “Why, I even thought one of them was about to tear my head off. No doubt she would have had she had the opportunity.” He chuckled and squeezed her tight. “You're precious. How can someone so lovely not be aware or concerned with her beauty? Young ladies with only a fraction of the appeal you hold show immeasurable vanity. Yet here you are with barely a thought to how sensational you are.” “You're embarrassing me, Philippe. How am I to react to such raves?” She looked into his eyes, trying to gauge the depth of his emotions. “If you persist, you may very well render me vain.” “Never. You don’t have it in you to be so shallow.” He brought her fingertips to his lips, turned her hand and kissed her palm, then slowly worked his way up her arm. “I’m positively mad about you, Veronique.” Her hearted raced with a whirlwind of emotions. Her body reacted fiercely to his touch and when his lips reached hers, resisting his kisses was unthinkable. “Seeing you in Martin’s arms,” he murmured through deep kisses. “It was more than I could stand. I was blinded by rage and barely able to contain myself.” Veronique listened to him through the dense fog of

sensations his lips caused. A vague image of his face came to her; the anger that had been etched on his features. “I almost stomped across that ballroom to tear you out of his unworthy arms,” he went on. “I would have easily driven a sword through him, my own blood. My own cousin. I could have taken his life without remorse and little regret. He’s a rake and doesn’t merit the perfection of a woman such as you.” He pulled away suddenly, cupping her cheeks and gazing heavily into her eyes. “Never have I felt such power behind any emotion. Never has a woman rendered me so uncontrollable. Veronique, my sweet, my love, my purest perfection, I fear I’ve fallen madly in love with you.” Veronique hoped her features didn’t display the surprise and shock she felt. Her time with him was amusing and enjoyable. She’d learned a lot about him and found him to be the perfect gentleman. And this sudden need to officially court her… Though she didn’t quite understand his urgency, she was flattered by the gesture. But love? She was far from prepared to give her heart to him. He was such a handsome young man with his fair hair, pale eyes and perfectly chiseled features. Despite all his qualities and despite her father’s desire to marry her well, she knew she did not yet love this man. And would she ever? “Fear not.” His gaze remained intent and pensive. “I’ve no intention of pressing you to feel the same for me.

Not yet. Though my love for you blossomed like an English rose basking in the sun, I quite understand your need for time and patience, and I fully intend to award you that time. Any man worth he salt knows that a woman as precious as yourself is well worth the wait.” He leaned into her, fierce and passionate. His tongue played against hers, teasing and arousing. Though her emotions weren’t quite there yet, the stirrings of her body were. Her fingers raked through his hair, dragging her fingernails through the soft curls and drawing him closer. With his weight, he pushed her back into the seat and swiftly lay over her, pressing his body against hers and leaving her heavy with desire for more. When the carriage jolted to a stop they had to fight to keep from rolling off the seat to the floor. “I do believe we’ve arrived at our destination,” Philippe said as he pushed himself off her and looked outside. “And where is it that we’ve arrived.” “Ah,” he said with an air of suspense. “I’ve a surprise for you.” He stepped out of the carriage with a jaunty smile then turned to help Veronique down. She glanced around and suspiciously took in this mysterious part of town. “Is this…?” She was mortified at the thought. It couldn’t be. But… “Is this Montmartre?” He cocked a brow at her and seemed almost dismayed. “You know Montmartre?”

“Not first hand, of course, but I’ve heard of it. The artists, bohemians and gypsies, people with a way of life that is…” Her voice trailed off as she imagined Madame Fourquin’s reaction were she to discover that her find young gentleman had brought her to such a scandalous part of town.” “Questionable?” Philippe finished for her. “Well.” While she didn’t want to be the prude, she couldn’t say she approved of the way people in this part of town were said to lead their lives. Wild, unbridled and uninhibited. There were no rules, no decorum, and no charm schools out here. “I admit I don’t know all that much about it, just a few rumors I’ve heard.” “It’s far more charming that you might have heard.” He guided her down the cobblestone path and stopped at a café. “The coffee here is divine.” With apprehension and her eyes constantly scanning the people who stood around, she took a chair and sat primly, straight and stiff. “Fear not,” Philippe said with a chuckle and a soft pat over her hand. “No one here will recognize you. Truth be told, no one here cares. Everyone is free to go about their business without anyone else interceding. It’s quite a liberating experience spending an afternoon here. I’m sure you’ll approve. Perhaps even want to return.” Veronique doubted she would ever return to such a place, but she smiled her agreement just the same. No point arguing the matter. “And how do you find your coffee?” Philippe asked

once the cup of hot brew was set before her. After a dainty and hesitant sip she looked up at him. “Very good.” Not an avid coffee drinker, she hardly felt experienced enough to know a good coffee from a bad. “So many artists meet here. They chat, compare works, and transmit new connaissances and novel techniques. Many masters began here and some even return on occasion to mentor new talent.” “And how do you come to know such an….” She paused and searched the proper words. Not wanting to offend him she wanted to be sure her choice was judicious. “Such an unusual place? Are you going to tell me that you're a struggling artist masquerading as a gentleman?” He chuckled and finished off his last drop of coffee. “Come, my lovely. I’ll show you what is truly in my thoughts.” Uncertain, hesitant and unsure did not even begin to describe how she felt. Not only was it Madame Fourquin’s disapproval that kept her timid, but her own sense of right and wrong, and something definitely didn’t feel right about this place. Unperturbed, Philippe led her to a small, but prettily adorned townhouse. Without hesitation and with too strong an air of familiarity, he entered the courtyard. Veronique almost gasped. The sense of uncertainty increased and she felt her hand tense around Philippe’s arm. A young woman, beautifully plump with long auburn curls that barely concealed her ample bosom, was laid out on a soft blue racamier. Her sultry gaze left the young artist

busily replicating her likeness to paper with a tiny piece of charcoal. With pride, she thrust her bosom out a little further as she turned directly to Philippe. Showing a modicum of decency, Philippe turned away from the scantily clad model. Shocked beyond reason, Veronique felt her cheeks flare up with instant and intense heat. Why on earth had Philippe brought her to such a place? “Monsieur Aragon,” the young artist said on following the young woman’s gaze and turning to him. “What a pleasure it is seeing you again. Please, I shan’t be but a few more moments.” “Take all the time you need, Claude.” Philippe turned to Veronique, his hand at her elbow. “Come. I’ve something to show you.” Bewildered by the quick succession of unexpected happenings, Veronique followed him up a narrow spiral staircase in the corner of the courtyard. “As you can see,” Philippe said on reaching the second floor, “this is a haven for artists; for people yearning to express themselves.” “Indeed.” There was nothing more she dared say. “I’ve long admired such talented artists, such free spirits.” He led her to a second door, produced a key from his overcoat pocket and slipped it into the keyhole. Once again, Veronique found herself dumbfounded. Philippe actually had a residence here. It was unthinkable. His standing, his notoriety, his very name; how could he? He pushed open the door, a smile that beamed with pride on his lips. Her ability to trust him was quickly waning

and she didn’t know how many more outrageous surprises she could tolerate. Would a nude woman be awaiting them in here as well? Her steps were small and hesitant as she entered. The room was dark for a moment until Philippe drew back the heavy drapes that kept the sunlight out. The light that streamed in fell upon the scratched wooden floor and the dozens of canvases that leaned against every wall. Some were piled three to four canvases deep. “What is all this?” “Take a look,” Philippe suggested. The gesture of his hand was proud as he invited her to peruse the many works of art, but his smile was now shy, almost embarrassed. She flipped through the canvases; beautiful landscapes, most of them depicting children at play in the fields of France; tranquil portraits, a lovely young woman, an elderly man and a couple holding a young child, and there were several nudes, all tastefully done and showing enormous respect for the female form. Each was more beautiful than the last. “Though I’m far from being an expert, these certainly show the works of a greatly talented artist. I’ve seen worse hanging on the walls of some rather elegant homes. I know of people who’ve spent impressive amounts of money on commissioned portraits that weren’t half as lovely and as detailed as these are.” She turned to Philippe, unsure why he was showing her all this. “Are these by your artist friend Claude?”

“No. Claude has been instrumental in bringing them to life, but through support and encouragement, not painting.” “Then…” She stared at him, unwilling to believe. “I painted them.” Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze returned to a painting of a young girl astride a golden mare. The sunlight hit her face as she clung to the mare’s mane. Veronique could almost feel the breeze that rustled through the long grass behind the young girl. “They’re exquisite, Philippe. I had no idea you hid such talent.” “So, to answer your earlier question… yes, I suppose I am in part a struggling artist posing as an aristocrat.” “No one knows of this?” Tearing her eyes off a majestic winter landscape that took her breath away, she turned to face Philippe. He shook his head and glanced at the painting she’d flipped to. “That’s one of my favorites. It lacks the maturity I later came to bring to my paintings, but I do love the innocence of it, or perhaps it’s the innocence of that time of my life that I love. Though not precisely accurate, it’s my home in the country.” “Philippe, you can’t keep such a talent hidden from the world.” “You know as well as I the constraints of being an aristocrat. I’m a man of leisure. Were Paris to hear of my dabbling in something as unrefined as painting, I’d be laughed out of every private club in town. I’d be ostracized.

I’d most certainly be disowned.” “What do you do with your paintings? Do you sell them? Has anyone seen these?” The questions spurted out before she could even think them through. It was such an unthinkable predicament and she was loath to see him throw away such talent. He seemed amused by her distress. “I’ve not tried to sell any and, until now, only Claude has seen them.” He gestured around the small room. “And this is what I do with the paintings. Keep them here, hidden away from the world, yet cherished more than any other possession I own.” Veronique flipped through a few more canvases, moving from one pile to another. His versatility was astounding. Most paintings were bright, gay and lively, but then she came to a series that were somber, moody and thought provoking. “I wanted to share it with you,” he said after a prolonged silence. “I had to. My need to share it with someone has grown to be more than I can bear, and you… You’re the perfect person with whom to share this with.” As she studied a morose still life, a bloody sword leaning against a chipped, dented and soiled shield, she realized how little she knew of this man. Every painting exposed something new about him, something completely hidden and unexpected. “You thought I was a stiff bore who only wanted to revel in my own notoriety. No doubt you had no idea I could harbor such a wild streak.”

“I have to admit you're right. I never would have thought… never.” “You see, I realized the wild streak you had. I saw sparks of it, glimmers of a girl who is more than what she seems, who is more than a chaperoned innocent looking to better her chances in society. And I knew…” He stepped closer, clasped her hands in his and kissed the backs of both hands. “I knew you’d understand this side of me. I knew if anyone in the world were to appreciate what I do, it would be you.” “I’m greatly touched, Philippe.” She looked into his eyes with a fresh outlook. He was far from the pompous and stiff man she’d thought him to be. Her eyes suddenly widened as a thought came to her. “What is it?” Philippe asked. “Nothing,” she said, trying to dismiss the thought. “Please, Veronique, share yourself with me as I have with you.” She smiled, wanting more than anything to share with him her own hidden secret, but what would he think? Truly? Would he laugh? Was her confession far more outrageous than his? “As a woman, a woman of society at that, I’m encouraged to do certain things, be a certain way. I’m also strictly discouraged from showing abilities in… well, let’s say abilities that aren’t quite ladylike.” “Such as?” His curiosity seemed highly acute as he awaited her secret.

“My father,” she began slowly. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve seen him look over plans, adjust, alter, modify and correct. When I asked him what the plans were, he showed me what every line meant and had me watch as he made changes, explaining them all until I understood fully what he was doing.” Philippe’s eyes narrowed with amusement as he watched her. “As I grew older, my interest in these plans increased. I learned what architecture was and also learned I had a talent for it. My father spent hours teaching me as I greedily took in every morsel of new knowledge. My love for architecture grew until it was virtually all I could think of.” “You're quite right. Architecture is not a very ladylike undertaking.” “That’s why my father never allowed me to take this love of mine further than our kitchen table. I was to never speak of it outside the home, even though, in recent years, I’ve actually poured over some plans more than he has. I recently even supervised the work of…” She stopped, knowing she’d spoken too much. “The opera house?” Philippe asked. His beaming smile spoke of the pride he felt. In no way did he appear taken aback by this news. If anything he reveled in it. “Father’s arthritis had really begun to slow him down. It was difficult if not impossible for him to draw a straight line. I was thrilled at the chance to help him and he was so proud of how quickly I learned. Yet, at the very same time, I knew. In my heart I knew it was unacceptable.

It’s so unladylike for a young woman to do such a task.” She turned away a moment as a flush made its way to her cheeks. She never dreamed she’d be telling anyone this. “I’m thoroughly embarrassed.” “Why should you be? Because old farts like Madame Fourquin say you should be?” Veronique gasped at his language then giggled. She never imagined he could have this side to him; so free, laid back and fun to be with. “Never let anyone tell you who and what you should be. You're a magnificent young woman, Veronique, and you have a spectacular future ahead of you. The world has only begun to learn of all that you’ll have to bring to it one day.” “You speak as though you saw the future.” He narrowed his eyes into two mischievous slits. “Perhaps I do.” He pulled her closer, brushing his warm breath across her cheek. “I can see that you and I… we were meant to be. And I can tell you that in about two seconds, I will lay my lips over yours, I will taste the fruit of your tongue with mine and I will crush your bosom against my chest. And, may I add, that I will relish and savor every, solitary moment.”

Chapter 9 A profound sense of belonging coursed through her as she anticipated his every move. When they came, his

lips were softer than she remembered. And his tongue… never had she longed so hungrily for a man, for his touch and for the very taste of him. His chest was strong, hard and unyielding as her breasts pressed against him and she yearned to get closer still. When he began to tear at her dress, pulling fabric away from her body in a way that was both thrilling and frightening, she didn’t fight him. Her every fiber wanted to give into him, to succumb to his every wish. He guided her back to a mattress in the corner and guided her down all while working his fingers through the ties of her dress. Her breast was suddenly bared and instantly cooled by the air of the room, only to quickly be warmed by Philippe’s hand as he cupped it and molded it to his palm. The sensations surprised her, arousing her so much more than she could have thought possible. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve thought of this moment,” he mumbled as his lips continued to assault hers. “I want you. I want you like no other.” Her skin ached with the need to get closer to him still and her mind reeled with every sensation she felt. All the sensations, heat and anticipation shattered in an instant when the door burst open. With part of her brain still in the fog of passion, she turned to see Claude staring at her breasts. “Pardonnez-moi, Philippe.” He assessed Veronique with an artistic eye and seemed in no rush to turn away. “Ooh, la la. Is this to be my new model? I can already envision the passion that would fill the canvas.

