Grave Consequences (Grand Tour Series #2) (30 page)

“There they are!” my father said, turning fully toward the door. I froze as Will and Pierre entered together. What was I to do now? Here? Before I’d had the opportunity to speak to my father…

Wallace greeted Pierre with a handshake, taking his hand in both of his. Pierre then moved immediately to me, taking my hand and kissing it as he studied my face. He held it as he straightened and searched my eyes. “Cora? These few days have felt like weeks in your absence.”

“You are too kind,” I said, feeling the heat of my blush climb past my jaw.

“Not kind—only happy beyond measure to be with you again.” He smiled and placed my hand on his arm. We turned together toward Will, who had just been clapped on the back by my father. Wallace was congratulating Will for getting us safely through such difficult circumstances and offered his condolences for the bear’s passing.

I could not look him in the eyes. Would he understand? Why I had to play this out a bit longer? For his own good? Only until I could figure a way out. A path that didn’t include Wallace Kensington destroying Will piece by piece…

I managed to extricate myself from the others and sat in the gardens for a while reading. Or rather pretending to read. But after an hour of my mind spinning, flitting from one thought to another, I was just beginning to relax, inhaling the heavy, sweet scent of the roses on the breeze, feeling the heat of the morning sun warm my gloved hands, appreciating the utter quiet…when I saw Pierre on the far side of the garden.

I hurriedly looked down at my book, pretending I hadn’t spied his approach, working out what I wished to say to him. Regardless of what my father said, I couldn’t stomach being less than truthful with him.

He paused five paces away from me, then straightened, studying my face, which was partially hidden by the wide brim of my hat. He held his sketchbook in one hand. “Ahh, mon cherie. I’ve disturbed you.”

“No. No, Pierre. Please. Come sit,” I said, patting the stone bench beside me. “I’ve wanted to speak with you in private.”

He came over and sat beside me, taking my hand and kissing it. “While I am more than glad to have a moment alone with you, Cora, I did not come to talk.”

“No?” I asked in confusion, wondering if he meant to steal a kiss instead.

“No,” he said, quirking a smile. He cocked one brow. “I’d hoped to sketch you again,
mon ange
.”

“But Pierre…”

“Uh-uh!” he said, quieting me with a smile. “Speak not.” He rose and walked five paces away again, looking me over. “Exactly. Stay right there. You may read if you wish.”

“You give me that permission, do you?” I added a smile to my teasing words.

“But of course.”

I wondered what I was doing. Slipping into such an easy, flirtatious manner with him. He always seemed to bring it out of me, every time. And I couldn’t deny that it felt good. To simply give in to that joyfulness, for once. To not feel everything with the weight of a thousand stones. For a bit, I gave in to the fantasy. What would it be like to accept Pierre’s pursuit? Give it full sway. To get engaged. Marry. Live at Chateau de Richelieu. Each successive thought made it seem all the more preposterous.

“Something amuses you, mon cherie? Your smile is…mysterious.”

“Amuses me?” I started. “No.
Amused
isn’t how I’d describe it.”

“Ahh, something you don’t wish to share,” he said, still sketching. “Head up a bit, please. No. Too much. Yes. There.” He continued with quick, long strokes of his charcoal, then holding up his thumb and squinting his eye in my direction.

“Where did you learn to draw, Pierre?” I asked, turning toward him.

“Uh-uh!” he cried, and I belatedly remembered I was to hold my pose.

“Forgive me.” I grimaced and tried to resume my previous position. But sitting still, all I could think about was what I needed to say to him. I struggled to remain in position when my body called for pacing.

Eventually, he answered me. “I wanted to be an artist when I was young.”

“And you must have been.”

“No. Not as I wished. My father would hear nothing of it. Being an artist, you see, is a craft of the bourgeoisie, not of the aristocracy. Supported as a noble exercise, but not as a noble vocation, at least not in my family. We are of…uh, the sort that supports artists. We do not become them.”

“Oh,” I said with a heavy sigh.

“I learned to draw from friends, those I sponsor as a patron. When one is a patron,” he said with a little laugh, “your artistic friends suddenly become very patient in answering questions as a tutor.”

I smiled with him. It was in keeping with his generous personality that he would help struggling artists. “Well, at least you can express yourself this way now. As a man grown. You didn’t get to make your choice earlier, but look at you now—a successful businessman
and
an artist.”

“Yes,” he said, but his tone did not entirely agree. My heart went out to him. Had he been shoved into an unhappy role by his father too? Was that part of what drew him to me?

“Pierre, may I look up?”

“One…moment… There. Now, cherie, you may look where you wish.” He stared at me, and yet his gaze was that of an artist, respectfully examining lines and distances.

“Pierre, did that make you sad? Not being able to follow your dream? To be an artist?”

“It is as you say…I
am
an artist. Only as a hobby. Not as a craft. It is all right,” he said, old sorrow softening his eyes as they met mine. “One makes compromises to honor their family.”

I stared hard at him then. Was he saying what I thought he was saying? Did he know my father was pushing me toward him? That it wasn’t my choice? I had to know. And I had to be honest with him. No matter the cost.

He looked to his sketchpad and continued to fill in some detail, then eyed me again. But his gaze was once again distant.

“Pierre, I am in love with another man.”

There it was. Out in the open at last. I dared to take a breath as his charcoal stilled a moment, then moved again in soft, even strokes.

“I know, cherie.” He gave me a quick, small grin. “It is my hope to show you that you might love me, too, in time.”

