Page 63 of Ravishing Camille
“Or too quickly!” Marianne shook her head.
Remy scoffed. “Rand knows how to draw a proper beer from a keg.”
Camille burst out laughing.
“You will be good for them.” Remy said.
“Safe, family fun, eh?”
“You bring them ajoie de vivrethey both love.” Marianne smiled at her husband. “We’re glad you agree to stay here. We won’t leave you with them all to yourself. We have a few things in mind for the entire family. Parc Monceau has a new carousel. But also we thought we’d hire a well-outfitted barge for the fifteen of us and sail down the Seine to Mont-Valérien. It is a famous fort and not only Rand will like it, but we’ll enjoy the views down into the city. And I’ll love the breezes.”
Remy eyed his wife as she took up her fan. “Ifyou can climb the steps to the fort, andifthat baby will wait a bit, you can enjoy your breezes.”
Marianne put a hand to the large mound of her belly and gazed at her husband with the look of a woman in love. “She is not as active as Corinne.”
“Ha! This time we may have a child who is serene?” Remy mashed his lips together and frowned, playful as his children. “I don’t believe it.”
Marianne turned her face to one side and fanned herself like a coquette. “Just you wait and see,monsieur le duc.”
“Well, as we wait,” Camille said, as they all chuckled and rose to adjourn to the salon, “I’m ready for fun. Forts and bones and catacombs!” The prospect of entertaining seven rambunctious children might defeat another, but she welcomed the numbers and the chaos.
Poor Pierce had no idea what awaited him!
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Chapter 16
The next afternoon, she gazed out the window from Remys’ sumptuous town coach and pondered the noisy traffic circling the Opera Garnier. The bejeweled women in the swan-like corsets and enormously brimmed hats contrasted with the popinjay French men in slim tailored day suits and top hats. The extravagant joys of people-watching in Paris gave her little tingles of joy. London was…well, docile compared to the jollyhauteurof Parisians in their capital city.
Now, if she accepted the offer of her new French publisher, she had the opportunity not only to see her works published in French but also to join the French on a more permanent basis. To open the conversation, he had offered a chateau, available at her call, rent free for a year, two staff to run it plus a generous annual stipend of two thousand Francs.
On that, she might be able to afford to buy the gown she’d ordered from Worth this morning. And perhaps the négligée from Madame Villette, too.
She grinned at the fact that the man had done more. He increased her royalties. On each copy sold, she could live in the country quite well. Support herself. Over time she might be financially secure and be able to afford to live in Paris. Rent a small apartment, perhaps near here. Or up in Montmartre, she could afford a house. Live near many of Marianne and Remy’s invigorating, accomplished friends. Writers, like Alexandre Dumas. Artists. Renoir. Mary Cassatt. Berthe Morisot.
She had no illusions of her own abilities or accomplishments as an author. She wrote stories of amusement. Not literary works of any elaborate worth. She had aspirations, but they were financial. She did not seek awards or acclaim, but readers. Thousands, millions if she could get them. The French were ravenous readers. Acquiring them and others around the world who spoke the language, she could sell more novels than she’d ever dreamed. Then she could live quite well in France.
But. What then of her other more immediate aspirations and desires?
With Pierce so near and now so very dear, more than he had ever been, she was alive with sexual desire she had so long denied. Mulling over this new opportunity gave her a different thrill, certainly. Just as she had jumped at the possibility of an affair with him, she relished this offer, too. She would not—would not—turn it down out of hand.
It was the kind of offer few authors received.
Fewfemaleauthors received.
So the fact that she was not the finest of literary writers did not mean that she could not value this excellent chance to become something more than she’d anticipated.
To value it was one thing. To take it, another.
And the truth was that she wanted to accept. The very fine compensation was four times the amount she had earned from four novels for her London publisher. Plus, the world-wide benefits of the French copyright laws were grand, allowing her to keep her rights —fifty years beyond her lifetime—and grant them to any children she might have.
That socked the air out of her.
Children.
She ran a hand over her brow and squeezed shut her eyes.
Always, children belonged to others. Never had children been a feature in the future she saw for herself. A man, one man always came to her mind first.