Though initially slow to respond, Philippe found his senses. “Claude!” Shocked by her state of undress in front of a strange man, Veronique collected her senses and her dress, pulling the fabric up to her chest to hide herself. “Stop staring, pour l’amour de Dieu,” Philippe shouted. “Have you no decency... especially in the presence of such a lady?” Keeping his eyes on her until the very last moment, Claude slowly turned away, giving her a moment to make herself decent. “I’ll have you know that this is not a model,” Philippe went on as he busied his hands with his loosened cravat. “This is the lady I’m courting and I expect the utmost respect from you, Claude.” “Bien sur. Bien sur.” Philippe took a gentle hold of Veronique’s hand and looked at her with heartfelt regret. “We will have a moment together soon, I promise.” Claude shifted from one leg to the other with impatience. “Fine. You can look now,” Philippe said. Not wasting any more time, Claude stepped straight over to Veronique, wiped his hand on his paint splattered smock and held his hand out. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.” “Mademoiselle Veronique,” Philippe added. Claude let out a long, slow whistle as Veronique reluctantly held out her hand. Though blessed with a good

dose of charm, there was something a little disconcerting about his brash manner. “She certainly has a lot more class than those putains you’ve so often painted.” Veronique couldn’t help but wonder if painted was a euphemism for bedded. “No, I’m not painting her.” “Dommage.” Philippe repossessed Veronique’s hand and clasped it tightly to his chest. “Veronique is my world and means more to me than anything.” “Ah.” Claude crossed his arms over his chest and leaned casually back on his heels. His scrutinizing gaze never left Veronique. “And you brought her here to…,” he prompted. “To show her the hidden side of my personality. I wanted her to see all that I am and all that I love.” He leaned into Veronique with a flash of passion in his eyes. His lips brushed over hers and took quick and powerful possession. Mindful of Claude’s presence, Veronique pulled back. “And what am I here for?” Philippe gave Veronique a quick squeeze and turned to Claude. “I want you, my dear friend, to paint her portrait. I want all of this beauty on a canvass. I want the painting to capture her innocence all while exposing a hint of her untamed side.”

“Absolument pas,” Claude said. He looked frankly at Philippe and seemed unwilling to budge on the topic. “You're the one who is in the best position to paint her to your liking. As an artist you should know that your love for her will come through in the painting, something that I cannot capture.” “It’s not like you to be so humble, Claude, and I dare say it doesn’t suit you. You're a master with a brush and I’ve seen what you can put to canvass.” “I’ve mentored you for well over two years, Philippe.” He put his hand to Philippe’s shoulder and a spark of admiration came to his eyes. “I’ve seen your talent grow, and I, more than anyone, know what you're capable of. This is not false modesty, Philippe. This is simply the view of a master who knows when to cede the paintbrush to a more suitable artist. Philippe’s lips parted to argue the point, but Veronique stepped in. “I want you to paint me, Philippe. You’ve just shown me what you're capable of. The life you bring to your paintings is amazing and I would be honored to have you paint my portrait. I want to let my hair down. I want to be wild for you and I want you to capture everything that you see in me.” “I see the matter is settled, then,” Claude said with a wink. He turned and headed for the door. “Let me know when you’ve put the last brushstroke to your latest masterpiece. It will be my pleasure to assess your work.” The moment he’d left the room Veronique turned to Philippe. “You must paint me.” She stepped up onto her

toes to kiss his cheek. “Please.” He turned and kissed her full on the mouth. “My passion may keep me from doing a respectable job. How can I keep my hands on a brush and palette when I have you in my midst?” “I trust you. I know you can do this.” She pulled away from him and reached up to take the pins from her hair. Her hair flowed over her shoulders in luscious waves and she immediately saw the effect it had on Philippe. He was positively mesmerized as he stared at her. “You’re an absolute vision, Veronique. How will I ever get any work done when all I want to do is run my hands through each tantalizing tendril?” She swung her head around to loosen the curls then turned to the mattress in the corner. “I’ll make sure you get the work done,” she said with a giggle and a sultry wink. She was surprised by how quickly she’d abandoned the straight laced little girl her father had raised. Her fingers slipped under the strap of her dress and pushed it off her shoulder until the fabric hung at her elbow. “Fine,” he said in a forced tone of professionalism. She could sense his restraint as he took her by the elbow and guided her down to the bed. He had her sit up, straight and regal, then changed his mind. “This won’t do. I want you wild.” He grabbed an array of cushions and threw them into the corner and had her lean into them. Bending her knee, he propped up her legs, turned them one way and the other before being completely satisfied. He shifted his attention to the flow of her dress. Her

legs would be covered and the flow of the fabric would be simple and elegant. But her torso… he pulled her dress strap up, then pulled it down. In his haste, he exposed her completely, her dress coming to pool at her waist. “You're impossibly beautiful, Veronique, every inch of you. How will you keep me from ravishing you right here and now?” “You’re an artist and you’ll direct your passions to your brushes.” He kissed her, deep and passionate, then backed away, nodding in resignation. “Yes. You're right. Let us get to the task of bringing your beauty to the canvas.”

Chapter 10 As often as she could, Veronique sneaked away to Montmartre, every trip leaving her more alive and vibrant than the last. However, her father’s prolonged absence also meant going to the opera house several times a week. With her head and heart firmly secured in the embrace of Philippe’s talent, she’d not given too much thought to running into Martin. For her first few forays to the opera house, she had no need to even consider the effect Martin could have on her for she never ran into him. But she knew the time would come when she would. “It’s about time I see you again.”

She’d been looking over every line of an intricate portion of stained glass meant to adorn the lounge, but was amazed at how quickly his voice touched a nerve. Her heart was instantly on guard and her palms were clammy before she’d even turned around. “I thought you’d forgotten all about me.” While he sounded somewhat amused, his words held a clear accusation. He took her breath away the moment she turned to face him. Just standing there, magnificent in the male that he was; strong, tall and so confident. “I didn’t forget you at all, Martin. In fact, I’ve been here all week and I’ve not seen you once. Have you been spending more time away?” He chuckled and took a step closer. “I’ve been on top of every aspect of every inch of this opera house. From the installation of the latest in toilettes, to the setting of the tiniest piece of parquet.” “As you may have noticed, my father is being kept away from the city a little longer than he’d anticipated.” “I had, and I had anticipated seeing you sooner. Are you trying to avoid me?” The question surprised her. Had she? In her desire to remain true to Philippe had she deliberately steered clear of Martin? She dreaded the thought that she could so easily succumb to his charm and good looks. “Or have you simply been spending too much time with Philippe?” She shook her head more adamantly than she

should. Surely he would see right through her. “I overheard workers mentioning that you’d received the bronze bust of Mozart and Verdi.” “Yes, as did the statue and friezes that are all in place now. So now that we have put that out of the way…” He took another step closer. “Is architecture all you really want to talk about?” Letting out a slow and steady breath, she walked past him. “I was hoping to have a glance at them before I left. I heard the bust of Tchaikovsky is especially beautiful.” She could hear him walking close behind her and she couldn’t help but smile. “I can also show you the new marble statue of Bach. He’s set to greet people as they arrive and I think you’ll find it quite impressive.” He stayed close to her side as they walked down the long and wide corridor. She could feel the heat of his body and knew her reaction would be feeble were he to even attempt to touch her. Her resolve regarding Philippe was slowly waning and the excitement at the thought of Martin’s touch was reaching excruciating heights. “Have you considered accompanying me to Verdi’s Rigoletto? I’m sure it’s an opera that you would love and appreciate.” “I have no doubt, Martin. Verdi is one of my favorite composers and it would be a pleasure to be there for the opening of his latest work.” Their heels echoed on the hardwood at their feet,

announcing their arrival to the workers who busied themselves with a variety of tasks. While Veronique felt flushed walking at Martin’s side with all these observers, Martin seemed completely unperturbed. How long would it be before rumors began to circulate about their time spent together? How long before Philippe heard she’d spent time with him? “The Tchaikovsky is still in storage. We’ll have to go down there if you want to get a glimpse of it.” Her blood coursed through her faster at the thought of being hidden from everyone. The storage area in which some of the valuable architectural details were being kept was intimate and dark. “And how is Philippe these days?” he asked after a few steps taken in silence. “I’ve not seen him around lately.” “He seemed quite happy and content the last I saw of him.” Martin grunted softly then pushed back the door to the storage area. “I believe the bust you want to see is over here.” He maneuvered through rows of wooden crates and tall statues covered with thin white sheets. At the far end, he came to a stop and pried open the top of a crate. “Here we are; one bronze Tchaikovsky bust.” She stood beside him gazing down at the bronze work of art. “How distinguished and elegant. A true gentleman.” She ran a finger over the thick mustache. “So richly detailed, you’d almost expect it to come to life.” Martin laid his hand over her finger and traced it up

over the popular composer’s eyes and eyebrows. As he guided her hand over the bronze head, his fingers threaded through hers and tightened its hold of her. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered into her hair. She felt his light touch at her back as his other hand traveled around her waist and pulled her to him. “Every day I’ve looked for you, thinking you’d stop by to see me, thinking you would specifically want to see me.” “Martin,” she whispered. “My father has a particular dream for me, for my future. Hiding away in the storage area beneath an opera house isn’t really what he raised me to seek.” “And this…?” Martin turned her to him and quickly covered her lips with his. “His breaths were suddenly short and spastic, while his hands cradled her head, his fingers roaming madly through her hair. “What does your father say of this, Veronique?” He pulled her into his arms, his embrace strong and powerful as his kiss swept all reasonable thought from her head. His body warmed her and aroused her more than she had remembered. A far and feeble voice called from the recesses of her mind, begging her to stop the passionate embrace before she lost complete control. But the voice in front of her, Martin’s, strong, commanding and seductive, was what held greater force. “Is your father’s dream to see you with the man you love?” he muttered. “Or to see you trapped in an aristocratic arrangement that leaves you cold and

indifferent?” She knew in her heart that her father wanted her to be happy. Feeling the strength of Martin’s embrace and the passion of his kiss, the expert fashion he had of weaving his tongue in and around hers, she knew this was what truly made her happy. Her head wanted to love Philippe and wanted the secure and elegant lifestyle he could bring, but her body and soul belonged to Martin.

Chapter 11 Many of the artists of Montmartre were becoming increasingly accustomed to Veronique’s presence. Her weekly visits to the hill that attracted so much talent had brought her many run-ins with the talented men who all seemed to enjoy looking at beautiful women. To her surprise, she’d even met a distinguished and handsome Spaniard who was especially charming. The Marquis of Dali de Pubol Salvador, though clearly older than Veronique, never failed to bow, kiss her hand and show his great appreciation for her beauty. “How lovely it is to see you again, lovely Veronique.” As he’d always done, he took her hand and kissed each finger. Had he been but a few years younger, Veronique would have certainly fallen under his charm.

“Salvador, you incorrigible old charmer,” Philippe called out as he came down into the courtyard and quickly took a possessive hold of Veronique. “One is never too old to appreciate such beauty.” He winked at Veronique and squeezed her hand a moment before letting go and retreating to his studio. Philippe cocked his head slightly to one side as he regarded the older artist. “Any younger and I may have had to challenge him to a duel.” Veronique tapped his arm affectionately and leaned up to kiss him. “Don’t be silly. He’s just making me feel welcomed.” “Yes, and he would surely make you feel welcomed to his bed, given an opportunity.” He gripped her hand with solid force and led her up the stairs. “I’ve no time to lose. We must take advantage of the strong natural light we’ve been blessed with today.” Lounging on the mattress, Veronique watched Philippe as he worked. He was caught up in every brush stroke, his eyes intent on the lines of her features, his tongue occasionally slipping out as he concentrated. He was an aristocrat with true substance, not just some idle man of leisure who puttered away his days with meaningless tasks. He really did have so much to offer her and her life would be bliss with him, of that she was certain. Guilt suddenly filled her as her thoughts ran to Martin. As right as Philippe was for her on every count, she could not forget the unbearable passions Martin brought her.

“I see Salvador may have affected you more than you care to admit.” She looked at him, her eyes quizzical. “Your lips have parted, prepared to embrace a lover and your tongue seems hungry to taste male flesh. As tantalizing as all that seems, as arousing as it may be, I sense the passion that has suddenly come to your eyes and darkened your pupils that are now shadowed with lustfully heavy lids is not caused by me at all.” While his tone was flippant and carefree, the clearing of his throat indicated the pain his statement truly brought him. “Don’t be silly, Philippe,” Veronique was quick to say. “I will admit that Salvador is a striking man, even at his age, but don’t fret. He hasn’t the means to arouse passion in me.” “Then who does?” His voice was almost unrecognizable as it reverberated with controlled fury. “Philippe? What has gotten into you?” His jaw tightened and Veronique could hear the violence of his brushstrokes. While his gaze repeatedly alternated between the canvas and his muse, his eyes seemed unable to meet hers. “I’ve been painting you for days now. I’ve sketched every feature of your face. I’ve seen you weary at the end of a long day. I’ve noticed the excited arch of your brow on exceptionally beautiful and sunny days. I’ve caught the boredom that has often drawn the line of your lips into a frown.” Veronique sensed the anger that was about to erupt

despite the calmness with which each word had be uttered. He was now too controlled and too restrained. She attempted a smile, hoping his rant would not lead to an argument. “But never,” he went on, his voice slowly taking on the anger that had lain still. “Never had I seen you, whether posing for this canvas or even in my arms…” He stilled his hand and set the brush down with a heavy hand. The gaze that met Veronique’s was heartbreaking. At once she could see his anger, but it was the question she saw in her eyes that touched her. “Never have I seen you with such passion in your eyes. Never have I witnessed a gaze filled with such yearning and longing, and, God help me, I know it is not I you long for.” “Philippe.” Veronique left her pose and stood to face him. “Surely you’re not insinuating that the passion you’ve just witnessed was caused by Salvadore. Please, darling.” She reached for his hand and held it tightly. Though she hoped all this angst was due to Salvadore’s persistent charm, she feared Philippe had heard of her moments alone with Martin at the opera house. “I do believe these long sessions have begun to wear you out,” she said. She turned to glimpse the canvas for the first time. He’d been adamant in keeping her from seeing it before it was finished. Though still in its rough stages and lacking in depth and highlights, she could clearly see the masterpiece he was creating.

“Not even finished, this is an exquisite piece of work, Philippe.” “How kind of you to say.” His voice remained harsh and unmoved. “It’s not kind at all.” She turned to him, frank and honest in her gaze. “I may not be an art appraiser, but I’ve an eye for color and detail and mood. I’m not throwing you idle compliments to placate you, Philippe. You’ve as much talent as every other man up here.” His eyes held a hint of suspicion, but he seemed pleased with her appraisal. “But if you want to see this masterpiece completed, we need to return to the task, do we not?” She smiled and tried to be as chipper and bubbly as could be, all while hoping fervently that he didn’t hear the false note in her voice. “Of course.”

