Paris

The grey silk nightdress had returned and Bertie found that he wasn't sad about that, not in the slightest. They'd collapsed into a deep sleep, sated by one another's repeated attentions to one another. He vaguely remembered pulling the bedclothes over them as he'd shifted to curve his body around her, his chest pushed into her back, an arm wrapped around her waist, content as she'd settled back into him. But it would seem that at some point in the night she'd got up and dressed in this soft and rather appealing garment before returning to his side.

Hearing the quiet sounds of her continued rest, he gently moved to prop himself up against a pillow. The room was dark, the curtains keeping out the morning light save for a crack at one window, the dust in the air visibly dancing in the rays that filtered through it. They had no fixed plans for their day ahead, their first in the city but he knew Edith had a list of sights as long as her arm that she wanted to explore. It was why he'd suggested they simply based themselves here for the duration. As tempting as it was to find somewhere more exotic for these precious days together, he just wanted to be with her. It really didn't matter to him where they were or what they did. His eyes were drawn back to the form beside him, the golden waves of her hair fanning out across the pillow, the sheet low on her back revealing how the silk clung to her curves. That he had free reign to touch and caress her skin was unbelievable and yet he did and he revelled in the knowledge of how wonderful it felt. The quiet chime from the clock on the drawing room mantlepiece next door signalled the hour, serving to confirm what the rumbling in his stomach was telling him. He supposed that perhaps he should have been more generous with the suite he'd secured for them, he was a Marquess now after all. The idea of being a fraud to the title had begun to lift over recent months but he still hadn't quite adjusted his mind to the financial means he now had at his disposal. He hadn't wanted for much before and he'd been content with his life. Although, as his wife stirred in the bed alongside him, he realised his contentment had now reached a new and higher plain.

"Edith, my darling," he voiced softly, his hand moving across her lower back in a way that he hoped would entice her awake.

When she merely sighed but didn't move, he increased his attention, shifting down so his lips could dot light kisses across her shoulder blades, gently pushing aside one of the straps so his tongue could weave an uninterrupted path. She sighed again but with something more and, encouraged, he continued.

Edith had felt her husband's presence before he'd spoken. Only their second morning of waking up alongside one another she was still finding herself happily surprised at his presence. She imagined it would take time to adjust fully to sharing a bed but she had no desire to rush along any sense of normality, she was enjoying the sensation of discovery too much. She let him continue his own path of exploration for as long as she could stand before she wanted, no needed, more. Rolling onto her back and then towards him, her eyes fluttered open and sparked at the sight of him, his face so close to hers, enough to feel his breath on her forehead.

"Morning," she purred, her voice deliberately low, helped by having so recently awoken from sleep.

It had the desired effect and he was there, pulling her to him, showering her in the attention she remembered so vividly from last night, that she was sure she'd dreamed about. And as the clock again chimed the half hour they were lost to one another.


Wrapped up against the cold January air, Edith was glad of the fur that lined the collar and front of her terracotta coat, it's doing something at least to keep out the wind coming off the river. Her arm linked through Bertie's arm, his other host to a wooden handled black umbrella, as they set off from the hotel was quite respectable but had the useful effect of providing additional warmth which, aside from the romance of the setting, was currently her principal concern. The advantage of Paris at this time of year, she thought to herself, was that they did at least feel as if they had it to themselves. They stepped out on the Pont du Carrousel, its curved arches unobserved under their feet, and stopped halfway to lean over, resting their elbows on the wall to watch the swollen waters of the Seine, its currents and waves reflecting the colour of the overcast sky above. A gust caught up and she instinctively reached for her hat for fear it would blow away. She shivered as the wind caught in her sleeve and onto the skin of her forearm.

"Come on, let's keep moving," Bertie suggested. "Just a short distance and then we'll be out of this chill."