I frowned. Did he not understand what I was saying? “My father’s intentions…he wishes to seal your business deal. Use me to keep you close.”

He bit his lip, still sketching. Then he met my gaze. “I think you are wrong. He is not adverse to utilizing your place in my heart to accomplish his goals. A man such as Wallace Kensington does not accomplish what he has without being a bit ruthless, no? But I believe he desires nothing more than your happiness. We have spoken of my desire to court you. And he asked me the questions of a loving father, not a businessman trading a commodity.”

“I see,” I said. And I did then. Wallace Kensington was incredibly adept at what he did. Manipulating all within reach to do exactly as he bid. Anna’s words came back to me. The miner’s family, sent away, just to keep the son from Viv. It was as if he were a master chess player, moving all the pieces into just the right spots in order to capture the queen. Except this time, the queen was me.

And somehow, Wallace would feel good about his methods, because I’d be married off to a man of means…the years of struggle in Dunnigan magically rectified.

“Cora,” Pierre said, coming to sit beside me. A gardener looked up from trimming the roses and then hurriedly glanced away. Beyond him, Yves kept watch over me, casually, purely there for the job, but without any untoward interest. In the far corner, Arthur was taking pictures of two young society girls—his latest photographic interest. Pierre took my hand. “Truthfully, would it be so awful? To be both rich
and
loved?”

I laughed, then, at his words. Really, how could I take issue with either? Who in their right mind would? And one laugh took me into another. Until tears streamed down my face. He waited through the whole thing, patient, kind, never irritated by my foolishness—and in that moment I knew that I did care for him.

Just not as I cared for Will.

“No, Pierre,” I said at last. “It is not a bad thing to be both rich and loved. I believe it is all many people aspire to. But for me…I am meant to be loved, yes. Rich?” I shook my head and waved about me at the expansive gardens, the mansion. “This is extraordinary. A dream, in many ways. But that’s
it
, right there, I think. It feels too much like a dream. Not real. Not something you can reach out and touch…or at least hope to hold for long.”

He set aside his sketchpad, took my hand, and placed it over his heart, his eyes deadly serious now. “Do you not feel that? My heart? Am I not real?”

I sighed. There was no way to convey to him what I was feeling. “You can’t understand, Pierre, not really. This is your world, the only world you have ever known. So while it feels very real to you, it’s because it
is
. It’s because you
belong
here. You’ve always belonged here.” I lifted a hand to my forehead. “I’m not explaining this well.”

“Non,”
he said, tracing my face with a feather-light touch. “You are. Perhaps I need to journey to your world to fully understand. To Montana.” He hitched his shoulders back and put his thumbs in his waistband. “Wear chaps and spurs. A cowboy hat.”

I giggled, trying to picture him there. “Not all Montanans wear such things.”

“No?” He frowned, but a teasing smile crept into his eyes. “That is most disappointing.” He released my hand from his chest but kept it between the two of his. “I must come, though. See what so ties your heart to that land. Perhaps I will fall in love with it too and never return to Paris.”

I shook my head. “Don’t you see? That would be wrong too. This is where you belong, Pierre. I mean, you are welcome to come, but you would find what I have here. It is lovely. Intriguing, being in a place that is not your own. But in the end, it is
not
your own, and you have no choice but to find your way back to what is.”

“Not all do as you say. Some find their way. In a foreign land. And in time, it feels as home.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

“Don’t give up yet,
mon ange
,” he said, bringing my hand to his lips and giving my knuckles a tender kiss. “You have been honest with your feelings. I knew from the start that William would give me—” He laughed when I looked up in surprise. “Oh no, cherie, it is no secret that William is the one who draws you. But I am not as convinced as you that he is the right man for you. That he is a better match than I, for you. So…you’ve been honest. You’ve had your say. I have heard it, no? I shall never claim you were unfair to me, untruthful. But I beg you to do as your father asked and simply give me more time to win your heart. If what you share with William is right, true, it will stand the test, right?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head in confusion.

“It is always wise to give big decisions time, Cora. To not rush them. And in giving this more time you obey your father’s wishes and make sure you are making a wise decision.”

I stared at him for a long moment. “I…I suppose that’s true.”

His grin spread across his handsome face, and he leaned over to give me a slow, tender kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, cherie. For granting me a bit more time. That is all I ask. See? We are all happy now. Me. You. Your father.”

I nodded, feeling a bit dazed. What had just happened? It had not gone at all as I’d envisioned. And there was one person Pierre had not mentioned in his list of those who were happy.

Will.

Pierre stood and bid me adieu, promising that he’d be the first to request a dance after the concert, and then he walked away, whistling.

I saw his pad and picked it up. “Pierre! Your sketchbook!”

He turned and nodded, remembering the forgotten book, then sidled back toward me. As he did, curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked at his illustration, then turned it in my hands to really take it in.

It was as perfectly executed as the one he’d made of me on the boat in Versailles. But this time, he’d sketched in a perfect rendition of himself beside me. Like two young lovers perched in the rose garden, which I supposed, in some measure, we were.

“See, cherie,” he said, with a half-pained smile, “it looks right. The two of us together, yes?”

I handed him the sketchbook and gave him a smile. “You are incorrigible,” I said with a shake of my head.

“What is this word, incorrigible?” he said, pretending his perfect English didn’t cover it. He tore the page from the book and handed it to me.

“Impossible. Outrageous.”

“Ahh, perhaps, cherie, perhaps.” Then he turned on his heel, whistling again as he left the garden. But he’d accomplished what he’d been after.

The romantic image of the two of us together was both in my hands and in my head.