Chapter 12 “I’ve a special request today,” Martin said as he cradled Veronique’s hand in his and gazed down from the second balcony to the grand opera stage. Though she had again resolved not to see him again, he seemed to have a keen sense of knowing the moment she entered the opera house and was often at her side within minutes. Today, he’d been proud to state that the very last of the over two thousand plush seats had been installed in the

highest and furthest balcony. It was, indeed, an impressive sight. “I can’t imagine what you could possibly want to ask of me,” Veronique said, smiling as her gaze took in all the beauty and richness of her surroundings. “My carriage is out by the performer’s entrance and I would like for you to leave with me instead of going straight home. There’s something I’d like to show you.” Veronique shook her head. He was pushing for too much. “It would take but an hour and I promise to have you home, safe and sound, at a respectable hour.” She should stay strong and should tell him that her meetings with him were strictly to be at the opera house, but her desire to remain close to him made it hard to resist. What harm could possibly come of taking a carriage ride with him? He’d show her something new and interesting and she would then head home. “Perhaps just a short ride, then an early return home.” Her heart had won out. Admittedly, she was also curious to see what he had to show her. “I solemnly promise,” he said while holding his hand firmly over his heart. After a final round of inspections to ensure everything continued to run smoothly, they exited the opera house, one five minutes after the other, and discreetly rode away. “The road are in dire need of repair at this end of Paris.”

“Yes, I’m aware my carriage is much simpler and a little bumpier on the roads than that of Philippe, but the ride is usually a little quicker due to the smaller size and light weight. The frame is made of…” “I’ve made absolutely no comment regarding your carriage or Philippe’s.” “No, but I know you’ve noticed the difference between the two.” “Must you truly compete with him on every level? Do you really believe it makes any difference to me who has the larger carriage? Who offers the smoother ride? Whose seats are most comfortable? The very insinuation is insulting. I may be many things, Monsieur Aragon, but petty and shallow are not among them.” He turned to her, a cocked brow and a lopsided grin on his face. “Mademoiselle is quick to quip this afternoon. But your exaggerated protests lead me to believe you had noticed.” “Pas du tout.” She stared out the small carriage window thinking of Philippe’s remarks the last time she’d posed for him. Why was it that Philippe always made reference, whether direct or vague, to Martin, and Martin always brought up Philippe? With every bumpy turn of the carriage wheels, the busy streets of Paris were slowly left behind as Veronique and Martin found themselves on deserted gutted dirt roads. With only the occasional home dotting the countryside here and there, the hushed silence around them was welcomed. The fields that disappeared into the horizon were beautiful

and captivating, but Veronique couldn’t help but wonder where Martin was bringing her. Moments later, they entered a small and rather untidy village and pulled up in front of an equally untidy home. “Here we are,” Martin said. Where Veronique had been reluctant to disembark at Montmartre that first time, she was now mortified at the thought of stepping out into the narrow street that was lousy with beggars and paupers. She gazed disbelievingly at Martin. “Nothing to fear. No one will even get close to you with me at your side.” “How reassuring,” she said with a hint of sarcasm as she jacked up her skirt to step out. “But why bring me to such a seedy part of town to begin with?” “Patience, my dear Veronique.” He led her to the broken down door of a small home. The entire structure seemed to be holding up only by the grace of God. It tilted dangerously to one side and not a shutter remained hinged properly. The roof appeared about ready to open to the heavens and it was hard to believe anyone could live in such hideous conditions. “Martin, I’m not so sure…” He tugged at her hand and pushed open the small door without the formality of a knock. “Maman,” he called out. “C’est votre fils, Martin.” Veronique’s jaw dropped and she felt the blood drain from her face. Her limbs went numb as a shiver,

sharp and quick, traveled over her body. She wanted to shake her head in denial. She wanted to scoff at what he’d just said. As discreetly as possible, her eyes scanned the small dusty room and tried to understand how Martin’s mother could live in such squalor. A small, fragile figure emerged from the back door. She carried three mangy looking carrots in her small hand and two beets in the other. “Mon cher garcon.” “Still working your garden, mother?” Martin approached her and leaned his massive bulk down to kiss her forehead. “Last year’s crop was rather bountiful. After a winter in storage, I do have to say that I’m eager to get a taste. I’ve been itching to make a nice soup.” She patted her son lovingly on the arm, then noticed Veronique for the first time. Her eyes widened in horror. “You should have told me you were bringing a guest.” “Maman,” Martin said as he reached out for Veronique’s hand. “This is Veronique Dumouchel.” With special care and attention, she lay the vegetables down on a small side table and wiped her hands on her dress as she curtsied. “Veronique.” Martin brought her closer. “This is my mother, Noelle.” “Enchanté,” Veronique said. “I’ve a small pot of tea warming on the fire. Why don’t you two sit down and I’ll bring you a cup?” “No need to trouble yourself, Maman,” Martin said.

“No trouble. Make yourselves comfortable.” Veronique turned to look at the two chairs propped in the corner and wondered if comfortable was really the right word. It was inconceivable that an Aragon could live like this. A variety of colorful shawls lined the wall by the door and the hooks above them held a rainbow of outdated hats. Other than that, the room was a dismal array of browns, grays and dust. At Martin’s gesture, she sat on the wooden chair and tried to hide her dismay. Though thrilled Martin would honor her with an introduction to his mother, this was something she never would have imagined possible. “Here you are,” Noelle chanted as she returned with two cups filled with tepid water with only a scant essence of anything resembling tea. “Merci.” Veronique took a cup and glanced at Martin as he took his. Was this safe to drink, she wondered. “Martin has never brought a young lady to come visit me before,” Noelle said as she clamped her hands together and stood there looking at Veronique. “You must be quite special for him to come down to this part of town with you.” “You’re absolutely right, Maman. I thought it was about time you met the girl I’ve been thinking of so much lately.” “She certainly is beautiful.” “And with a heart to match.”

“Have you bothered telling her anything yet about your chère Maman. After all, coming to an outcast gypsy’s home must not have been what she was expecting.” “As ladylike as she may appear, Veronique is a lot more open-minded than most people. I’ve no doubt that your lifestyle will have no bearing on her view of me or of you.” Sitting passively with her hands grasping her cup, Veronique wondered how much longer they would continue to discuss her as though she’d left the room. She’d initially wanted to tell Noelle that, not only had Martin not bothered telling her anything about her, but he had not even informed her this meeting would occur today. And as far as being open-minded was concerned, she was beginning to wonder just how open-minded she was expected to be. So his mother lived in little more than a shack, and she was a gypsy. What more would she be expected to accept with an open mind? “The Aragons are strong and handsome men, as you can very well see.” Noelle turned her attention to Veronique. “They love their women beautiful, elegant and well-bred… that is the women they actually marry and bring into the family. But they also love women who are beautiful, untamed and who bring a little excitement into their elegant, yet mundane lives.” “Maman, Veronique has been helping me with the overseeing of the opera house construction.” She raised an eyebrow and clucked her tongue.

“Well, well. Not just a pretty face. I see why my Martin is so enamored. No ordinary, run of the mill lovely face could entice him as you’ve obviously managed.” “It is rather out of the ordinary, but my father has been…” “No need to make excuses, young lady. Having a head of your own and being brave enough to use it should not be something that shames you.” “Yes, of course.” “Tell me, Martin,” Noelle said, turning her attention to her son. “How is the life of an Aragon?” Though Noelle’s love for her son was evident, Veronique detected a note of bitterness in the question she posed. “I’m keeping busy, Maman. The opera house is finally going to be completed. After months of delays and problems, we’ll soon be ready to open to the masses.” “And have you seen your Anatole lately?” Martin squirmed and seemed distinctly uncomfortable. Unable to meet his mother’s gaze, he sipped his tea then glanced at his pocket watch. “Never mind. I know you won’t tell me of his latest conquest or his worthless endeavors. For all the years I was married to him, he never changed. I can’t imagine he would change now.” “I’ve not seen father in well over two months, maman. I’m sure he’s doing well, regardless of his conquest or endeavor.” The tension in the small room increased.

“While my son is a good man,” Noelle said to Veronique, “the Aragon men have a streak in them that cannot be tamed. “I learned that the hard way when I met and fell in love with Anatole.” “Father wasn’t totally at fault, Maman,” Martin argued. “If I remember correctly, a few of father’s sisters taunted you relentlessly. Father even tried to defend you on several occasions, but you're the one who turned away.” She leaned against the wall and looked at him with adoration. “Yes, your father did manage to find an ounce of gallantry every once in a while. It may be the only quality he possessed and was able to pass on to you, Martin. Thankfully you inherited your generous nature and savoir faire from your mother.” She smiled and winked. “And your unending charm, Maman.” “Well, I did raise you on my own and with my own set of values. If not, only the good Lord knows what would have become of you. Those Aragon’s would have turned you into a pansy for certain.” Martin turned to Veronique. “I only reconnected with the Aragon family in my late teens when I went to work for them. The opera house was a wonderful opportunity for me.” “I’m sure it must have been,” Veronique said. Noelle huffed and immediately seemed to regret her outburst. “Don’t pay attention to the rantings of an old woman, young lady. I’m not as bitter as I seem. My life here is far more to my suiting than anything the Aragons

could offer.” “Maman never was one for foie gras and champagne.” “No, I’ve always loved the simpler life.” She winked again. “I understand you completely,” Veronique said. “Though I love Paris and the elegance that encompasses it, I do love a simple horse ride in a meadow or a stroll down a country lane.” “Pompous asses, if you ask me.” The bitterness was slowly returning to Noelle’s voice. “Maman found that she didn’t quite fit into the Aragon family. Socialites didn’t take well to someone from…” “I’m from a family of gypsies, dear girl.” She turned away and walked out. “There are days when she’s happy with her decision to leave the Aragon estate to return to the only way of life she’d ever known. Other days she’s filled with resentment. We’ve unfortunately fallen on one of those bad days.” “I understand.” Truth was she’d understood little of her encounter with the woman. “Must we leave now?” “No. She’ll return in a moment. Sometimes her anger is such that she must find solace in her garden and calm herself down.” As predicted, Noelle returned moments later with a bundle of soiled potatoes in her shawl. “Will you be staying for supper? I’ve all these vegetables.” “I’m afraid not, Maman.” Martin got to his feet. “I

promised Veronique I’d have her home early. I simply wanted you to have a chance to meet her.

Chapter 13 “That didn’t really go as smoothly as I’d hoped,” Martin said after a prolonged silence. He seemed agitated and uncomfortable and it wasn’t due to the bumpy carriage ride. “It was fine, Martin.” Veronique wanted to reassure him, but it was difficult to hide how shaken up she was by the encounter. Yes, the fact that his mother was a gypsy had come as a shock, but so had his mother’s view of the Aragons. “But through all that,” he said as he reached for her hand, “I could tell that she liked you, and that means a lot to me. “I liked her as well. She’s quite a colorful character.” Martin smiled then let out an amused chuckle. “You certainly have a diplomatic way with words. My mother has been called a variety of unflattering names, but colorful character…. Yes, I supposed she is quite a character.” “You know,” Veronique mused as she looked out the carriage window, “a part of me has always envied gypsies.” “I beg of you, don’t patronize me.” “I’m quite sincere, Martin. Granted, I may have had a very romanticized vision of gypsy life, but something

about the freedom, living outside the boundaries of society, making your own rules… It all seemed so appealing. Traveling from town to town without any ties.” “You forgot about the hunger, the poverty, the lynching, usually topped off with a hanging.” Veronique turned to offer him a discontented glare. Just as she was about to argue her point, the carriage came to a sudden and violent halt, throwing them into the seat across from them. “What the…?” Martin grunted. With a strong hand, he gripped Veronique by the arm and brought her to her feet. “Are you all right?” Too shaken to speak, she simply nodded. “I’ll go see what’s…” Before Martin could even turn around, the carriage door flew open and he was unceremoniously pulled out. Confused by the sudden action, Veronique cowered at the back of the carriage as she watched three men throw Martin to the ground. “Martin,” she called out when one of the men kicked him in the ribs. Horrified, she could barely bring herself to look at what was happening. One of the aggressors, large and imposing, turned to her. A helpless yelp escaped her lips as the man reached inside. He wrapped her grubby hand around her wrist and yanked at her. Blinding fear took over as she shouted and fought to free herself, but his grip was relentless and his strength overpowering. He pulled her out and prepared to throw her to the

ground, but suddenly slumped and fell to the ground. “You okay?” Martin shouted as he turned away from the slumped man and turned to fight off another. She stared, open mouthed and trembling at the odd scene before her. Dozens of people, men, women and children, circled them while one man after another threw themselves on Martin. Through the violence of punches and kicks, he grinned as though thoroughly enjoying himself. A small thin man ran at Martin’s back, jumped on him and hung on with one arm while he smacked him repeatedly with the other. With minimal effort, Martin threw him to the ground. Veronique watched in horror as a young boy, barely seven years old, ran to Martin, a hammer in his hand. Martin snarled like a wild animal, grabbed him and threw him high into the air. For a moment, Veronique was certain the poor boy would fall helplessly to the ground, but Martin caught him then tossed him to a woman waiting on the side. After a moment of calm, a frail looking elderly man approached him. Surely he had no intention of attacking such a bulk of a man as Martin, Veronique thought. “And what do you think you’ll do to me, Armosa?” Martin asked. “As it so happens,” the old man said as he pulled out a small dusty purse, “I’ve just found this purse amidst your kerfuffle with these young men. Perhaps it is yours?” “Found?” Martin asked with suspicion. His fists

were still clenched and his stance was prepared for battle. “Right there on the ground, my good man.” The man offered Martin a toothless grin. “Why don’t we look at what we have here?” He poured out the contents. Rings heavy with rubies, emeralds and sapphires – hair clips with pearls and crystals – gold chains and pendants. The old man let out a long, slow whistle. “That’s quite a find.” Martin’s fists relaxed and his curiosity was getting the better of him. “Let me see that.” “Not so fast,” the old man said, tucking the purse back into his belt. “I think we need to find who the rightful owner is. But, perhaps if we don’t find them we could split the contents.” Martin smiled and turned to wink at Veronique. “Why not?” Martin asked. Armosa pulled the purse back out. “On second thought, being the small, frail man that I am, I’m not at ease with the notion of walking around with a small fortune on my person.” “I can hold it for you. No one would dare attempt to take it from me.” “Trust you, Martin? You're more apt to run off with this than keep it safe.” He pinched the whiskers at his chin and gazed at the heavens. “However, to show you're trustworthy, put up a few coins of your own. This way, if you run off, I’m not left completely empty handed. Martin rummaged through his pockets and pulled out a few coins. “This is all I…” The old man grabbed the coins and handed Martin

the jewel laden purse. “It will do… for now.” He turned to the band of men around him. “Help me search for the owner of that purse.” They walked away, muttering softly to themselves. Occasionally they glanced over their shoulders as they headed to a series of temporary shelters set up in the nearby field. Martin tossed the purse up and caught it as he smiled at Veronique. “I don’t understand,” Veronique said. “I thought we were being robbed by highwaymen and now here you are with a purse filled with jewels.” “This is turning out to be a rather good day after all.” He pulled apart the purse strings and emptied the contents into his hand. Veronique gasped. Instead of rubies and sapphires, Martin’s hand was filled with pebbles and stones. “Where did the jewels go?” “Better yet, where did Armosa go with my veritable coins?” A young gypsy, dark-haired, dark-eyed and darkskinned emerged from the crown and came to Martin. Voluptuous and wanton, she looked like a nymph who’d risen from the depths of hell. She eyed Veronique with disgust then turned a vengeful glare on Martin. “Looks like Armosa showed you that wits can sometimes win over brawn.” “Giselle, are you playing along with your grandfather’s cons again?”