She consented and they resumed their stroll, albeit at a brisker pace than before, her excitement growing as she saw the southern façade of the Musée du Louvre on the other side of the bridge. She'd visited as a child but the works of art had been beyond her, she'd been preoccupied by the promise of an iced bun if they kept quiet, she'd barely noticed the hundreds of paintings that they must have passed. But now she was aching to discover something of its collection, the most famous ones of course, but also to drink in the splendour of the building itself. At the entrance they were able to deposit their coats and having marvelled at the impressive staircase that greeted them, stepped to one side to consult the small pamphlet they'd be given as to where to start.

"The Galerie d'Apollon is supposed to be magnificent," Edith said, suggesting it as their first stop.

Bertie agreed. He was keen to see for himself the Egyptian galleries which he knew to be down in the Crypt but they could wait until later. They had the whole day to satisfy their want of all things beautiful. He smiled as she slipped her hand into his and they began their meander through the high ceilinged rooms of the former palace.


Flinging herself down on the generously sized sofa in the drawing room of their suite, Edith reached down to remove her shoes, the buckles having become tight over the course of the day as they'd strolled and walked and strolled some more.

"Why must museums have such hard floors?" she bemoaned, lifting a stockinged foot and beginning to massage it with her thumb.

"Here, allow me," Bertie offered, sitting himself down at the opposite end and encouraging her to swing her legs up so he could take over the task.

She leant back against the embroidered cushions and felt herself unwinding as his touch worked its magic. She could get used to this, she thought, his cherishing her, the small physical manifestations of his love for her. She hoped it would last a lifetime and not diminish in any way. A loud knock at the door forced them to move, Bertie calling for the person to enter. A smartly dressed waiter appeared, a tea tray in his arms, which he expertly deposited on a table underneath a window. He gave a small sort of salute as he exited, speaking not a word to either of them. The oddness of his manner enticed a roll of the eyes from Bertie which made her laugh.

"I'll pour, shall I?" she asked and, not waiting for an answer, moved to do so. Handing him a cup and taking one for herself, she returned to the sofa, sitting closer to him this time and took a sip, a sigh escaping for her lips.

"Is it wrong to confess that I needed that?" she said, "I know that final gallery was my idea but perhaps it was one too many after all."

He chuckled, "Well, I won't risk your wrath by pointing out that I did say that." He feigned fear as she swatted at him, "But no, I think this cup has been earnt. I think we can declare the Louvre well and truly seen!"

He regarded his wife, her head resting back, eyes closed, the teacup with its pattern of blue cornflowers decorating its rim balanced on its saucer in her lap.

"If you're too tired my love then we can always stay in this evening..." he teased, knowing full well she'd hate the idea, so desperate as she was to experience Parisien nightlife.

Her eyes snapped open. "Absolutely not!" she cried out, and then stopped herself, "What I mean is," she corrected calmly, "I'll be completely restored after a bath and a short rest."

Bertie eyed her suspiciously but determined not to say anything. She couldn't know, he concluded, he'd been too careful in keeping his plans a surprise. Offering to run the water for her, he moved to the bathroom and turned on the taps, testing the temperature and making small adjustments accordingly. How unfortunate that it should be so small, he ruminated, his head doing a silent inventory of the Brancaster bathrooms for one that they might enjoy together. After several minutes of allowing these thoughts to run a mock, he forced himself to focus back on reality. He could hear her moving about in the bedroom, the bang of a wardrobe door opening and closing, and then the hushed sound of a zip being released and the swish of material dropping from her shoulders. Oh, how lucky I am, he thought, chuckling to himself, so very lucky indeed.


Author's note: Now at this point I must thank you all for the lovely, encouraging reviews. I'd love to reply personally but sadly can't to guest reviewers but honestly, all kind thoughts keep me motivated to continue. Do drop me one if you feel so inclined :-) And secondly, an apology for anyone reading this who has knowledge of Paris. I visited in my younger days but I am by no means as familiar as I am with, say, the UK's East Coast Mainline featured in other chapters which I have travelled many, many times. I beg your forgiveness for any inaccuracies!