Chapter 6
Food for thought
The days that followed were so filled with traveling from Calais to Paris, with pilfering recipes from every boulangerie and patisserie along the way, and with the aunts displaying the art of the three Fs, there wasn’t a spare moment for Meg to think about the Duke of Merleton.
And yet . . . she did, nonetheless.
It was intolerably frustrating. She couldn’t seem to shake the tumult still teeming inside her after their collision on the docks. At random moments throughout her day, her thoughts would return to those brief seconds of being crushed against him, his hold so strong and sure that it was as if he’d known precisely how her body should fit against his.
In his arms, she’d felt that tug again. Though, at the time, she’d been too perturbed at his recklessness to pay much attention to it.
But lately, she was becoming all too aware of its absence. It felt like a rope remained tied through her middle, only now she was just dragging it around, waiting for someone to pick up the other end. Someone other than the duke, of course. Someone that would keep the aunts thinking about grand flirtations and not—absolutely not—about wedding breakfasts.
Meg sighed, fogging up the glass of the carriage window.
She hadn’t felt this way with Daniel. He’d given her butterflies that took flight whenever she’d thought of seeing him again. Every feeling had centered in her heart. Which was likely the reason it had shattered when she’d received his letter announcing his marriage.
With the duke, on the other hand, the sensations were lower, deeper. Infinitely more intriguing.
Even so, it took her by surprise that she should find her thoughts frequently on that irascible man, wondering if she would see him again. Which was particularly discombobulating considering she would rather eat celeries—her least favorite vegetable—than endure another encounter with him.
Thankfully, as they left the countryside and approached Paris in their hired coaches, Meg began to feel more like herself.
The city unfolded in a dazzling display of color and light, and she was eager to take it all in. There was a vibrancy in the atmosphere that instantly filled her with effervescence, a light buoyancy that had been absent in her for the past year. And she welcomed it, hoping to keep it with her all the while.
It wasn’t long before they arrived at their predetermined coaching inn but were soon informed by a man at the door that there were no rooms available. This was surprising considering that it was so late in the spring when many began journeying to the country. Nevertheless, after a brief exchange, he recommended a rather lavish hotel, and they decided to indulge themselves. This was a holiday, after all.
Upon reaching the grand facade, they were welcomed with pomp and circumstance by a gray mustachioed concierge whose eyes widened at the mention of their names.
“Ah. C’est bon. Zee three Misses Parrish have arrived at last,” he said with a grin and clapped his hands for a flurry of attendants to see to their trunks. “You shall have zee finest apartment of rooms.”
“Merci, monsieur,” Maeve said, her pencil-thin brows drawn together in perplexity. “Were you expecting us?”
He winked as if she should know the answer. “But of course, mademoiselle.”
They were left to wonder how that could be as he scuttled through a side door to attend to other business, leaving them in the hands of the porter. On the way to their rooms, the aunts agreed that Meg’s brother must have arranged it all, sending a letter ahead of them to ensure that they received the best accommodations.
And yet, if it had been Brandon, then wouldn’t the concierge have known that she was a Miss Stredwick instead of one-third of zee three Misses Parrish?
The mystery, if it even was a mystery, quickly fell off the list of importance when they entered the corner suite that stole their collective breaths.
The vast room was furnished with impeccable refinement, all cream and soft golden hues. A flood of warm sunlight streamed in through two tall windows that were swathed in ivory drapes and parted to reveal an awe-inspiring view of the city.
And if that wasn’t enough, no sooner had they and their maids begun to unpack than a knock fell on the door with an attendant bringing them a tea tray brimming with flaky, buttery pastries.
“I want to stay in this place forever,” Myrtle said later as she lounged against the tufted jonquil chair and casually nibbled one last crumb that she’d plucked from the folds of her fichu.
Maeve stood at the window and winced slightly as she stiffly turned her neck. Pressing a hand to her nape, she said, “The coaches and roadways certainly leave something to be desired. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so enervated in all my life.”
“It’s because we’re old, sister.”
“Speak for yourself,” Maeve answered, a small smile on her lips.
But Meg was of an opinion that the pair would never grow old. Not truly. Age was a mere number for the likes of them.
Nevertheless, that did not stop them from deciding to take a restorative nap an hour later. And while they were dreaming of mille-feuille and viennoiserie, Meg stole out of the room to explore the hotel.
It wasn’t long before she spotted a familiar face that took her quite by surprise.
“Honoria Hartley,” Meg said with a pleased smile as the young woman in question ascended the stairs. “Surely this cannot be you, in Paris of all places.”
“Meg!” Honoria blinked with recognition, then instantly rushed forward for a quick embrace.
Her smile was radiant as always, her hair a lustrous gold, and her complexion a flawless peaches and cream. In truth, she was the most stunning woman of Meg’s acquaintance.
In fact, every one of the Hartley sisters were renowned beauties. Meg had known the family for years, even before Honoria and she had debuted together. They kept an estate to the north, near where Meg had lived when her parents were still alive.
“I haven’t seen you since last Season,” Honoria said. “I thought, perhaps, that you’d married and flitted off into the country in wedded bliss.”
“No,” Meg answered simply, not wanting to think about the past year . . . or Daniel. “But my brother is married now. I am traveling with my sister-in-law’s aunts on a small tour of the Continent for the summer.”
“What fun! And I’m positively jade green with envy. I’m here with my cousin Daphne and her husband, Colonel Whittingham, but we must set off for home at week’s end. In fact, I was just on an errand for her at the apothecary,” she said, pausing briefly to remove a brown bottle from her reticule, then handed it to a waiting abigail who left them with a bobbed curtsy.
“Oh, dear. I hope your cousin isn’t unwell.”
“Nothing that will not remedy itself in a few months, I should think. The nature of the illness has been the topic of whispered conversations between Daphne and the colonel that abruptly break off when I enter the room. However, after a visit from a local physician and the subsequent smiles and happy sighs, I’ve surmised the rest.”
It took Meg a moment to understand, but as Honoria made a discreet gesture with her hand hovering over her midriff, she nodded. “Ah. My brother has recently become a proud father and has subsequently become impossible to live with. Even more so than usual.”