Thanks for your kind comments, I really appreciate them! I haven't done this before and I'm still learning how this works... and I've never been very good at chapters, so forgive me that this is a bit all over the place. Anyway, here's chapter three for you - Henri and Agnes have a busy day... and then as evening falls, Henri has a surprise in store for Agnes. Please let me know what you think!

Agnes is deep in conversation with a woman who reminds her, alarmingly, of Valerie Maurel, when she realises Henri has disappeared. He was sitting on one of the comfortable chairs, waiting for her, legs casually crossed, looking relaxed, and now he is not there.

'But there is nothing like this in London,' Anne-Marie Fleurot is saying.

'I agree,' Agnes says, the silk fabric slipping through her fingertips, wondering what the Selfridges seamstresses will make of it.

Agnes had tried hard not to like Valerie Maurel. In the beginning, she felt nothing other than awe and admiration of the woman who was so different, so daring, so disarmingly French; she had challenged everyone's perception of what was right and proper when it came to the selling of cosmetics and perfumes.

'Just because it's fashionable in France, doesn't mean it's appropriate for our customers,' someone had said. Agnes couldn't even remember who it was that had said it, one of the men, probably - she was too taken with Miss Maurel, with her outfit - bold, almost masculine and yet so - whatever that word was - alluring. Sexy.

She had seen the way Henri looked at her, when she had surprised him in the studio. Instantly she knew that she could not compete with that attraction.

But Valerie had not been in competition with Agnes - she was nothing but charming towards her. Even now, Agnes could not feel any animosity towards her, despite how close Henri had come to a prison sentence or even a death sentence for spying, because of the choices Valerie Maurel had made. Everything happened for a reason - and whatever had happened, it had meant Henri is now here with Agnes and not with his first love.

Except he isn't. Agnes finishes the order with Anne-Marie Fleurot and the fabrics are being boxed ready to be shipped to London. Agnes looks around for Henri, but he has not returned.

'Did you see what happened to Monsieur Leclair?' Agnes asks.

Anne-Marie replies with a gallic shrug, as if she had not even noticed his presence in the first place.

She heads down the stairs, wondering if she could find her way back to the apartment, not even knowing the address, but then she breathes a sigh of relief: Henri is waiting for her outside, leaning against the wall, smoking. He throws the cigarette into the gutter and smiles at her.

'Successful?' he asks, slipping her arm through his.

'Yes, they had some amazing silks. I've been very brave. I hope Mr Selfridge doesn't mind.'

'He trusts you, of course. And he is right to.'

'Where did you go?' Agnes asks.

Henri smiles. 'I was arranging a surprise for you,' he says.

'A surprise?'

'Yes. For tonight. I hope you don't mind. But now, you have another appointment, yes?'

There is a fashion show at one of the larger stores. Agnes and Henri sit together and while Agnes watches and takes notes, Henri sketches the designs. He is much quicker than her, and besides, it is the fabrics and the cut that Agnes needs to note - the details will be worked out by the designers and the seamstresses at Selfridges. The skirts are getting shorter and shorter, that much is clear - the cut is looser, hanging from the shoulders and not from the waist. It feels very bold, very liberating.

By the time Henri and Agnes return to the apartment, it is late afternoon and Agnes is hungry. They stop at a boulangerie and buy some fresh bread, then next door to buy cheese and some ham that the man slices from a joint hanging from a string. Back in the kitchen, they sit at the table and eat with their hands, leaving crumbs all over the scarred oak surface, talking and laughing about the differences between Paris and London, drinking red wine from heavy goblets that are surely some sort of crystal.

From the drawing room, the grandfather clock chimes six.

'We should get ready soon,' Henri says.

'Are we going out?'

'We are.'

'Are you going to tell me where?'

'Not yet.' He is twinkling at her, relishing the surprise.

'Henri, I hope I don't need to look too smart. I don't have any evening dresses or anything like that.'

'Aha,' he says. 'I thought not.'

He gets to his feet. Waits for her in the doorway. Beckons.

When she gets to him, he slips a hand around her waist. The touch, after hours of just friendly contact between them, is thrilling. 'We don't need to get ready just yet,' he murmurs, his mouth finding the space just under her ear. 'Let's go to bed.'

'Henri,' she says, pretending to be stern.

He is kissing her now, kissing her with fierce intent. Hunger. And she finds she is just as ravenous.

