Pandora would love to dine at the hotel, which was supposed to be beautiful, but she couldn’t give Lillian the pleasure of being able to say she had dinner with la Divine.
“Suzanne doesn’t dine at restaurants, too many people clamor for her autograph,” she answered. “And I have plans tonight. Perhaps another time.”
Lillian and Owen ordered crepes and glasses of Beaujolais. Pandora tried to draw Owen and Sally into the conversation. But Owen just sipped his wine and let Lillian talk.
“Owen and I finally bought an estate,” Lillian said when the waiter set down the check. “It’s called Periwinkle. I hired Elsie de Wolfe to furnish it.” She glanced at Pandora innocently. “You’ll have to come for afternoon tea when you’re back in Hyde Park. It’s quite near Summerhill.”
“I’d love to, but I don’t know when we’re going home,” she said. “I’m happy here, and Suzanne loves having us. It will be hard to leave.”
Seeing Lillian was disconcerting. Pandora wasn’t ready to go home. What if people were still talking about Harley? How could she possibly have afternoon tea at Lillian’s new house, knowing that she was only invited so the women could gossip about her after she left.
When they took leave of Lillian and Owen, Pandora let Sally take Esme back to the villa while she ran some errands. It was almost dinnertime when Pandora arrived back at Suzanne’s villa. She set her hat on the table and walked upstairs to Sally’s room. Esme cooed happily in her crib, turning the pages of a picture book.
“We just finished Esme’s bath,” Sally said, folding the bath towel over a chair. “We stopped at the beach on the way home. You wouldn’t guess that a little while ago Esme’s hair was full of sand, and she was shouting at a little boy for ruining her sandcastle.”
“It sounds like he deserved it.” Pandora laughed, sitting on the bed. “I’ve been to see Jean Patou. He offered to let me work at his atelier in Paris. I wouldn’t be paid much, but I’ll learn everything about running a fashion house.”
Meeting with Jean Patou and showing him her sportswear designs had helped Pandora decide that she didn’t want to open a boutique in either Hyde Park or New York. Harley’s scandal would trail after her like a dog on its leash. Instead, she wanted to start a company that designed and manufactured sportswear. If she was successful, her collection would be sold in many stores. No one had attempted to create sportswear for spectators before, and she could offer women something brand new.
The realization of her new goal surprised her; she had wanted to create dresses since she was fifteen. For a while, she had put Jean Patou’s offer to teach her about running a fashion house out of her mind. But the more she thought about designing sportswear, the more it all felt right. The great designers didn’t limit themselves. Coco Chanel designed costumes for the Ballets Russes, and she had a line of perfumes. Jean Patou had a successful bathing suit line, and Elsa Schiaparelli had recently launched a collection of knitwear.
She would learn so much working at the atelier in Paris.
Pandora took an envelope from her purse. “I can tell you’re homesick, and I don’t expect you to stay. I bought your ticket for an August passage.”
Sally arranged the blankets in Esme’s crib.
“I miss my family. But I can’t let some French nanny teach Esme her alphabet, and it will do Tommy good to miss me. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”
Pandora hugged Sally. “I’m glad. Esme and I would be lost without you.”
Sally hugged her back, and a smile lit up her features. “I’ll return the ticket in the morning. I have an intuition about this kind of thing. One day, you’re going to be a famous sportswear designer. Esme will be so proud of you.”
Maurice wasn’t at dinner. Pandora found him afterward, in the room that served as a library and writing room. Novels were crammed next to a row of encyclopedias on the bookshelf, and there was a walnut desk with an old-fashioned inkwell.
Maurice glanced up from the desk. His eyes were hooded, and his brow creased in a frown. Pandora rarely saw Maurice in a dark mood. He was always humming while mixing a salad in the kitchen or singing as he rode off on his bicycle.
“I’ve been rereading Stendhal,” he said, taking a book from the small pile on the desk. “The Red and the Black is one of the finest examples of French literature. It’s about one man’s bravery during the Napoleonic wars.”
“I haven’t read him,” Pandora commented, sitting in a chair opposite him. “There never seems time to read. The days fly by.”
“I saw you going into the shipping office this afternoon.” He returned the book to the pile. “I thought these last two months were leading to something. Apparently, I was wrong.”
Pandora’s heart thudded in her chest. She and Maurice had never discussed a future. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him. He was charming and sophisticated; she found those hazel eyes and the dimple on his cheek irresistible.
“I’m not going to America,” Pandora announced. “Jean Patou offered to let me train at his atelier in Paris. Sally, Esme, and I leave for Paris next month.”
“Paris can be humid in the summer, and the American tourists are unbearable,” Maurice said thoughtfully. “They think the only two places to see are the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. Other sections of Paris during the summer are charming. The cafés in Montmartre are full of artists, and the outdoor markets sell peaches and apricots. I’ll visit; we’ll have picnics in the countryside.”
Something moved inside Pandora. She didn’t know if it was the way Maurice looked at her, the frown replaced by an eager smile, or how he seemed relieved that she wasn’t going to America. She stood up and walked around the desk.
“We still have a month,” she reminded him. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”
Maurice’s voice was thick. “What are you saying?”
Pandora didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned down and kissed him. His mouth tasted of cigarettes and brandy. She kissed him harder, and he stood up and wrapped his arms around her.
“Pandora, I want you so much.” He groaned when she pulled away to catch her breath.
“I want you too.” She nodded. “Now, tonight.”
Maurice kissed her again, pinning her against the desk. Her body leaned into his, her heart beating so fast, she thought it might burst.
“Not here, not like this,” he whispered into her hair. He took her hand, and together they climbed the staircase. Maurice’s guest room was in the back, facing the garden. He pushed open the door and drew her inside. She started fumbling with her blouse, but he stopped her.
“We must take it slowly,” he instructed.
He pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit down. His fingers reached under her skirt and traveled down her thighs. A low, guttural sound escaped her mouth, and she bit her lip, embarrassed. Maurice stopped long enough to kiss her. Then his hands resumed their journey, rolling down her stockings and leaving them pooled at her ankles. She tried to drag him up so he would kiss her again. Instead, he buried his head between her thighs. Suddenly, hot waves came over her, and she gripped the sides of the chair. It was only when the shuddering subsided, and she again became aware of her surroundings, that she dared to meet Maurice’s eyes.