Royally Seduced - By Marie Donovan Page 0,1
you’ve never been anywhere.”
Great for her self-confidence. “Didn’t you tell me that if you ever got pregnant again you would need very close prenatal care along with anticoagulant shots right from the start?”
“Yes,” Sarah admitted. “But I feel so terrible about abandoning you.”
“Please,” she scoffed. “I’m a big girl. I have my itinerary and my French phrasebook.”
Sarah winced. Lily had a terrible accent, being unable to master the sheer nasality of the language. “Well, at this time of year there are always English speakers roaming around if you get into a bind. And Curt and I will take you to the airport like we planned. I wish I had given you more notice than this,” she fretted.
“I wouldn’t change anything,” Lily told her, and that was the truth. Later on in the pregnancy, when her cousin felt more secure, Lily would inform her she was going to be the godmother. Maybe she would bring back a little French toy for the baby and keep it hidden until he or she was born.
Curt loaded her things into the trunk and they headed for the Verrazano Bridge to cross into New York. JFK Airport sat on a bay overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Queens. At that early hour, the miles passed quickly and Lily found herself deposited on the sidewalk with all her luggage.
Sarah reached her hand out the window to grab her cousin’s hand. “Lily, Lily, please take care of yourself.” Her eyes were filling up. Lily’s were, too, only she didn’t have early pregnancy hormones to blame, thank God.
She blew Sarah a kiss. “Everything will be fine. I’ll text you once I land. You just concentrate on taking care of yourself—and your baby.”
Sarah waved as Curt pulled away from the curb. Lily took a deep breath and hefted her backpack onto her shoulders before pulling her medium-size rolling suitcase into the terminal.
Her first major trip anywhere. France, land of wine and roses, perfume and pomp. Wow, that sounded good. She grabbed her phone and quickly entered that phrase. She had her laptop all tuned up and ready for the great stories that would fall in her lap.
Lily was going to take France by storm.
JACQUES MONTFORD HOPPED off the Métro stop a few blocks from the family mansion on Rue de Faubourg St-Honoré. His mother, the Dowager Countess de Brissard, had wanted to send the family car to meet him at the airport, but he needed more time. Time to get out of the closeness of the airplane, the craziness of Charles de Gaulle Airport, time to get some fresh air—as fresh as Paris could provide.
He climbed the stairs to the street. Ah, the parfum de Paris in the summer. More than a hint of auto exhaust and pollution, but also a touch of garden from behind the high walls he passed. Jasmine, definitely rose and a touch of lily. But no lavender.
The only lavender in Paris was in the buckets in the flower market and maybe in a clay pot in some less sophisticated neighborhood than the one he walked through.
For real lavender, Jacques would have to leave Paris and go to Provence.
The idea of another trip at that point seemed exhausting. More exhausting than staying with his mother in Paris? That remained to be seen.
He rounded the corner to the house and took the steps before knocking on the wide wooden door. He hadn’t bothered to take his key ring on his trip to the Southeast Asian typhoon disaster area. As a relief-work physician, he’d had plenty of important medical supplies to carry with him. It was typical to bring one backpack of personal items and a couple of large suitcases filled with medicine, bandages and emergency surgical instruments. In fact, he was wearing his trusty backpack right now. He couldn’t wait to drop it in his suite of rooms, take a shower and grab something to eat in the large kitchen. A quick knock, the door opened and he was officially in hell.
“Surprise!” A crowd full of people he didn’t know greeted him, slapping him on the back and shaking his hand.
His mother, her hair an exact color match for his thanks to the hairdresser, fought her way to him, kissing him on both cheeks twice and crying prettily, though not enough to either ruin her mascara or redden her eyes. “Jacques! Mon petit Jacques is finally home!” she announced. His mother’s guests cheered again.
He was a rich lady’s prize poodle being trotted out for admiration. And for