When he breaks away she gasps.

'Or even… not bed…' he says, his hands lifting her skirt, tugging at her underwear and failing.

She pulls him by the hand to the settee, pushes him into the seat, kneels between his thighs. Her fingers are clumsy at undoing his belt, pulling his trousers open, and he has to help. He is already hard. Agnes knows his body but it still thrills her to see, this undeniable evidence of his desire for her. She stumbles to her feet and steps out of her underwear. His arms are open, welcoming her onto his lap, her skirt bunching around her waist. She sinks down onto him. He guides his cock, stroking it against her body. She feels her own wetness making him slippery.

'Agnes,' he breathes against her throat, 'my Agnes.'

She sinks down, impaling herself. The fullness of it makes her gasp. Against her knee, an ancient spring from the settee presses into her, bruising. She barely feels it. His hands slide up her bare thighs, around her bottom, pulling her tighter against him. She moves, slides herself forwards, circling her hips, her hands on his shoulders for support.

'Slowly,' he says, 'please.'

How easy it is to get carried away with this, she thinks: how easy to be led astray with the sensation of him filling her. As she moves, she thinks she can feel him growing, swelling. His eyes are closed in concentration and when he opens them she can see right inside, right down into his soul. He smiles. She slows her movements. Henri reaches up and strokes her cheek with his fingers, his touch light. 'I love you, Agnes,' he says.

She lowers her face to his and kisses him deeply. They are joined at the mouth and the sex, she thinks. It will be like this forever. She holds him as tightly as she can and he lets out a low moan into her mouth. When she moves again he holds her hips still.

'You have to stop,' he whispers.

Agnes pouts. 'Why?'

'I cannot stand any more,' he says. 'If you move, it will all be over for me in a moment.'

Reluctantly, she raises her hips and feels his escape. She moves back between his knees, looking up into his face, taking his manhood in her hand. It's been a long time since she was this close to his erect penis, in daylight. Years, in fact. That last night they spent together was mostly spent face to face, heart to heart, sex to sex. Sex to mouth - this thing she likes so much, secretly, after all how do you tell someone how much you like doing something so apparently strange? - has not happened in full light since those first, incredible months of discovery.

She presses her lips against his hot skin, which smells of her own body. Henri's long fingers thread through her hair, encouraging her to continue. He tips his head back, breathing hard, as she takes as much of him into her mouth as she can, moving her hand over him at the same time. She concentrates, building a rhythm, listening to the sounds he is making which are becoming louder and urgent. And then she hears him saying 'stop, stop' but not as though he really means it. She knows what is going to happen - she's seen it, after all, when he has pulled out and finished with his own hand, but even so the force of it takes her by surprise. And the taste. She hadn't expected it to be like that. It's unusual. Not unpleasant. What she's done feels incredibly bold. It makes her smile.

She looks up, kissing him tenderly as he subsides, twitching. His arms and legs are draped as if he's passed out, his head tilted back, his chest rising and falling.

She lets him go, rises and sits neatly on the settee beside him. 'Are you all right, Henri?'

He opens one eye and regards her with a wicked grin. 'Agnes Towler,' he purrs.

'Monsieur Leclair?'

'What you do to me.'

He strokes her face, pushing stray strands of hair out of her eyes. 'I am sorry I messed your hair.'

'Well, if we're going out somewhere posh, I need to do something with it anyway.'

'Ah,' he says.

He fastens his trousers and gets to his feet. Agnes retrieves her discarded underwear and follows him into the bedroom. Hanging up on the wardrobe door is a gown, midnight blue, velvet, fitted. Agnes opens her mouth in a gasp. 'Henri! What's that?'

'It's for you to wear,' he says. 'You like it?'

'But - what if it doesn't fit?'

He raises his eyebrows at her. 'You should put it on and see.'

He waits.

'Well, go on then!'

'Agnes, I have seen you naked.'

'I don't care. Go and wait in the other room.'

He laughs at her, and departs. She shuts the door firmly. In truth, whatever he does with his eyebrows, Agnes is looking at the narrow fitted waist of the gown and thinking it can't possibly fit. He has estimated her size, her shape, and he has imposed his fantasy woman onto her figure. She unbuttons her plain, functional workday dress and hangs it up - it has to last her the rest of the week - and lifts the velvet gown from its hanger. It feels heavy and deliciously soft. The buttons are at the back, velvet covered, small. She pulls it on over her head and the silk lining whispers over her skin like her lover's breath. She reaches behind to fasten as many buttons as she can reach.

