Page 73 of Ravishing Camille
“Whatever he said, you need not tell me now. But one thing I glean from his invitation is that he would not have asked to meet you if your work had not impressed him.”
“That’s true,” she admitted.
“Then you think your writing is not worthy of…what? The Champs de Mars?”
She grinned and shook her head.
“Not worthy of an exhibit with Marianne’s and Remy’s and Monet’s?”
“I do not lie to myself, Pierce!”
“Well, then, do not denigrate what you do either.”
“I do not pretend that what I create will inspire others for centuries. Nor do I imagine that many sit for hours to marvel at what I’ve imagined. I write romances about women who search for another to love and to struggle and to conquer the challenges they face. I do not change my readers’ lives.”
She paused as he gave her an arched look. “And?”
“I change their opinions of how to choose a partner. I encourage them to seize the power in that. I change at the least, the pleasure in their evenings.” She turned to gaze at the bronze figure of Marianne. “And at the most, I change their attitudes toward themselves.”
“And is that not what you have done for yourself?”
She studied him for a long silent time. “It is.”
“And why you would really like to change women’s lives more than their evenings? Run for Parliament? Change the world?”
She glanced away, honored by his insights and his attentions to her aspirations. “First I must be able to vote.”
“You will.”
She eyed him. “You have such faith.”
“I know you, Camille Bereston. I have the privilege of observing your drive.”
“I love that you don’t object.”
“Why would I? I have my own.”
“That you do, sir!” She chuckled and drained her glass.
“I admire you, my darling. Never doubt it.” He took a drink and purposely scanned the room for a very long look. “I think if I cannot demonstrate how well and soon, I will wither away.”
“Do not think of it.”
He gave an outraged laugh. “it’s that or throw you over my shoulder and stride away like a caveman with my prize.”
“How exciting!”
“What a scandal, eh?”
The courage that Brianna Price had claimed blossomed in her own heart. “We won’t make one.”
“No, my darling. We won’t.” And then he told her that he’d hired a carriage to meet her at the main entrance to the Gare de l’Est day after next at ten in the morning.
She gave a little shake of her head, barely able to look at him without walking into his arms. “Will you be in the coach?”
“I would not waste a moment without you.”
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