Watching the exchange, Veronique was increasingly confused. Did Martin know these people? These gypsies? They were slowly dispersing, each going back to their own tasks as though nothing had happened; as though they’d not accosted them at all. “Grandpapa likes to show you young men that he still knows what he’s doing.” “Martin?” Veronique called out softly. “What is going on?” “I do apologize, Veronique. I know how all this must have frightened you considerably, but it was all in jest. I’ve known this band of gypsies all my life and they never fail to try to upset me every time I head out to visit with my mother.” “And Armosa never fails to show you a new trick. He really got you to fall for it this time.” Giselle reached out to touch Martin’s arm. “Why don’t you come back and sit with us for a while? It’s been a while since you’ve passed this way.” “I’m afraid I must really return to Paris as quickly as possible. My promise to Veronique that I have her home at a respectable hour is of utmost importance to me.” Giselle threw Veronique a hate-filled glance. “Well, by all means, shove her into that fancy carriage of yours and send her on her way.” Martin offered a dry chuckle. “I think not.” “Is this Veronique so important to you?” She leaned in closer “Giselle, please.” He seemed embarrassed as he

tried to pull away from her. “You said the next time you passed through that we’d…” “No.” His tone was suddenly strong and stern. “I never said anything about us being together again. You did.” She turned to spit on the ground, her angry eyes again coming to Veronique. “You must be quite pleased with yourself.” “I… I…” Veronique tried to hide the sudden fear she felt for this woman. “Of course, you would be. That fair skin, golden eyes and smooth hair. All refined and elegant. I suppose you're proud to have landed an Aragon.” Veronique’s eyes darted from Martin to Giselle. There was no point arguing with this girl. “Seems after all those nights spent in the arms of a gypsy woman who knew how to truly please a man, he now finds himself prepared to settle for the frigid bed that comes with the elite women of society. Where I offered him heated passion, you’ll only be good to afford him the barren coldness of a loveless union.” The verbal slap was more than Veronique could bear. “There is no coldness in our relationship.” “Veronique,” Martin said softly. “As a matter of fact, there’s quite a bit of passion.” “Veronique,” Martin said more forcefully. “I’ve never felt such passion for a man.” “Every woman who comes across Martin feels

passion for him.” Veronique sputtered silently for a moment as she got her bearings. “And I dare say, that he’s shown an immense amount of…” “Veronique!” Martin grabbed her hand and yanked her to silence. “So that’s how quickly you forget what happened between us,” Giselle said. She reached up and slapped him soundly on the cheek. “I loved you, Martin. I was even prepared to leave the family for you. And now…” “You're causing an unnecessary scene.” With a shake of her head, she took a deep breath and turned to walk away. Only a few paces away, she turned back, a dagger held tightly in her hand as she ran at Martin. Martin easily caught her wrist and stopped the attack. “Honestly, Giselle.” He looked down at her small dark form and shook his head in disgust. “Jealousy does not suit you.” Veronique froze when she saw the venomous stare Giselle directed on her. “And that socialite doesn’t suit you.” She spat at Veronique’s feet. “That’s enough. We must leave now.” Martin released his hold of her with a grunt of disgust. “May all children born of your love for another be as hideous as your blackened soul, Martin Aragon. Let your children wear the scars you’ve left of so many young hearts. Your children shall bear the burden of the pain you’ve

sought to inflict on so many innocents.” Martin turned Veronique around and directed her to the carriage. “You’ll regret leaving me behind, Martin,” Giselle called out. Martin slammed the carriage door shut and signaled the driver to hurry off. “Was that…?” Veronique feared the muttered words she’d heard. “Her curses never come to fruition. Don’t worry about it. It was her way of expressing her anger.”

Chapter 14 Philippe could feel the droplets of sweat accumulating on his brow. Despite the cool evening that was settling in the courtyard outside, the Aragon home was hot and stuffy. Or was it news of Veronique’s latest escapade with Martin that had him so hot under the collar? These past weeks, painting her, spending afternoons staring at her unbelievable beauty, he’d almost come to take for granted that he’d won out over Martin. Veronique seemed increasingly enamored with Philippe and the lifestyle he was promising her. He’d taken care to paint a pretty picture of her future were she to stay with him. All the fashionable gowns she could dream of. The most exquisite banquets to feast on every night. A

home fit for a queen and a husband who would forever treat her like a princess. He’d capture the moon for her if he could. Was he so blinded by the love he felt for her that he couldn’t see her heart was still straying; still searching? He was loath to turn and face Martin, the victorious grin on his rogue face. His fingers gripped the mantle over the fireplace as he fought to maintain control of his growing anger as news of his cousin’s latest escapade with his Veronique sunk in. “You brought her out into your gypsy world?” Philippe asked incredulously. Visions of her in Martin’s arms left him livid. He stepped away from the fire that needlessly warmed the parlor and approached a nearby window to open it a crack. “Have you no respect for the fine young woman she is?” “I wanted her to meet Noelle.” Martin was the absolute picture of casual relaxation as he reclined in a Louis XV heirloom highly coveted by Philippe’s mother. “You wanted her to think she was special enough to you. You only introduced your mother to her to win this bet,” Philippe spat. “Lord knows you’ll do anything to get her to think she’s more important to you than the dozens of harlots you’ve bedded.” “And what have you been doing to let her believe she’s important to you?” “She is important to me and I’ve no need to play games.” His hands plunged deep into his pocket, he shuffled the loose francs that lay there, ready to be thrown

at any problem money could solve. “As a matter of fact, I want to put an end to our bet. I want you to leave her alone. Go back to the wild and loose women you’ve grown so accustomed to. You’ve no need for a real woman like Veronique.” “No need for her? Leave her alone? Is the heat of the competition getting to you, Philippe? It’s not like you to give up so easily.” His smirk was as arrogant as it was annoying. “I’m not giving her up. I’m putting an end to a silly game.” Martin stood and faced Philippe. “You're too late, Philippe. I’ve long given up the game. For weeks the bet has been off as far as I’m concerned. She’s the woman I want in my life… for life.” Philippe snickered. “And how long is that? A few more weeks? Perhaps you’ll make an exception and will string her along for a few months?” “You speak as though you were innocent of having ever toyed with a young lady’s heart, Philippe. Have you forgotten Ermine? How you left her devastated and on the verge of taking her own life? And what of Florence? That young nymph who thought you would change her life; take her off the streets and make her a rich woman of leisure?” “I’ll admit to a few indiscretions. I was young… foolish. Weren’t we all? But those were the juvenile games of a young man overrun with hormones. I’ve matured and I know what I want. What I truly want, and it’s Veronique. You’ve no idea what I’m prepared to do to have her as my

wife.” His hands continued to fiddle with the francs at the bottom of his pockets. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to go through me to try to get to her,” Martin challenged. Philippe ignored his cousin’s murderous gaze and pulled out a fistful of francs. “You’ve always wanted your own company. You’ve always dreamed of beautiful architecture… of bringing your own visions to the streets of Paris.” He let a series of coins trickle from one hand to the other. “There is at least…” “You don’t have enough money to keep me away from a woman like Veronique, Philippe. Did you truly think I would just give her up for a fistful of francs.” “This is just the beginning, Martin… just to show you how serious I truly am. There’s more, so much more. I could set you up so that you never have to say ‘yes, sir’ to another man again. You can be your own man, your own boss. I can arrange for you to have the life you’ve always dreamed of.” Martin cocked a brow and seemed to consider the offer for a moment. His eyes rested on Philippe’s open palm. “There was a time when I would have gladly taken you up on your offer, Philippe. Had you offered me a fraction of what you now hold for any other woman I’ve even known, she would have been yours. But Veronique…? She’s made me feel things I thought I was incapable of feeling. You could never have enough money. You're a fool if you really think your fortune can replace someone like her.” He came to stand toe to toe with his competitor. “I guess we’ll just

have to continue with the competition.” “And may the best man win,” Philippe grunted.

Chapter 15 On news of her father’s arrival, Veronique hurried out of her room and skipped her way down the stairs and into the front parlor. “Papa,” she called out. “Ma belle Veronique. I’ve certainly missed you.” She slipped her hands into his and kissed him dutifully on the cheeks. Taking a step back, she allowed him to take in the sight of her. “You’re still the prettiest little girl in all of Paris.” “Oh, Papa. You're far too biased. And, need I remind you that I’m not a little girl anymore?” He smiled proudly and glanced at Madame Fourquin who’d been sitting quietly during the reunion. “I’m told that you have, indeed, grown up rather quickly while I was away.” Veronique turned to Madame Fourquin, a quizzical gaze silently asking what the old woman had told her father. “Sorry, dear. I do hope I didn’t ruin the surprise.” “Surprise? What surprise?” “Well that Monsieur Philippe Aragon is courting you, of course.” “I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am, Veronique. I

could not ask for a better son-in-law than Philippe Aragon.” Veronique stared blankly at her father. She’d not planned on telling him anything so soon; too soon. She wanted more time. Her heart still didn’t know which way to turn. Still holding her hands in his, Monsieur Dumouchel sat on the sofa and guided his daughter to his side. “Ever since you were a little girl, I’ve had big visions of the life you would one day lead. And your mother… God rest her soul, but she did dream of a day when her little princess would have the life I could never quite afford her.” “Papa, I… I don’t really know what I can say to you.” She bit her lip and glanced at Madame Fourquin for a helping hand, but the woman simply smiled and batted her eyelashes. “I think this may be a bit premature, Papa. I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high. Philippe is a worldly man who is very much in demand. I’ve seen the way women throw themselves at him. Mothers are prepared to sell their souls in order to have Philippe pay but a few moment’s attention to their daughters.” Monsieur Dumouchel shrugged disenchantedly. “I’ve worked in Paris long enough to know that few young ladies can hold a candle to you, Veronique. I don’t think you need to worry about the competition of those other women. And from what Madame Fourquin has told me, Philippe Aragon is more than just smitten with you.” There was nothing more Veronique could say. Her father was already sold on the idea she’d be marrying Philippe before the summer was out. But how could she

even consider such a thing when her lips still tasted of Martin’s last passionate kiss. After their encounter with the gypsies and Giselle, he’d wanted so desperately to make her forget everything that had happened. The remainder of the ride home had been spent in his arms as he’d apologized repeatedly, promising a myriad of ways he’d make it up to her. He’d kissed her, gently, almost fearfully, as though he truly believed she might push him away, or strike him. For a moment she had considered it. He’d allowed her to be in an extremely uncomfortable situation and she didn’t want to let him off easily. But the brush of his lips, the greeting of his tongue and the passion of his embrace had made her forget all about the gypsies, Giselle and her hideous curse. “Veronique,” her father was saying. “Are you already planning your nuptials, dear?” “Papa, please. Don’t get too ahead of…” “Sorry to interrupt.” Everyone turned to the sound of the intrusive voice. “Pardon me, Madame Fourquin,” Pauline said as she squeezed in behind Philippe who stood blocking the doorway. “He hurried past me before I could come announced him Madame.” “That’s fine, Pauline.” Madame Fourquin grinned at Philippe. “Monsieur Aragon is always welcomed in my home.” The shy and flustered young girl backed out of the room, slammed into the doorjamb and muttered her

apologies as she pushed her way past Philippe. Monsieur Dumouchel rushed to his feet and greeted Philippe like a long lost son. With one hand firmly set on his shoulder, he extended his other hand for a shake. “What a pleasure to see you, Monsieur Aragon.” Philippe grinned proudly and shook his hand. “I’ve long wanted to meet the man who raised such a fine young woman. Veronique is not only beautiful to look at, but enchanting to talk to.” “Being the only child I had, I took great pride in spending a lot of time with her and showing her everything I knew. Of course, having raised her on my own these past years, I did have more of a manly influence and she sorely lacked the presence of a woman in her life.” “That’s until you brought her to me,” Madame Fourquin quickly injected. “Have no worries about your daughter’s upbringing, Monsieur Dumouchel. She has more elegance, class and intelligence than any other woman I’ve ever met, and that is why…” He stopped to glance at Veronique then pulled a small package out of his pocket. “I’ve not stopped by simply for a social call.” Madame Fourquin gasped and clasped her hands over her gaping mouth. As for Veronique, she felt her face go deathly pale and she wondered if she’d be able to keep from fainting. “I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s…” “Oh my,” Madame Fourquin exclaimed. She jumped to her feet, completely unable to contain her happiness.

All Veronique could do was keep the bile from rising up to choke her. “Yes,” Monsieur Dumouchel quickly answered. “There’s no need for all the formality, Monsieur Aragon.” “And there’s no need to call me Monsieur Aragon. Please.” The two men chuckled and patted one another on the back. Veronique felt like a fine thoroughbred being sold. No one had stopped to take her feelings into consideration. No one seemed to even be aware she was in the room. Dizzy and increasingly faint, she had the distinctive impression this was not going to go well. “Did you hear, dear?” Madame Fourquin asked her. Through the haze of fuzzy emotions, Veronique nodded and tried to force a sincere smile. She did like Philippe after all and this sudden and unexpected proposal wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a young girl. But… Their last passionate embrace had been heated and had almost led them take their romp to the bed. Philippe had shown himself to be a true gentleman when he stopped himself and found the ability to compose himself. Veronique couldn’t deny the passion she felt when she was with him. It wouldn’t be so bad, she tried to tell herself. A life as an Aragon. A life spent living on that huge estate, in a house so large you could get lost in it. What was she complaining about? Why was she hesitating? Any girl would be jumping with glee at the thought of such an impossible match.

