The night air was refreshing and cool after the heat of the restaurant. Raoul said nothing and all Meg could hear was the clicking hooves of the horses as they rolled through the city. The supper he had arranged had been an ornate affair at one of the most fashionable places in the city. Raoul had arranged for a small table, tucked out of the way in a glittering room, the place had been an absurdity. Gleaming fixtures, rich wallpaper and riots of flowers cascading over their marble containers. The great and not-so-good added to the ostentation in their fine silks and flashing jewels, dining on sumptuous food and consuming unimaginable amounts of champagne.
Meg had felt like a complete pauper and she did not thank Raoul for taking her there.
Raoul had been the perfect gentleman, as he always was to her, though the warmth in his demeanor rang hollow and his conversation was limited and dull. She had consumed more than her fair share of champagne and focused more on the other diners and the bustling to-and-fro of the staff, whizzing around with silver trays held high, though heavy with food. With their noses in the air and their chests puffed out, they reminded her of a gaggle of peacocks.
It was all very silly.
"Whether it is theatre, balls or fine dining, the rich do love their spectacles."
"And that is why I wished to spend the evening with you.." Raoul finished, looking at her expectantly.
"I'm sorry, what?" Meg turned her attention from the carriage window. "Has he been talking this whole time?"
"You weren't listening."
"Yes – no, I am just so tired."
"I had been speaking to the importance of children to grow up with a mother in their lives."
Meg licked her suddenly dry lips. "Yes, of course, I agree." The alcohol from supper still swam through her head, making her surroundings ripple like a disturbed pond. Raoul moved to sit next to her and took her gloved hands in his; Meg went rigid, heat flooded into her cheeks.
"I realize we do not know one another well but I am hopeful that will come in time." Raoul swallowed hard. "If you would do me the honour of becoming my wife."
Meg stared, her eyes wide, frozen with Raoul still holding her hands.
"Become the new comtesse? Is he a lunatic or looking to fulfill Christine's wishes?"
"Are you all right?" Raoul's breath was hot on her cheek and then his lips were against her skin. "Marguerite?" he whispered.
"Yes, I am only.. surprised."
Raoul kissed her lips gently but the warmth she had once felt at his touch was no longer there.
"Raoul." She looked into his wide, earnest eyes. "I – no, I cannot accept." Meg steeled herself against the hurt that flooded the comte's eyes.
"There was something between us once, a brief spark; I know you felt it too." He traced the lines of her face.
"Your wife was upstairs dying, I felt a lot of things that night."
"But I thought you promised Christine – to look after her children."
"I think we both know there is little a ballet dancer can do for five aristocratic children."
"You have always been welcome to see them whenever you wished." Raoul slipped an arm around her waist.
"Is that so? I would have loved to visit if I had known of this generous, open ended invitation." She bit back. "I never promised to look after your family as your wife."
"But your mother –"
"Will be furious if you tell her that you asked and I refused."
"No doubt she would approve of me."
"Because you are wealthy." Meg scowled.
Raoul released her but he had not moved back to his place across from her; his handsome face clouded with disappointment. "I can take care of you, both of you. You would never have to dance again."
"I like dancing." She protested.
"Then I will make you a dance studio."
"But I don't love you."
"Who ever said anything about love? This union would be mutually beneficial." He leaned in once more to emphasize those benefits with a kiss.
Meg turned her face to avoid his touch. She could not fault the sense in his proposal and no longer worrying about basic things like heat in the winter and food had its appeal.
"Meg, please." Raoul whispered in her ear, kissing her neck.
"Raoul – no, stop, please." She put her hand on his chest and pushed away hard. "Do not touch me anymore. I am sorry that your children have lost their mother; she was gentle and loving and everything your wife should be." Meg was surprised by the bitterness in her voice. "But I am not Christine and I cannot change myself to be who you or my mother wishes me to be."
"Meg, please, this could be good for both of us." He reached for her again, ignoring her warning.
"It would be good for you." She knocked hard on the roof of the carriage, hardly waiting for it to come to a stop before she threw open the door and threw herself out to the street.
"Marguerite, please, get back in the carriage."
"I will walk home, monsieur." She turned her back on Raoul and began marching down the street.
"You do not even know where you are."
"That is what you think." Meg boasted, even though she did not really know.
"Meg. Come on."
"No!"
"Fine." He slammed the carriage door and knocked on the roof. The horses jumped back into action and hurried away from Meg, leaving her alone in the Paris night.
"Me and my big mouth." She frowned and stomped her heeled foot. "Shit."
Meg sighed and started walking in the direction the carriage had gone, hoping it would bring her to a more familiar neighbourhood. Half drunk and lost, she was completely unaware of the long shadow following close behind.