In the mirror on the wardrobe door she looks at herself appraisingly. She pulls at the stray strands of her hairstyle and fixes them back into place. Pinches her cheeks to give them a bit of colour. It's hard to know what it is about the woman that looks back at her, wearing a gown that doesn't belong and yet looks incredible. Agnes does not feel herself. And she thinks that, maybe, that's exactly it: she is not a girl wearing this; she is a woman.

There is a sound from the door, a soft knock.

'Henri,' she calls. 'I need you to help.'

She does not look round but hears a small sound - approval? - when he comes in. He appears at her shoulder and she feels his fingers deftly fastening the remaining buttons. The neckline of the gown is low, daring, forming a perfect cupid's bow over her decolletage, making her neck look long and slender. Only when Henri bends his head to drop a kiss onto her bare shoulder does she think: it fits me perfectly.

He places a hand gently on the back of her neck. Only then does he meet her eyes in the mirror. 'You look beautiful,' he says. 'Stunning.'

—

An hour later, Henri and Agnes are in a cab driving through the crowded Paris streets. He has not told her where they are going, and Agnes is fidgeting beside him. He loves her excitement, that she wants to know and yet won't ask; he loves that she is wearing her everyday coat over the gown because he didn't think about how cold it would be this evening and that he would need to find her a fur as well as a gown. He loves that she doesn't even mind. They will discard her coat and his overcoat in the cloakroom and then it won't matter, she will dazzle the whole of Paris, the whole of France, wearing that dress.

He wishes he could have bought her a fur stole, at least. If he had only had the time…

She slips her gloved hand in his and gives it a squeeze. 'I can't believe this,' she says. 'I can't believe I'm going out in a gown, I feel like a proper lady!'

Henri laughs, 'Agnes, you are a lady, whatever you are wearing.'

The cab stops and Henri alights, helping Agnes down the step. She is concentrating on lifting the heavy skirt out of the way, stopping it catching in the door of the cab, worrying about the puddles. He pays the driver, and when he gets back to her she is looking up at the Paris Opera, her mouth open.

'Is this…?'

'I thought you might like it.'

'Is this where we're going?'

He slips her arm through his.

Agnes doesn't speak again until they take their seats. Not the finest seats in the house, far from it, but they were the best he could do at short notice. You'd never think the war was raging, just a few hundred miles away. Here, society iss carrying on regardless. Henri recognises some society faces in their boxes. The gowns are fabulous, the jewels are as much in evidence as they ever were. He has never found it distasteful but there is something unsettling about it nonetheless.

'I can't believe this,' Agnes whispers again. 'It's not at all like the Gaiety.'

Henri watches her face, enjoying her reactions to everything. He loves showing her new things, he always has.

'Is it - the one you had on your gramophone? Do you remember? The one with the students?'

'No,' he says. 'That was La Boheme. This one is called Madama Butterfly.'

'Madama Butterfly?' she turns to him. Her eyes are liquid, shining. 'What is it about?'

The orchestra is tuning up, everywhere people are talking, laughing. He wants to kiss her, badly, but of course he cannot.

'I have only heard this once before. The soprano - the main female character - is the finest opera singer in Japan.'

'She's come all the way from Japan?'

Henri nods. 'She is touring with this company all around the world.'

The lights dim and Agnes turns her attention to the orchestra, which has begun the prelude. He wants to watch the stage but he cannot take his eyes off her; her skin has a translucence, an unblemished smoothness that reminds him of the fine Oriental porcelain that his grandmother thought so precious. He can barely keep his fingers from her cheek. His gaze slips to the neckline of her gown, the perfect white skin, the slope of her breasts. Later, he will unfasten those buttons one by one and slip the gown from her body. He is aware that he left her without satisfaction this afternoon. He intends to redress the balance.

Agnes's mouth is slightly open, her bottom lip plump and moist, a glimpse of even, white teeth. Henri looks at her mouth, remembers what it did to him just a few hours ago. As she does so regularly, Agnes Towler took him completely by surprise. He is in awe of her.

At that moment she turns her head slightly, catches his eye. Smiles, widely enough to show him the dimples in her cheeks. His heart breaks, just a little.