Martin. It was as simple as that one little name. It was as complex as that huge bulk of a man who turned her heart around and left her feeling weak under his touch. Was the passion she truly felt for Martin worth sacrificing all that Philippe could bring to her life? “You're a perfect match,” Monsieur Dumouchel said. “I couldn’t be prouder, ma chérie.” He approached her and Veronique was certain he’d comment on her paled complexion. But he just beamed like the proud father he was and patted her lightly on the head like a perfect child. “I know, Papa,” Veronique managed to croak. “I know that it is rather sudden,” Philippe said. “But the family would truly be honored to have the ceremony at the Aragon estate this summer. The grounds are immaculate and would make for the perfect setting for this union.” He sat beside Veronique and took her hand, bringing it to his lips as his eyes locked onto hers. Filled with love, he stared at her. He knew, Veronique thought. He knows I don’t truly love him but he wants to marry me just the same. How? Why? “I love you so much, Veronique. You’ve no idea what you do to me.” He slid to the floor and knelt before her, the small packet held out to her. “Will you do be the honor of becoming my wife?” He exposed the brilliant and perfect diamond that sat atop an artfully crafted gold ring. “Mon dieu.” Madame Fourquin stood looking down on the magnificent jewel. The remainder of the afternoon was a buzz of odd

emotions as Veronique listened to the people around her make plans that would affect the rest of her life. Madame Fourquin spoke of the perfect wedding dressmaker while Monsieur Dumouchel spoke to Philippe of the business end of such an arrangement. Her father wanted to ensure his daughter would be well taken care of before and after the wedding. When all was said and done, Veronique bade her father goodbye and gave her fiancé a dispassionate hug. Hiding the turmoil of emotions she felt until she’d trudged up the stairs, she finally collapsed on the last step and sobbed. Overwhelmed by the confusion of it all, she remained there, feeble and unable to move. Only when she heard Madame Fourquin moving toward the staircase below did she finally find the strength to make it to her room. Behind closed doors, the tears came anew. The pain was more than she could stand; the thought of never being with Martin again. It was unbearable. She had to see him, just one last time. Rushing to find a warm shawl, she rummaged through her clothes, finally found one that was suitable then crept back to her door. The hall was silent. Surely Madame Fourquin was below with the entire staff telling them of the great match she’d made. Veronique hurried out, headed down to the servants’ quarters and used their entrance to make her escape. Once on the streets, she took to the direction of the opera house, all the time hoping Martin would still be there. The

sun had begun to set and she feared he’d be gone, as would every other worker. But work continued despite the darkening skies and Martin was quick to detect her presence and find her. “What are you doing out at such a time?” He seemed concerned, almost angry. “You can’t roam the streets alone at night.” “I had to see you, Martin.” He looked around to ensure they were alone. “Come,” he said. He guided her to a side door that led to a small courtyard. The night was cool and Veronique tightened the shawl around her shoulders. “What is it? What has you so troubled you’d come out here and endanger yourself?” “Philippe.” “What of him?” “Oh, Martin. I’m to marry him.” “You're what?” He looked positively dumbfounded. “My father came by for a visit and… Philippe must have known he was in town. He arrived, unexpected, but definitely prepared. He asked for my hand; gave me a ring. My father is elated beyond anything I could have ever imagined.” “When? How? He couldn’t have.” Martin staggered back, his eyes glazing over first with horror, then with rage. “Martin, I didn’t know what to do. Everyone seemed to have my life in their hands. There was nothing I could say. Nothing I could do. My father has dreamt of marrying

me off to…” “I know. I know,” he muttered. Martin took her into his arms and held her as he kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry. I won’t let you be trapped by the games that arrogant hot head likes to play.” He pulled back and gripped her shoulders. “I’m not just going to sit by and watch some other man betroth you.” She’d feared his reaction. Feared he’d be indifferent. What if he didn’t truly feel anything for her? Perhaps he wouldn’t care, would even be relieved to see her married off. Seeing the wealth of emotions he truly felt for her, her spirits rose. He would save her. “I love you, Martin.” She reached up, cupped his cheeks and kissed him. She needed him, the taste of him and all the warmth he had to offer. His hands were a blessing on her skin as they roamed over her hungering body. “My Veronique,” he murmured into her hair. He leaned into her, pushing her back until she’d hit the stone wall that enclosed them. His lips played over her then trailed down her neck and into the scoop of her dress. Her legs weakened as her blood flowed recklessly through her body, leaving her dizzy and hungry for more. When he guided her to the ground, she didn’t protest. She wanted him, more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life. The need to touch him, to get closer and closer was all consuming. Logic told her she was simply rebelling against the whole idea of marrying Philippe. This was her life. These

were the emotions she truly felt. Yet she was being directed down a path that just didn’t sit well with her. “I can’t let another man take you,” Martin muttered as he pressed his body against hers. “I won’t.” His hands worked at pulling and tugging her dress of, exposing more and more flesh to his hands and lips. She reveled in the soft touch of his mouth on her virgin skin. The valley between her breasts, the flat plane of her belly and the highest point of her thigh. By God, how glorious it was to be in the arms of the man you truly loved. This was where she wanted to be for the rest of her life; cradled safely in the arms of a man who could arouse such passion. “Take me, Martin. Please, before anyone else ever can. I want it to be you.” Rage still harbored in his eyes as he gazed upon her. “I’ll take you, for now and for always. Whether it be tonight or weeks from now, no other man shall ever lay his hands on you.” His kiss was deep and hard, his movements suddenly urgent.

Chapter 16 “Everyone in Paris hates me ever since the word has gotten out,” Veronique complained as she fingered another bolt of silk. She’d thought preparing for the wedding would have lifted her spirits, but so far she’d only found one frustration after another.

Philippe had quickly decided her usual dressmaker, Bertrand Therrien, wasn’t up to the task of making her the perfect wedding gown and she now found herself having to meet the designer her future mother-in-law had chosen. “Only the most immature and bitter of the young ladies hold a grudge against you,” Madame Fourquin countered. “The vast majority of women knew they never had a chance with Philippe to begin with. The others simply lived in a fantasy world. Besides, his family loves you and that’s all that matters.” Veronique smiled, but was barely consoled by the fact. True, Mathilde and Delphine, Philippe’s mother, had taken to her the moment Philippe had announced the engagement. They’d welcomed her into the family more than she could have ever expected. But Martin… Martin hadn’t spoken to her since their last encounter. The passion he’d brought into his embrace as he’d brought her to full womanhood had been transferred into anger the moment he’d learned she’d not broken the engagement. Though her heart ached for him, she knew she could never let her father down by refusing such a prestigious offer as Philippe had made. “I don’t like having to snub Bertrand on this grand occasion. I feel I’m betraying him.” She reached for a yard of lace and brushed it against her cheek. “My dear, although I cherish my dear Bertrand with all my heart, a gown designed by the Charles Frederick Worth is every young girl’s dream. He will create a one of a

kind garment fit for a queen, and any bride set to enter the Aragon family certainly deserves that.” “Madame Dumouchel,” the young clerk called out as she entered. “Monsieur Worth will see you now. By the time Veronique emerged two hours later she was floating on a cloud of pure silk satin, crystals, and handmade lace. Monsieur Worth had quickly sketched a gown that far exceeded her wildest dreams. The wide skirt, complete with three foot train, would flow like nothing she’d ever seen, he’d promised; fine lace interwoven with metallic threads and draped with crystals. The pointed corsage would be adorned with pure white tulle and the most delicate lace. “I see Monsieur Worth has managed to bring a smile to your face,” Madame Fourquin said as they entered the carriage. “I must admit, he’s quite a marvel. I’ve never seen such artistry, such a unique imagination and such a great eye for what suits a woman best.” “Monsieur Aragon will fall in love with you all over again when you walk down that aisle.” “I must go to the Aragon estate to share my experience with Mathilde and Delphine. Will you join me?” “It would be my pleasure.” “They’re so eager to help with the wedding, yet I fear I’m not doing enough.” Madame Fourquin patted Veronique’s knee. “Delphine Aragon has a reputation for throwing the most lavish and extravagant balls in all of Paris. Your wedding,

my dear, will be the envy of all. Why, the Empress Eugénia herself will be jealous.” On arriving at the Aragon estate, Veronique and Madame Fourquin were led to the formal ballroom where Mathilde and Delphine were busy with plans, samples and several sketches for the banquet layout. “Dear Veronique,” Delphine called out as she turned and immediately approached her. “My dear child, tell me that you’ve absolutely fallen in love with Charles Frederick.” “I can’t thank you enough, Madame Aragon, for recommending him and for arranging that appointment in such a short time. He truly is a genius.” She pulled out one of the sketches he’d quickly made for her. “Look at what he dreamt up right before my eyes. I had simply to give him a few details of what I wished and this is the result.” “Well,” Delphine said as she guided Veronique to the table set with wedding plans. “You’ll be happy to learn that we’ve been quite busy ourselves. We’ve ordered lavishly lovely flowers that emit a minimal scent in order to avoid overwhelming the guests, a little trick I learned from my mother years ago. The lavish menu for the banquette is almost complete. All that remains is the cake. My baker makes the most delicious fruitcake and I know I can entrust him with yours.” “We’ve also gone through an extensive list of the most classic of all music and have narrowed it down to suit every moment of the evening,” Mathilde chimed in. “Unfortunately we were unable to narrow down the endless guest list,” Delphine added.

“If anything, we’ve added a few.” Mathilde showed the impressive list to Veronique. “We’d neglected to include Hortense Cartier and his wife Therese, Philippe’s second cousin by marriage to Joseph Bagot.” She turned to Veronique and whispered, “Hortense always claimed Philippe was too much of a pansy to ever marry and Philippe will be positively thrilled to show you off to him.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mathilde. That is not why he was added.” Mathilde winked knowingly at Veronique. “You’ve done incredible work. I don’t know what I would do without you both. This is more than any girl has the right to dream of.” “You’re more than welcomed, dear girl,” Delphine said with much warmth and sincerity. She reached out from Veronique’s hand. “Philippe has long been the most eligible bachelor in all of Paris and it is only fitting that he should marry such a remarkable girl. Beauty is by far what people will always notice about you, but your wit and intellect will not escape many. You’re a true match for a man such as Philippe.” “Please,” Veronique said as she turned away and directed her attention to the sample flower arrangement. “I’m flattered, truly, but…” The bouquet was luscious and regal, far more regal than she would ever be. Was this dream wedding too good to be true? Could she live up to the grand expectations of the Aragons? “Your modesty becomes you, my dear, but rest

assured, I know the Aragon men enough to know what they want and need in a woman, and you are the perfect addition to Philippe’s life.” “And he is truly a wonderful man, Madame Aragon. You’ve raised a very honorable and respectful man and I do love him…” “Tante Mathilde.” The strong male voice broke into the female chatter and echoed in the expansive room. “I’m told you would like to come into town to…” Veronique turned to see Martin standing at the far end of the ballroom, his gaze strongly set upon her. Her heart stopped and her limbs went numb. What was he doing here? Looking into his eyes, she tried to gauge his emotions, but he was a wall of defiance. The brief moment felt like an eternity as memories of her last moments with him rushed back to her. His hands heated and hungry over her bare skin. His lips forever seeking to taste hers. And his body… hard, strong and uncompromising as he’d pressed against her. Their union, like that of two wild beasts, had left her weeping; not for the loss of her innocence, but for the realization that this would be the one and only time she would be so close and so fully connected to her one true love. Weakened and in fear of crumbling to the floor, she reached for the table to steady herself, all while trying to erase the look of hopeful yearning that no doubt played in her eyes. Would he ever forgive her? Would he forever gaze upon her with such animosity?

With stern indifference he looked away as he took long steady strides to his aunt. Blood drained from her face as Veronique watched him walk by without another glance her way. “I’m told you would like to see the opera house. Apparently you’ve already reserved your seats. How wise of you… as always.” His smile was stiff, but convincing enough. “Yes, dear. Would you mind terribly accompanying an old woman to such a grand hall? I certainly would appreciate an extensive tour.” “It would be my pleasure.” He jutted out his arm to her, his smile now as charming as Veronique had ever seen it. Hooking her tiny hand over his massive forearm, Mathilde turned to Delphine. “But I’d be more than happy to stay if you still need my assistance.” “Enough has been settled for today. Go see those seats you so coveted.” With Mathilde securely holding his arm, Martin turned and walked away without so much as sidelong glance at Veronique. Her heart shattered into shards of unbearable pain. The euphoria she’d felt moments earlier – her princess wedding, being surrounded by women she could love and trust, and knowing that her decision to marry Philippe was the right one – all of that crumbled and left her empty. “I had wanted it to be a surprise, but I’ve never been very good at keeping secrets,” Delphine said, completely

unaware of Veronique’s state of mind. “I’ve arranged to have a flock of doves released. It will be magnificent.” Veronique slapped on a merry smile and tried to get back into the spirit of things. The pain would subside, she knew. But for now, she would have to give the performance of a lifetime. She sat with Madame Aragon and Madame Fourquin discussing the many details of the upcoming nuptials. Virtually everything had been thought of and planned for, making her part in it all easy and pleasurable. Madame Aragon seemed to have truly taken a liking to her, and that pleased her immensely. Without a mother for so long, she felt the profound need to surround herself with women; strong, intelligent women who understood her. “I look forward to the day I acquire a new daughter,” Delphine said as they finally settled the matter of the banquet menu. “You’ll make Philippe very happy.” “Of that I’ve no doubt,” Philippe bellowed as he entered and made his way to his blushing bride. He swept her into his arms and planted a warm kiss on her lips. Flushed by such an intimate kiss in from of her future mother-in-law, Veronique averted her gaze. “No need to get flustered, dear girl. The Aragon men’s passion is nothing new to me. He loves you and is pleased to display it.” “I’ve come to whisk her away, Maman.” “Your timing could not be more precise. We’ve just finalized the menu and were about to head out for a cup of tea. But whisk away if you must.” She smiled at her son,

obviously reveling in the joy she saw sparkling in his eyes. “Thank you so much for everything, Madame Aragon.” Veronique took a hold of Philippe’s arm. “And thank you, Madame Fourquin.” Waved away with the two older women’s blessing, the pair strolled out to Philippe’s carriage. “I’ve a surprise for you,” he whispered as the gentle clop clop of the horses led them to Montmartre. “I’ve had a day of surprises. Were you aware we were to have a flock of doves released?” He chuckled and grasped her hand. “Maman does enjoy doing everything in grand style. While she let that little secret out, I’m sure there are many still churning in that wise, old head of hers.” “She certainly is a wise and very charming woman.” His fingers worked their way to weave through hers and she felt the emotions being so powerfully transmitted in that intimate hold. “And she thinks the world of you… as I do.” He kissed her, loving and delicate, as though she’d break under his touch. It warmed her and reminded her how right she was in her decision to marry him. At Montmartre, he led her to his studio, his features alternating between displays of great pride and great uncertainty. “Are you prepared to see Veronique Dumouchel, future wife to Philippe Aragon, as I do?” “Yes,” Veronique said, barely containing her excitement. For months she’d long to see the work he’d done. Standing before the canvas, a white sheet

concealing her likeness, she held her breath. “Voila,” Philippe said as he pulled off the sheet. The face that stared back at her took her breath away. He’d put so much love into this painting and it was evident in every stroke. Her eyes sparkled with love, her lips prim, yet prepared for a loving kiss. He’d managed to bring the perfect blend of innocence and passion to that canvas. “Do you like it?” Philippe’s voice, while strong, held a distinctive note of doubt. How could he possibly question his talent? “You’ve captured me… so perfectly, so exquisitely. Forgive my vanity, but I could just stare at it for hours. Philippe, I’m so touched.” “Please, be as vain as you wish. You certainly deserve it after all those long hours spent posing for it.” He smiled, beamed even, as his eyes met hers. Filled with love and a desire to please, he held her gaze for a long moment and she knew in that instant that he would do whatever he could to always make her happy. Madame Aragon had, indeed, raised a fine man with a kind heart. “You are so much more than the persona everyone sees. I once thought you to be too cold and aloof; too aristocratic, even uptight. Yet…” He smiled, obviously touched by her discovery of the man he truly was. “You are by far the kindest and most loving man I’ve ever met, with the exception of my father, of course.”

