The Last Dress from Paris(10)
But anyone overhearing what Alice just has would think she and Albert are in competition with each other, from the way he seemed to object to her popularity. Surely that’s what he hoped for? That she would be not only accepted into this world but welcomed.
Her conversation with the professor falters while she tries to compose herself and halt the flare in her cheeks, giving him just enough time to catch the eye of another woman across the room and beckon her over.
“Madame Ainsley, please may I introduce you to Madame du Parcq? She lectures on classic French literature at the Sorbonne. Her husband is head of asset management at the Bank of France. Both very accomplished, obviously.”
“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Madame Ainsley, and thank you so very much for your kind invitation this evening. I have wanted to meet you for some time. And may I say, the roses are just perfect. Are they from the embassy gardens?”
Alice opens her mouth to respond but pauses as a young man steps into their group next to Madame du Parcq.
“Ah, please meet my son, Antoine. He is studying politics at the Sorbonne and is very keen to pursue a career in the diplomatic world, aren’t you, darling?” Her hand disappears behind his back, nudging him forward, closer to Alice.
Antoine says nothing for a few seconds before nonchalantly responding, “Yes. Apparently, I am,” with a subtle shift of his eyebrows that seems at his mother’s expense and makes Alice pretend she missed it. Then he takes his time, letting his eyes travel over Alice, completely unrushed, not caring in the slightest that he’s caused a pause in the conversation. He doesn’t shake her hand, but he steps closer, so close she thinks for a wild moment he might kiss her, and it halts her breath inside her chest. Then, very slowly, he raises a finger to her lips and brushes away a rogue canapé crumb.
“Oh, thank you.” Alice raises her own fingers to her mouth and notices how his eyes rest there too.
His mother breaks in, chattering on about how much she would value Alice’s opinion, and might she have time to counsel Antoine a little if that isn’t too much of an imposition?
“Well, I’m hardly an expert,” admits Alice, “but if I can help, then of course I will.”
She watches as Antoine’s face slowly creeps into a small, secret smile. No one else has registered it but her. What is he trying to convey—and why is she mirroring it? It stays between the two of them. She can feel her blood pulsing in her ears—a hangover from the embarrassment caused by Albert? Or, like the tautness sitting low beneath her belly, is it more to do with the intriguing man standing in front of her? One who went to the effort of putting on a dinner jacket this evening but left the top button of his shirt undone, in defiance? His bow tie isn’t quite straight; his chocolate-brown hair looks neglectfully ruffled. There is an element of swagger in the way his head is cocked to one side, his face openly admiring Alice. And why is it pitched there? A deliberate attempt to excite her? Knock her slightly off-balance? A determination not to fall into line with the social conventions of the evening? And yet he is immaculately clean-shaven. His eyebrows are as sharp as his jawline. He cares how he looks. Alice can see he has given thought to how he will be viewed tonight.
The professor and Madame du Parcq have sidetracked to timetables and student numbers, and noticing this, Antoine takes another half step toward her. She senses his body, the closeness of it to hers, his height and how he’s dipping his head toward her in an act of surprise intimacy, low enough that his hair grazes her cheek and she can feel the rhythm of his breath.
“I’ve seen you before. At the Sorbonne. Last month.”
“Yes. I was doing a short course there. But you weren’t in my class.” Alice arches her neck backward to create a little more space between them.
“No. I saw you from the corridor. You were engrossed. You never noticed me looking in. But I knew who you were. Like everyone else, I read about your arrival in Paris in the newspapers. But your appearance at the university was a surprise.”
“Why would it surprise you?” She tries to muffle the mild offense she feels. Why should he believe her out of place there?
“You don’t need to bother with—”
Alice’s throat tightens as she swallows down her annoyance. She takes a slow, deep breath, breaking their gaze, and then instead of revealing her true feelings, she lets her mouth relax into a broad smile and changes her tone to mock him slightly. “And you know so much about women, do you, Antoine? Someone so young has already gained such broad experience with women like me?”
“You never let me finish.” He uses his body to close the gap between them again. “You didn’t need to bother with it, and yet I could see you were the only person in the room who seemed genuinely absorbed in the class. Forgive me, but I watched you for a little while, hanging off your teacher’s every word. I saw something different in you, Alice. That’s what kept me looking. And I remembered you because of it. The fact you were easily the most beautiful woman in the room that day, too, was barely an afterthought.”
She turns her head toward him, and for a moment, Alice is completely lost in him, her face angled inward to his neck, searching out the warm freshness of him. A mix of bold citrus, undercut with something more earthy—leather or tobacco, maybe both. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t very familiar with being complimented on her appearance, to being seen, even stared at. If a compliment isn’t aimed specifically at her, then it is something she indirectly makes beautiful—her choice of roses in the drawing room, the way her table is laid, the smartness of her staff. But not once that Alice can remember has anyone complimented her on her intellect and any fulfillment she may crave beyond the cocktail hour. Albert paid lip service to it with the promise of a role for her here, but that all feels rather hollow now.