‘I doubt your mother will welcome you back when, to all intents and purposes, you spent the night here with me, before then travelling to England with me,’ Christian pointed out gently.
‘She is not my mother! Biologically, perhaps,’ Lisette conceded reluctantly as Christian raised surprised brows. ‘But I do not know her, had never even met her or knew of her existence until two months ago.’
‘That is...hard to believe,’ he murmured cautiously.
‘Why is it?’ Lisette stood up restlessly.
She now felt refreshed from her hours of sleep. Enough so that she had given thought to her present dilemma, and although she might accept that going to England with the Comte seemed the logical choice—the safest choice—for the moment, she could not think of remaining there. She was French, knew no other life than the one she had led with the Duprées, and briefly with Helene Rousseau here in Paris. One life was closed off to her, the other she had no wish to re-enter.
Even so, Lisette knew nothing of England or the English, apart from the fact they had been at war with France, under Napoleon’s rule, for so many years.
She gave a shake of her head. ‘I am sure I cannot be the first bastard child you have ever heard to have been fostered with strangers.’
‘Unfortunately not,’ he acknowledged tightly. ‘But it is usual for that child to be aware they are being fostered. And who their real mother is.’
Was Lisette imagining the question in Christian’s voice as he made that last comment? Did he doubt her claim of knowing nothing of Helene Rousseau’s existence until just weeks ago?
‘I assure you I did not,’ she answered him tartly. ‘Nor do I have any idea who my father is.’
‘Madame Rousseau has not confided in you?’
‘No.’ Lisette stood in front of the window, the slowly flowing Seine glittering like silver in the moonlight. ‘I am not sure I wish to know either, considering the...the type of man I know frequents the Fleur de Lis.’ She repressed a shudder of distaste at the thought of one of the loutish and lowly men she had encountered there these past few weeks being her father.
Christian could totally sympathise with this sentiment after his visit to that establishment the evening before.
‘Which brings me to another point, mon—Christian,’ she corrected at his frowning glance. ‘Whatever you may have assumed to the contrary, I am nothing like Helene Rousseau. I have not, nor do I intend to take a lover or series of lovers.’ Embarrassed colour glowed in her cheeks.
No doubt from thinking of the kisses the two of them had shared the night before. Far from innocent kisses, which could so easily have led to something deeper.
Christian’s mouth twisted into a smile. ‘I believe you will find I am somewhat...incapacitated, in any case, in that regard at present!’
‘I am glad you find me so amusing, Christian.’ She shot him an irritated glance for this show of levity. ‘But your wounds will eventually heal.’
‘You then expect I shall proposition you into agreeing to become my mistress?’ Christian was finding this conversation less and less amusing by the minute.
Her cheeks flushed prettily. ‘I can think of no other reason why you might take me to England with you.’
Christian wished that were the case! ‘And if I were to make you a promise that I shall attempt not to do so?’
She blinked. ‘Are you making me such a promise?’
Christian’s jaw tightened. ‘That I will promise not to attempt to do so, yes.’
She gave a typically Gallic sniff. ‘Then I suppose that will have to do. But I still maintain that you cannot seriously expect to be able to travel back to England tonight. You will need to rest for several more days before even contemplating such a journey.’
‘Whilst I have every confidence in François and my other employees here,’ Christian bit out, ‘I do not wish to put any of them in further danger by remaining in Paris longer than is necessary. I am well enough to travel to the ship later this evening,’ he continued as she would have spoken. ‘After which time I will retire to my cabin and, with your assistance, continue to rest for the remainder of the journey ho—to my estates in England.’ He inwardly cursed himself for almost slipping up and calling England ‘home’.
He knew he would have to reveal the truth of his identity before they docked in England. He had already sent on ahead for his ducal coach to be waiting for them at the quayside when they arrived. But, as he’d already decided, he would not do so until the ship was well under way and Lisette had no choice but to accompany him.