“Of course,” he said with an understanding chuckle. “Why do you keep this side of you so well concealed?” “The life of an aristocrat has its price. What you see here before you is someone few in high society would respect or accept. But, fear not, my love. This is the man you will have in your bedchamber every night. The man who will love you and cherish you, come what may. I may have the ability to put on airs when need be, but I will look forward to leaving them at the door every night and showing you the man I truly am.” Veronique reached up to run her thumb over his lower lip. She swallowed and shivered as his lips parted under her touch. His eyes filled with longing and one hand tentatively wrapped around her waist. Aware of the immense restraint he displayed, Veronique felt her desire for him rise all the more. He didn’t want to push her, and she loved him for that. Taking a step closer, she ran her thumb down over his chin than splayed her fingers as her hand trailed down his neck to come join the hand that now rested on his chest. “All of the hours I’ve spent looking at you. You’ve no idea…” Philippe swallowed and allowed Veronique’s hands to roam under his jacket, over his chest and up to his shoulders where she pushed the garment off. “Those hours have been difficult for me as well,” Veronique confessed. “The intensity with which you would gaze upon me… it was at times so intoxicating, so overwhelming.”

In the moment she leaned up to kiss him, she felt his body surrender. His arms wrapped around her, no longer restrained and controlled. He pressed his body against her, kissing her deeply. She floated on the intensity of the moment as he took her into his arms and brought her to the mattress in the corner. A flash of the passion she’d experienced with Martin struck her. It had been her first time; the stealing away of her innocence. But now… Fear Philippe would prove incapable of arousing such passion in her left her momentarily apprehensive as she lay back and watched him loom over her. “I’ve no desire to rush,” he said. “I want each moment to be a lifetime.” He removed his cravat and she reached up to help rid him of his shirt. When he in turn began to slip her dress off, she was surprised by the electricity that sparked at every touch. His fingers traced along the neckline of her dress, barely touching her, but leaving her with a strong desire to feel more. As he pulled her bodice away from her, he did not reach out to grope her breasts. Instead, his eyes dipped down to visually take them in. Veronique was instantly amused and aroused by the hunger her breasts brought to his eyes. He reached out, the back of his hand gently brushing down the side of her neck, over her collarbone and through the valley between her breasts. “This is excruciating,” she whispered through

breaths that were quickly becoming more labored. “Why do you torture me so?” “I want you to remember. I want this moment to forever be engraved in your memory.”

Chapter 17 Veronique awoke filling ill for the third consecutive day. While dizzy spells and brief moments of queasiness had been plaguing her for weeks, they now intensified to the point where she could no longer conceal them. With difficulty, she entered the parlor and had only to gaze upon her chaperone to get her to understand. Madame Fourquin, forever efficient and practical, had a physician at Veronique’s door that very morning. “It appears you are with child, Mademoiselle Dumouchel,” the doctor said solemnly. “That can’t be.” Veronique ran her hand over her belly disbelievingly. “It can’t.” “Believe me. I’ve seen enough to know when a woman is expecting, and you, mademoiselle, will bear a child in approximately eight months.” The physician turned to Madame Fourquin. “Give or take a week.” He pulled a small bottle out of his bag and set it on her night table. “This will help calm your stomach on mornings such as these.” With professional efficiency, he snapped his bag shut and made his way to the door, where

he whispered last minute directives to Madame Fourquin. Once alone, Veronique looked at her chaperone for guidance and understanding. “Take that dreadful look off your face, m a chère. You’re not the first and definitely not the last to succumb to the charms of your beloved before the nuptials actually arrive.” “But what will the Aragons think. Delphine and Mathilde… however will I tell them?” Veronique sat on the edge of her bed, her mind fertile with a myriad of awful ways in which the news would be received. “No one need know outside of this room. I’ve known Dr. Broullard for decades and discretion is his greatest quality. And you can trust me. I’ll be just as happy and surprised when you do come out to officially announce the great news of the baby you so eagerly await.” Veronique was both pleased and shocked by Madame Fourquin’s reaction. How unexpectedly modern and forthright she was to accept this news without so much as a bat of her lashes. If ever she needed a close friend and confidant, it was at a time like this. “Thank you so much, Madame Fourquin. Thank you for calling Dr. Broullard and thank you for your understanding. I don’t know where I’d be without you.” “Your blessed and happy union with the young Aragon will be my greatest reward. And to already know that you will bless him with a child, no doubt a wonderful son, I could not be any happier.” Veronique’s smile hid the sad truth she was slowly

coming to realize. “I’ll leave you to rest for now,” Madame Fourquin said. “I’ll be sure Pauline is at your beck and call.” “Thank you again.” With a nod of acceptance, Madame Fourquin left Veronique to deal with the situation she’d gotten herself into. Shaking her head, she wanted to weep. She’d only told Madame Fourquin and the doctor about the last three dreadful mornings. Her hands still on her belly, she rose and faced the mirror; faced her own duplicity. The dizzy spells and queasy stomach had begun well before her intimate and passionate encounter with Philippe. She closed her eyes in shame. Philippe deserved so much better. Though his taking of her had not been as urgent and as wild as Martin, he had shown her what true love was. He’d express with his every touch the depth of his emotions. Gentle despite his hunger, he had taken his time with her, slowly arousing her until she’d begged for him, begged for his body to press against hers. A warm tear trickled down her cheek as she opened her eyes and faced herself. What would become of her should anyone learn the truth? And what would become of Philippe? She dreaded the thought of hurting him; of shaming him. For the longest time after their bodies had both been sated, Philippe had held her, his fingers combing through her hair, his lips repeatedly brushing against her temples, her cheek or her lips as he’d told her again and

again how much he loved her. “Oh, Philippe,” she mumbled as the tears flowed freely. “What have I done?” **************** As with every other day since their engagement, Philippe arrived to pick her up early that afternoon. Plans for the wedding were coming along, but new details constantly needed to be tended to. Her queasiness had subsided, completely unaided by the mysterious contents of that little bottle the doctor had left behind. She thanked the heavens that Philippe’s carriage offered a comfortable ride despite the often bumpy roads of Paris. “Maman is leaving us the task of deciding what party favors our guests leave with. Of course she did make her recommendations.” “And I’m certain every one of them would be acceptable.” “You know how extravagant Maman can be. She wants to give precious gems to the guests; gems whose value reflects the standing of each guest.” “And what did you want to give?” “I was actually hoping for something a little more artistic. Perhaps exquisite porcelain from Bayeux or Nast.” “Oh, Philippe. I did see some marvelous pieces the other day with Madame Fourquin. A beautiful Old Paris clock, vases trimmed in bronze that stand beautifully alone

without the need of flowers to embellish them, and a perfect tureen that any woman would die for. I could spend the day going through the wonderful array of items we can choose from.” Excited by the task of the day, Veronique leaned over to kiss her future husband. She needed desperately to put her troubles behind her and this was the perfect distraction. By day’s end they’d chosen more than half of the four hundred favors required. “What a marvelous way to spend an afternoon.” Philippe took her hand and kissed her fingertips. His carriage had just stopped before Madame Fourquin’s townhouse and he seemed reluctant to let Veronique go. “Shall we get through the rest of our guest list tomorrow?” “I must absolutely go to the Opera House tomorrow morning,” Veronique said. “Father hasn’t been feeling well of late. With only two weeks before the grand opening, he wants me to pass by to ensure everything is ready. There have already been far too many delays and nothing must go unchecked.” “Your father is blessed to have you.” He cupped her cheek. “I shall pass by the Opera House at two to pick you up. Will that give you enough time?” “That would be perfect.” Perfection may have been too strong a word as Veronique found herself scrabbling to check on some of the more minute details of the Opera House the following day and she doubted she’d get through it all before two that

afternoon. Her task wasn’t aided by her constant attempts to avoid Martin. Though she knew now that her heart belonged to Philippe, seeing Martin still pained her. Twice she’d caught a glimpse of him, fleeting as he worked in the distance, but nonetheless leaving her with a small, yet undeniably pang of regret. After ensuring each gas lamp functioned properly, she found herself on the very top balcony of the massive auditorium. Soon she would partake in one of the grandest events Paris had ever seen, she thought as she ran her hand over the velvet. Philippe had promised her the very best seats in the house. She smiled, satisfied with everything she’d inspected and simultaneously thinking of the gown she was to wear for opening night. It was such a grand happening and she wanted to look perfect. Still grinning, she stepped out into the corridor and froze when she saw Martin coming her way. His eyes were cold and hard, his jaw set tight and uncompromising. Panicked, she returned to the balcony, hoping he’d not seen her; hoping he’d walk by. But seconds later he was there, so close to her; too close. Would he rebuff her? Scold her? Could he be so murderously enraged that he would throw her off this very balcony? Her heart thumped loudly in her chest; part fear, part

longing. They’d not spoken a word since that all-consuming encounter that now left her with his child. Her lips parted to speak, though she’d not yet thought of anything to say. “I’ve been told of your father’s ill health.” Oh, she thought. Staring at him, she waited for him to go on. “I had noticed how easily fatigued he was a few weeks ago, but thought it would pass.” Was that it? she wondered. They would discuss her

father’s health? “I’ve always known him to be a strong man; indestructible.” “Yes,” she finally managed to say. “He is, indeed, a very strong man. I fear the stress and strain of the past months have taken its toll.” “Well, I wanted to let you know how sorry I am. I do hope he recuperates in time for the opening.” “I’ve no doubt he will… and thank you. I appreciate your concern.” She fought to keep from fidgeting. Her entire body was drawn to him, pulled by a force that could only be a witch’s spell. There was no earthly explanation for the intense desire she felt. She loved Philippe. She wanted Philippe. She would be his wife, but… I have your child in my belly, she wanted to say. “I’ve thought of little else since you told me of your engagement.” His gaze held hers. “I…” She gripped the railing as he took a step closer.

“I’ve tried to forget about you, to put you out of my mind. I’ve told myself repeatedly that I deserve better than to be treated as you did. If your destiny is to be with Philippe, then so be it.” He stood not a foot away from her and reached out to touch her. Instinctively, she recoiled and backed away, putting a velour seat between them. If she allowed him to touch her, she knew she would crumble; knew the passion between them would be too great. “Am I to simply sit by and watch a man like Philippe marry the woman who has so touched me?” His disdain for his cousin was evident as even speaking his name proved difficult. “Philippe is a good man,” she tried to argue, though she instantly heard the lack of conviction in her voice. “And I? I’m just a gypsy’s son?” “Martin, please. I beg you to understand.” “No, I beg you to understand.” He took one long and quick step around the seats and had her in his arms before she could move. She wanted to weep for all the confusion her senses brought her. And when he pressed his lips to hers, the tears flowed as her arms wrapped around his massive shoulders. Logic had her trying to conjure up images of Philippe, her love for him, the wedding, the approval of the Aragons… all the reasons to stop this, right now before things became uncontrollable again. But Martin was relentless is his assault. His lips covered hers with an urgency she’d never experienced with

Philippe, and his tongue played with hers in a way she knew she would never tire of. He pressed her up against the wall, his hands working to rid her of her dress. His lips moved down to her neck, playing on her skin in a way that drove her mad. She threw her head back, allowing him full reign of her skin. Thoughts of Philippe disappeared. The wedding was no longer important. So lost in Martin’s embrace, in his every touch, she lost all sense of time and place. As their bodies melded together, forming a union she knew in her heart was meant to be, her resolve began to falter. How could she live her life without him? Passion dictated his every move as he touched her in ways that left her giddy with immeasurable pleasure. I love you, Martin. God help me, but I do love you. Once their passion sated, he looked down at her, a blissful smile on his lips despite the questions in his eyes. “Put a stop to this marriage nonsense, Veronique,” he said softly. “Come with me. Let us leave Paris; leave the Aragons.” Cupping her face and running his thumb over her lips, his gaze was determined to make her understand. “I may not have the wealth of the Aragons, I may not have the refinement Philippe has, but I can offer you so much more; more love, more passion.” “Martin, you know I can’t do that,” she whispered as a fresh batch of tears streaked down her cheeks. His thumb stroked the tears away, but was unable to relieve the intense aching in her heart. “And with my father so ill…” “I can show your father that I’m the better man.

Veronique, I’ve worked with him for months now. He’s always respected me. Always held me in high regard. I can’t count the number of times he has praised the man I am. I’m like a son to him.” “Perhaps,” she said with regret. “But not a son-inlaw.” She could see by the tightening of his jaw how the words had hurt him. “You're wrong. Come with me and let me prove it to you.”

Chapter 18 Veronique stood nude before the full length mirror contemplating her belly. She was completely appalled by the sight of her deformed reflection. Her belly was now obvious, something she’d not quite expected to happen so soon. And opening night at the opera was at hand. The tight corseted bodices of the gown Charles Frederick Worth had made for her had become too tight while the gowns with a more forgiving waistline previously made by Bertrand had become far too outdated. She’d be the laughing stock if she stepped out in an empire waist dress. Reaching for the Worth gown once more, she decided to try it on. Perhaps there was a way of letting out the corset. She’d pulled the skirt up to just under her belly when a knock sounded at the door.

Without waiting, Madame Fourquin entered and quickly sized her up. “As I thought. I had a feeling you’d outgrown that gown.” “Philippe is set to arrive in three hours. How can I ever be ready for a night at the opera when I can’t even fit into my dress?” “Worry not. I’ll have it set in no time.” True to her word, Madame Fourquin worked her genius. With a looser corset, she camouflaged the little bulge with a series of lace flounces.” “Madame Fourquin,” Veronique said as she shook her head in disbelief. “You’re a miracle worker.” “I’d love to take all the credit, my dear, but I must admit I saw a Worth gown that had the very same flounce. It was gorgeous and I’m happy to see that it works well with not only your gown, but your widening figure. You look positively splendid.” And Philippe echoed that sentiment the moment he laid eyes on her. With love and pride in his eyes, he escorted her through the Opera House she’d come to know so well. They walked up the grand marble stairs like a king with her queen. “Have you noticed how all eyes turn to you, my love?” he said as he guided her to a small and private balcony they were to share with Delphine and Mathilde. “You’re positively ravishing.” “I’m pleased to see you like it. I feared you might think me too modern.” “Darling, you could wear last year’s fashions and you

would still be the most beautiful woman here.” “Veronique, dear,” Delphine said. “What an exquisite gown. I must say that Monsieur Worth has outdone himself.” “You’re just in time,” Mathilde said. “Actually we were hoping to see you as champagne was served earlier.” “I apologize, Maman.” They took their seats, Veronique sitting between Delphine and Philippe. “It’s completely my fault, Madame Aragon,” Veronique explained. “I underestimated the time it would take to get into this gown.” “Of course, dear.” She patted her hand just as the lights dimmed and the orchestra played its first note. The curtain rose and the audience was brought to a ball at the ducal court of Mantua. Veronique was instantly enthralled by the sight and sound of it all. She’d heard so much about Verdi’s Rigoletto and her expectations ran high. But when the jester, Rigoletto , laughed at the cuckolded courtiers, her hand suddenly felt hot beneath Philippe’s. As a vengeful plan was stirred by the players on the stage, she couldn’t help but think of Philippe and Martin and their rivalry. By the second act, Veronique was shocked as Rigoletto was tricked into abducting his own daughter, Gilda. And as the third murderous act came to an end, she wanted to weep for Rigoletto when he found his

bludgeoned and dying daughter in a sack where the Duke should have been. Gilda’s only crime… having loved the Duke despite her father’s disapproval. Thoughts of vengeance, love and betrayal all plagued Veronique as she thought of the moments to come later that night. Could she go through with it? The duke’s aria, La donna è mobile, played repeatedly in her ears.

Woman is flighty like a feather in the wind She changes her voice and her mind. Always sweet, pretty face, In tears or in laughter, she is always lying. Always miserable is he who trusts her, He who confides in her his unwary heart. Yet one never feels fully happy Who on that bosom does not drink love. Was she no better than the duke’s vision of women? Fickle, flight? As Philippe’s carriage carried them to the Aragon estate where a celebratory feast awaited the elite of Paris as well as many of the show’s more popular performers, Veronique knew she was guilty of it all, but she knew she had to follow her heart. The moment they entered the ballroom they were met by Rigoletto himself, Felice Varesi and the duke, Raffaele Mirate. Veronique couldn’t help but be impressed and she

gushed much more than she knew she should. Only when she noticed Mathilde fawning over Raffaele did she realize how many of the women in attendance treated the two opera stars like adolescents. Mingling among the elite, as an elite, Veronique’s heart shifted from one destiny to another. Flighty, flighty, flighty, she thought. Then in the distance, standing in a small grouping that consisted of many Aragon men, she saw him and knew what she had to do. She left Philippe’s side and walked over to him. He’d warned her he’d not be at the opening, but she was happy to see him here. “Papa,” she said as she came to his side. “I didn’t think you would make it.” “My dear, Veronique.” He gave her a warm, but weak hug. “As it turned out, I was able to stay for almost half the first act, but then the great cognac of the Aragons beckoned and I couldn’t resist.” “Oh, Papa. I do hope you’ll not exert yourself too much.” “No need to worry, my dearest daughter. I’m being very well taken care of, indeed. And you? Did you fully enjoy Verdi’s Rigoletto?” “Immensely. I’m already looking forward to my next opera.” Philippe caught up with her and came to stand at her side. “Monsieur Dumouchel, what a pleasure.” “You're taking good care of my precious little girl?” “I’ll leave you two to discuss me in private.”

Veronique curtsied and winked at her father before leaving him to his future son-in-law and the assortment of new male comrades. As casually as she could she strolled among the well-dressed men and highly-perfumed women. With an air that could indicate she’d done so all her life, she scooped up a glass of sparkling cherry soda water and took a sip. Life at the Aragon manor would certainly be every girl’s dream. Balls, fancy drinks, fine gowns, crystal and diamonds. Fickle, fickle, fickle. As she approached the French doors that opened onto the gardens, she turned around and took a long hard look at the festivities. Philippe’s gaze occasionally rose to look at her, though she could clearly see how engrossed he was in his conversation with her father. She would be making two men very happy. She would be living the life of a true princess. She would have the mother she’d never had. She would be making things so much easier for everyone, including herself and the child that was to come. “I’m here.” She heard the hoarse whisper and froze. “Are you coming?” the whisper persisted after a long moment of silence. The French door was ajar and she could see his shadow on the other side. She took a sip of champagne, hoping to settle her nerves. Philippe and her father chuckled over a private joke. Mathilde and Raffaele were strolling through the crowd, arm in arm while Delphine

played the perfectly gracious hostess, mingling, smiling and putting her guests at ease. People danced, laughed and even sang… woman is flighty… “Veronique.” The door opened a bit wider, but Veronique kept her eyes on her fiancé at the other end of the room. Her father already liked him so much. It wasn’t just a matter of status. It wasn’t only ensuring her secured future. He genuinely liked Philippe… as well he should. “Vero.” The whisper was now a mild grunt. Philippe turned his back to her as he patted her father on the back and led him to a chair. How thoughtful he was… how kind… what a husband he would make… and a doting father… How could she? How could she? With a quick toss of her head, she emptied her glass, set the empty glass on the side table and slipped through the opening of the door.

Chapter 19 Martin grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into his arms. “Don’t toy with me. I thought you’d changed your mind.” “I’m sorry, Martin. Philippe was right there looking at me. I had to wait for the right opportunity.” He kissed her, a hard and possessive kiss that reminded her where she truly belonged. Flighty, flighty,

flighty. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters. Now let’s hurry before anyone notices your absence.” As they stepped away from the Aragon home, an unusual sound came from the rooftop. At first it was just vague knocking and creaking, but then Martin’s name whispered on the wind. “What is that?” Veronique’s heart skipped a beat on hearing the eerie sound. Without answering, Martin maintained a steady stride as he pulled her to the steps that led to the garden. The whisper came to her ears again and she twisted her hand free of Martin’s. “Someone is out here.” “All the more reason to move quickly.” “Veronique!” Veronique froze at the sound of Philippe’s voice. “Veronique, are you out here?” His footsteps came to them, loud and clear, and too determined. Within seconds he was upon them. At first, anger resided in his gaze as he took in the fleeing pair, but confusion soon overtook the anger and finally pain, all in quick succession. “What are you…? Where…?” He looked at Martin, disbelieving, but not yet defeated. “I’m sorry you had to come out here, Philippe. I was hoping to avoid a scene.” “A scene? You are out here with my betrothed and you don’t want a scene?” “Philippe,” Veronique said, gently reaching out to

him. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t go through with it. I can’t.” He recoiled so violently, Veronique gasped. “You’ve held my hand all night, strung me along for weeks, and all the while you’d planned… planned to what? To elope with him? To ride off on some gypsy pipe dream?” “Philippe.” Veronique tried again to approach him; to calm him before he did something rash. “I’m through listening to your lies,” he said as he shoved her out of his way and threw himself on Martin. His fists flew while he cried out his agony and heartache. After allowing Philippe a few sound punches, Martin quickly and easily put an end to the fight. He pushed his cousin off him and stood, showing no ill effects from Philippe’s blows. Defeated and broken, Philippe lay on the ground for a long moment, while Veronique wept for all the pain she’d caused him. With tentative steps she came to her fiancé and knelt beside him. “Philippe? Are you all right?” Before she could even lay a hand on him he rose and walked away from her. “I’m so sorry, Philippe. I didn’t want to hurt you. Please believe me. I’ve been so confused these last weeks. My heart aches for you and…” “Your heart aches for me?” he spat as he dusted himself off. “I’ve no need for your pity or concern, mademoiselle. If a life with this rake is what you wish, then, by all means, go off and live the life of an impoverished

gypsy for all I care.” The scraping and tapping on the rooftop began again. All eyes veered up and Veronique gasped at the ghostly sight. Giselle, the young gypsy girl who’d so detested Veronique, stood in all her voluptuous splendor wearing only the thinnest of shifts. With all eyes on her, she spread her arms out and cackled like a mad woman. “All you're good for is creating pain, Martin Aragon. You are the very devil and…” Her eyes, blazing with murderous hatred, turned to Veronique. “… that wicked she-witch only deserves the fate your wretched heart will bring to her.” “Giselle,” Martin said in a very avuncular tone. “Get down from here this instant.” Her gaze softened and despite the darkness, Veronique could see the pain the poor girl suffered. “You once spoke so eloquently of the love you had for me. Words were like honey on your tongue as you promised me a life with no worries; a live filled with love and laughter. Where did your promises go, Martin? Where did the husky voice of my lover go?” “Giselle, I’m warning you.” “You’ve no right to speak to me that way. I’m not a child. I’m not your daughter. I am the woman who gave you her heart. I gave my body, pure, virginal and coveted by all the men of my band and you swept in and took it without so much as a glance back as you strode away on your demonic stallion.”

She took a step to the very edge of the roof. “Giselle, what are you doing?” “I was not made to lead a life of such suffering, Martin,” she cried. Her fist balled up, each clinging to the skirt of her shift as streaks of tears glimmered in the moonlight. “I once believed myself to be so strong, yet you’ve broken me.” “Don’t move,” Martin ordered. He climbed up the wall surrounding the patio and easily pulled himself up to the roof. When he approached the heartbroken girl, she crumbled at his feet. “I can’t live without you, Martin.” “Come now,” he said as he reached down to try to scoop her up. “Let us get down from here and we can talk more calmly about all this.” Martin got her on her feet, but her limbs remained limp and lifeless for a moment before she released her wrath. “Talk about this?” she screamed as her arms suddenly flailed out, momentarily knocking Martin off balance. “You’ve trampled my heart and you want to calmly discuss it? What is there to discuss, Martin?” He grabbed her arm, but she quickly wormed her way out of his grasp. “Do you want to know the depth of pain I feel? Or do you wish to discuss how worthless I’ve become in the eyes of every other man?” “Giselle.” He took a calm and slow step towards her then quickly grabbed her, effectively imprisoning her in his

arms. Kicking and screaming, she refused to relent and, for a torturous moment, Veronique held her breath as their commotion brought them to the very edge of the roof. Watching in horror, Veronique gasped when she saw Giselle open her mouth and prepare to dig her teeth into Martin’s arm. Though he groaned in pain when her teeth pierced his skin, he maintained his hold of her for as long as he could. Like a savage dog, Giselle kept a hold of his flesh while shaking her head from side to side until Martin could no longer endure the pain. “You don’t deserve to be happy,” she spat. “This has got to stop,” Philippe muttered. “The woman is mad, which is why Martin left her. I didn’t think she would…” Following Martin’s steps, he mounted the patio wall and, though with greater difficulty, pulled himself up to settle the pair’s fight. “Be careful,” Veronique muttered to herself as she clasped her hands before her mouth. Philippe’s presence on the roof only served to enrage Giselle all the more. Screaming like a madwoman, she ran about, always keeping out of the two men’s reach and often coming to dance on the roof’s edge, just inches from a dangerous fall. She ran up where the roof began a sharp incline, reaching up as high as she could then turned around to race down at a perilous speed. As she made her way to the edge once again, artfully dodging the two men who tried so hard to capture

her, Veronique felt certain the young girl would dive off the edge. She stopped suddenly and balanced herself on the ledge, her arms held aloft and slowly put one foot in front of the other, much like a tightrope walker. “Giselle, I beg of you,” Martin said as he approached the ledge. “There’s no sense hurting yourself.” She let out a malicious giggle as she jacked up the skirt of her shift and once again ran up the steep incline. With her arms spread out and her head tilted up to the heavens, she ran down. Martin prepared to catch her before she leapt to her death, but she deftly sidestepped him. Reaching out, he managed to get a hold of her shift, but his balance was compromised as his feet caught in the pile of discarded clothing Giselle had left behind. Philippe ran to them, trying to get a solid hold of her, but it was too late. Veronique felt suffocating effect of the silent scream that remained lodged in her throat as Martin lost his balance and Giselle threw herself on him. It happened so fast, yet every movement was painfully slow. He fell back, Giselle in his arms, a smile of blissful triumph on her face as they traveled through the air. Veronique turned away as they hit the patio floor with a nauseating thud. Feeling weighed down with disbelief, she turned to look at the pair, daring to believe they’d survived the fall.

Chapter 20

The pool of blood beneath Martin’s head was the first indicator of the devastating news that awaited her. She approached with tentative steps. She didn’t want to know. If Martin was no longer, she didn’t want to face that reality. Vaguely aware of Philippe’s presence at her side, she looked down at the man she loved. His eyes wide and staring at the sky, it was clear in that moment that he had perished. No tears came as she stared at him. She glanced at Giselle who moaned and shifted slightly in Martin’s arms. The white shift made for a rather angelic picture until one noticed her legs, twisted into an odd and inhuman angle. Blood trickled down her nose while a gash at her forehead showed where she’d met the ground. No sympathy. No empathy. No helping hand. Veronique simply stared and wished the young woman a slow and painful death. Moments passed and she was guided away by a hand that was soothing and calm. Voices surrounded her. Horrified and panicked. What had happened? Many asked. In a fog of shock, Veronique was vaguely aware of the physician who administered something to aid her sleep. When sleep finally came, it was deep, erasing all the pain. Awakening, however, brought the pain back with unbearable clarity. Martin was gone.

As the initial shock wore off, she became aware of the people around her. Philippe was more distraught than she would have imagined. He, too, seemed to walk about the manor in a haze of disbelief. The funeral came and went, and while many questioned why Veronique was so deeply affected by the death of her fiancé’s cousin, she continued to be oblivious of their quizzical stares. Only when she got word of Noelle’s private service for her son did she stir from her lethargy. She still carried Martin’s child and Noelle deserved to know that her son lived on in the child that was to come. Stealing away on a balmy afternoon, she found the gypsy band. Moaning and chanting could be heard far away, directing anyone who wanted to attend the service. “Noelle,” Veronique whispered as she pushed through the throngs of gypsies and made her way to the woman who had raised such a strong and noble man. “Veronique? How thoughtful of you…” “I grieve immensely for your son, Noelle, but I carry his child, and that brings me such solace. I wanted to share it with you, to let you know that Martin will go on.” “What is that?” A tall and bulky woman with raging red hair approached Noelle. “Did your Martin father a child with this woman?” “Herminie,” Noelle said. “This is the woman who won the heart of my son.” The woman glanced down her nose at Veronique, a grimace of disdain on the hard and angular face that, no

doubt, had once been beautiful. “This service has no need for the sympathy of the bourgeois. “Forgive her,” Noelle said softly. “The death of Martin has affected her profoundly.” “My sister loved that man.” Herminie directed a cold hard stare at Veronique. “Giselle didn’t simply play the heart of two cousins against one another. She truly loved Martin and only Martin. Her heart was true. Her heart was undivided. But you…” Noelle reached out to try to sooth the woman with a light touch to her arm. “That’s enough, Herminie. This is not the time for harsh words and accusations.” Herminie’s eyes remained on Veronique. “Do you not realize, Noelle, that this woman is responsible for the death of Giselle? My sister was a beautiful and vibrant woman who wanted only to love a good man. Do you not see how this piece of elite trash drove the poor young girl mad by stealing away the only man she’d ever loved?” Veronique saw the spite and hatred in the woman’s eyes and remembered how Giselle had looked at her as she’d spewed out a curse; a gypsy curse set on her unborn child. A violent shiver shook her body as she felt that curse intensified by Giselle’s sister. Her hands instinctively spread over her belly in a feeble attempt to protect her unborn child. But the evil grin that came to Herminie’s lips told her how useless her attempts were. The curse was set and it was powerful.

************* Watching the days pass by became as torturous as watching her belly grow. Veronique had not yet told anyone, not even her father. With the passing of Martin and her father’s failing health, Veronique moved out of Madame Fourquin’s home and returned to the countryside to be with her father. Was she to lose the two most important men in her life within a matter of months? “You’re the most cherished daughter a man can ask for,” Monsieur Dumouchel whispered as he lay on his bed, Veronique’s hand grasped tightly in his. If only he knew, she thought. He’d thought her to be simply overly sensitive as she’d lived through the shock of Martin’s death. He had no idea of the love she truly felt for him; of the plans to elope they’d had. “I know how you would much prefer to be out and about, leading the life of the pretty young girl that you are. You have too much to attend to, what with this grand wedding so close at hand.” “I’m happiest being right here with you, Papa.” Though her engagement had been called off that fateful night, Veronique was forever grateful to Philippe for not saying a word of it to her father. “I heard you received another letter from your loving fiancé. I’m happy to see he’s not forgotten you while you tend to a sickly old man.” Despite her plans to betray him, to abandon him,

Philippe claimed to still love her. His frequent letters spoke of their days at the studio, of the painting he stared at every night. She was young, he’d written, and her confused emotions were understandable. He’d forgiven her and he longed more than anything to be at her side once more.

Chapter 21 Veronique entered her father’s room carrying a tray laden with food she knew he would not eat. His body, a fraction of the man he’d once been, lay still and small in the oversized bed. It was a cruel fate indeed to have to watch the man she’d so long admired, who’d forever shown his great strength and resilience, crumble under the effects of an unnamed and mysterious illness. “I’ve brought you some soup, Papa,” she whispered as she set the tray down beside his bed. Though the heat of the late summer rendered the room stuffy and hot, he lay beneath thick blankets that still left him cold and shivering. “I’m not hungry. Just come and sit with me.” His long, thin fingers lightly tapped the edge of the bed. “Yes, Papa.” She took his hand in hers and sat gingerly at his side. “I know you’ve put off the wedding, and I’m sorry to have caused you such a delay.” “Papa, please don’t worry about that. Being here

with you is far more important…” “Men can be thoughtless at times. Being so far away from Philippe for so long…” “He has not forgotten me, Papa. I promise.” “I want to know you will be well taken care of.” “I will.” “I want to be sure you will lead the life you were meant to lead.” “I will. I will marry Philippe, Papa” “Though it saddens me to know that I will not be there to give you away, to set you on this path of a new life…” He stopped suddenly and closed his eyes. Moments later a gentle snoring sound came. “I will marry him,” Veronique whispered. Patting his hand, she thought of the love Philippe still had for her. He was a remarkable man. “I will lead the life you want me to, Papa.” He awoke suddenly and smiled as his fingers tightened around hers. “I know you’ve been concealing a secret.” He glanced at her belly. “A secret you can no longer hide.” “Papa, I’m so…” “Don’t feel shamed for loving a man so much. I’m happy to see that you will bring a strong child into this world. But don’t wait too long before marrying your child’s father. Though he may have been conceived of love, society will take no part in a bastard child’s life.” He coughed violently and fell back into his pillow, his face now ashen. “I long to stay with you, Veronique. To

ensure you take the right path. You're too young. So young to be left alone.” “Hush, now. You need to rest.” “No,” he said gripping her hand, his gaze suddenly determined. “I need to know you will be all right.” “I will, Papa. Philippe is a fine man and he will do right by me. You’re right, Papa. Philippe is the perfect man I need. I will marry him, and soon. I promise.” He let out a long and chilling sigh. Though she’d seen this day coming for weeks now, tears flowed as her father’s hand went limp in hers. “I will, Papa. I promise,” she muttered through silent sobs. Only when his hand went cold did she rise and leave him.

Chapter 22 It had been two hours since Veronique had sent word to Madame Fourquin. The time had come. Pacing before the window of the home she’d known all her life, she held her heavy belly waiting for another contraction to come. Pauline, sent to aid Veronique during this difficult time, was too young and inexperienced to help. All she’d managed to do was annoy Veronique with her constant request Veronique lay down. But pacing helped, if not with the pain, with her nerves. Lying down right now was futile. The baby wasn’t ready… not yet.

Twenty minutes later the contractions were close and intense. Taking one last glance out the window, Veronique prayed Madame Fourquin arrived before the baby did. “I’ll go to my room now,” she told Pauline. Diligent, gentle and caring despite her naiveté, Pauline did everything she could to make Veronique comfortable. “Where could she be?” Veronique screeched through pain-filled pants as another wave of contractions swept over her. “Damn it, Pauline. Where is she?” “I’m sure she’ll be here any moment, Mademoiselle Dumouchel.” Pauline remained calm as she patted Veronique’s brow with a cool, damp cloth. After an eternity of pain and fear, Veronique finally heard someone enter the house. “Up here,” she shouted frantically. “Up here.” Madame Fourquin’s laborious steps seemed to take an eternity as they sounded on each step. “Oh, my Veronique. I came as quickly as I could.” Madame Fourquin set her bag down. “Did you boil water?” she asked Pauline. “Right away, Madame.” “And bring plenty of dry, clean cloths.” “Yes. Right away.” “Madame Fourquin, the pain is unbearable. I’m being torn in two. My Lord, this child will be the death of me.” “Hush, hush, now.” Madame Fourquin patted her

hand reassuringly while she touched the back of her free hand to Veronique’s brow. “Hmmm.” “Hmmm?” Veronique looked at her, hoping for an answer. “Now, let’s take a look at what we have here.” She pulled back the thin and sweat soaked sheet just as another contraction ripped through Veronique. The pain numbed her, chilled her then left her soaked in sweat. In the distance she heard Madame Fourquin’s chagrin as she took in the state of affairs beneath the skirt of her shift. But the reality of her child’s birth was slowly drifting away from her as darkness enveloped her, drawing her away from the pain. ********** She awoke, feverish and wet in her sheets. The drapes were drawn and the room was still. The baby? An attempt to sit up was immediately halted by the searing pain through her abdomen. Dizzy as her head hit the pillow, she reached down to feel her belly. The baby was gone. “Madame Fourquin.” Her voice was weak and almost inaudible. Looking for any way to attract some attention, she glanced at the night table. A glass of water that appeared to have been left there days ago was nearby and she reached out, effectively knocking it to the floor. Within seconds, Pauline was at the door, quickly

followed by Madame Fourquin. “Veronique,” she called as she hurried to her side. “You’re awake. Heaven’s, you're awake.” “Baby… the baby.” “The baby is fine. Your son is fine, but you need your rest.” Veronique slipped back into a satisfied slumber. The baby was okay. A beautiful boy. A strong son. The moment she was well enough she would see him. But her sleep had a delicate nature, bringing her close to reality only to pull her back into a dream world. Madame Fourquin was at her side, confessing the need to hand the baby over to an orphanage. Veronique’s prolonged coma made it impossible to keep the child. “He’ll be in good hands,” she promised. He? A boy… a son. She’d had Martin’s son. He would have been so proud. In her delirium, she saw him the perfect replication of his father. But elation of the news quickly shifted to horror as the orphanage refused to keep the baby. “I’ve never seen a baby, a child so disfigured, so gruesome to look at,” Madame Fourquin whispered in despair. “No,” Veronique screamed as she thrashed about in her bed. She tossed and turned, refusing to believe what had become of her baby. The son of a man as handsome and as strong as Martin had been could not possibly be gruesome to look at, could not have been abandoned by the orphanage.

Dreams of holding her son always turned to nightmares as she looked into the face of a childlike Martin, only to watch it slowly transform and morph into something inhuman.

Your son is deformed. She’d had a son, a lovely boy, Veronique thought with joy a moment before the nightmare began again. He’d been left at the opera house, she heard someone say. A rich and powerful widow will no doubt take him in. He won’t remain there long before someone sweeps him up. She saw him, lying naked on the cold concrete floor beneath the stage of the great opera house. He cried, his tiny fingers balled into fists of frustration, hunger, fear, cold. She cried with him, trying to run to save him, longing to scoop him up in her arms, bring her full breasts to his mouth and warm him with her body. The dreams became less frequent, and questioning the whereabouts of her son diminished. The fever was finally breaking and she became more conscious of the reality that surrounded her. “It’s about time, my dear.” “Madame Fourquin. My son.” “Yes, don’t worry. He’s being well taken care of.” Veronique sighed and took a moment to let relief sooth her. He was alright. The nightmares… they’d been just that… nightmares. “I’m hungry.” “Now that’s the best thing I’ve heard in a long time. I’ll have Pauline bring you something that will really stick to

your stomach.” As she ate, Madame Fourquin sat by her side. “I thought we’d lost you.” “How long have I…” “Almost two months.” Veronique gasped then gazed out the window to see the golden hues of the trees outside. “Where’s my son?” “I thought you were going to die, Veronique.” “Where is he?” “He needed someone to take care of him. While I may be good at many things, tending to an infant is not one of them.” “Madame Fourquin, please. What has become of my child?” Her eyes shifted from one side to the other before her gaze fixed on Veronique’s. “I’d left him at the orphanage, just until I could find a more suitable arrangement. But you were so sick, Veronique. Fever consumed you and I was at your side day and night. I thought we’d lose you. The doctor said it was a matter of days.” Veronique choked back tears as she listened to the fate of her son. “He is a beautiful child, with golden hair, just like his father. And the smile of an angel.” The old woman could not hold her gaze and Veronique knew she was lying. Why? Why wouldn’t she tell her the truth?

Madame Fourquin looked down at her clasped hands. “Children with such angelic features are often the first to be adopted. Two days later, a family, young, industrious and hardworking people, came in to bring him home. I’m told the young man is from a very good family, and the young woman has some noble blood.” “But I’m alive, I’m healthy and I want him back.” Veronique couldn’t keep from sobbing. “I want my son.” “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, reaching out to pat Veronique’s hand. “I believe everything was taken care of in a very private way, but I will try to find him.” With each day that passed, Veronique’s strength increased, but hopes of learning of her son’s whereabouts became bleak. He was untraceable. Though Madame Fourquin tried to convince her it was for the best, Veronique couldn’t help but wonder which truth to believe; the one she’d seen during her fever or the one Madame Fourquin now spoke of. However, when Philippe arrived, a bouquet of perfect flowers in his arms, part of her pain was soothed. He knew nothing of the baby. She had never told him, nor did Madame Fourquin. All he knew was his love for her. “We’ve been through so much. I can’t help but think all of this will make us all the stronger as a couple.” Veronique sat on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling above the tiny rug set out for her. “How can you ever forgive me, Philippe? I’ve been nothing but dreadful with you. “Life isn’t always as perfect as we would like it to be.

But I’ve learned how worthwhile it can be to fight and to wait for what we truly desire in life.” “I love you, Philippe.” He cupped her cheeks and laid a gentle kiss on her lips. “I know you do.”

Epilogue Named Eric by workers who alternated in tending to the abandoned baby, he had the music of Verdi, Rossini, Tchaikovsky and Borodin forever in his ears. As the opera house workers disappeared one by one, leaving him to fend for himself, darkness became his best friend and the labyrinth of corridors his home. As a strong and curious toddler, he learned where and when to hide, and when he could roam freely throughout the opera house, picking up discarded food and often finding lost articles of clothing. The music drew him, at times leading him to sit just beneath the orchestra pit to better hear every note, every harmony. After one failed attempt to leave the security of the opera house, he knew where he truly belonged. A mere child of twelve, the world outside had shunned him. No one could bear to look at him. They’d laughed, ridiculed, pushed and shoved until he’d run back to the only home he’d ever known…the dark tunnels beneath the Opera House.

But as his love for music grew, so did his loathing of humanity. Many an opera confirmed his lack of faith in the animal called human. Betrayal, treason, murder and more betrayal were the staple of virtually every show. So when, as a young man, he decided to make his presence known, it was in the form all mortals feared. It was in the form of a phantom; a murderous and vengeful phantom. The phantom of the opera.

***** Eric’s Story Continues in the Phantom Diaries Series Now Available The Phantom Diaries Series The Phantom Diaries Mystery, drama, and passionate romance in an exciting world of music set the stage for this modern twist to the classic Phantom of the Opera tale. Phantom Diaries is a series for older teens and young adults told through the eyes of 18 year-old Annette Binoche, who lands a job at the New York Metropolitan Opera House as a seamstress’ assistant only to become the lead singer of the Opera House, with the help of the mysterious, yet highly-seductive

Phantom.

Complete with romantic twists, turns and entanglements, The Phantom Diaries takes the reader on an adventure of the paranormal, the search for dreams and righting the wrongs of the past. Kailin Gow’s writing style is phenomenal and will leave the reader at the edge of their seat. As I was nearing the end of the story, I was so entranced, that the pages flew and time ceased to exist. Once I read the final words, I was ready to scream, for want of more. Needless to say, I was relieved to see that the second in the series is to be released at the end of this year. Highly recommend to those looking for an amazing read, complete with the paranormal, romance, suspense and edge-of-your-seat plotting - April, Cafe of Dreams

Dark Memories Book 2 of Phantom Diaries The evil presence has permeated every core of Annette Binoche’s life, attempting to destroy everything and everyone she holds dear. Can she break free from its hold and regain the trust of her friends and family? Eric is forced to confront his past, while Annette is forced to decide on her future. Will it include Eric, Aaron or Chace? Or no one at all?

While the first book, Phantom Diaries, swept me up in

the drama, romance, and mystery; Dark Memories continues the romance, but digs deeper into the backstory of the Eric, Aaron, and Annette. We see a softer side of Eric and a deeper braver Annette. Chace and Eric wins me over, but I can’t help feeling for Aaron too. - Brenda, Goodreads

Immortal Darkness Book 3 of Phantom Diaries 2011 From theEDGEbooks.com