Season of Light by Katharine McMahon Page B

beneath his hand. He smelt delectable; of hot damp flesh, coffee, of Paris. How astonishing that this great brave soul should be, at this moment, absorbed completely in Asa Ardleigh, so that as he kissed her, as his hand made soft, long strokes along her stomach, she felt almost sacrificial. This moment, this country, this body, all were Didier’s, and she made no resistance but gladly embraced the sharp pain of union, the shocking motion of flesh. His face was glistening with sweat, his eyes closed, and he was absorbed in some passionate, unstoppable race that was both animal, as he groaned and seized a handful of her hair, and spiritual, for when he opened his eyes he studied her with such mystified love that she curled her legs and arms round him and reached up to be kissed.
    For a while afterwards she lay beneath him, smiling, astonished at herself, grieving at his slow withdrawal. But then, as he lay with his mouth pressed to her throat, and she looked again at the cracked ceiling and the edge of the screen, and heard the clatter of the street, she felt corrosive flickers of guilt. What had she done? What would she say to Caroline? Philippa trusted her. She turned her face into Didier’s arm.
    ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘We will marry. I’ll find a way.’
    ‘Is that a proposal?’
    He laughed. ‘Of course. Mademoiselle Ardleigh, my wanton English girl, will you marry me?’
    ‘I will. Today.’
    ‘Today I am called to a meeting. Besides, I have not a penny to my name.’
    ‘I don’t mind. I could live here with you.’
    ‘Do you think I would allow that? This plain little room is not what I want for my wife. No. I wish to meet your father proudly and tell him I am a man of means and status. We’ll only have to wait a few months. That is all.’
    ‘What shall I tell my sister?’
    ‘Don’t tell her anything.’ He kissed her breast as his hand slid between her thighs and his beautiful fingers, so expressive and emphatic when he spoke, concentrated all their delicacy on her. ‘It would hardly be appropriate to tell her about this, I think.’
    All would be well: they would marry. No one need know about this lovemaking. He had tossed his creased shirt over the screen, which was painted green on the side facing the bed, brown on the other; there was a tarnished barley-twist candlestick on the table beside his pillow; the walls were lined with tottering heaps of books, many with pages uncut. His hands, his mouth, were caressing her body, so that at last she stopped listening to other clamorous voices in her head and followed his touch. As the blood began pounding in her veins she smelt, through the open window, the faint, herbal whiff of the monastery garden.
    ‘I can’t believe that you love me,’ she whispered, ‘of all the women in Paris. I’m not French, I’m not beautiful, I’m not Catholic.’
    They lay nose to nose, lip to lip. ‘Perhaps I love you because you are foreign, you are Protestant and your face is full of surprises.’
    ‘What kind of surprises?’
    ‘I look at you one moment, for instance now, and I think: no, she is not truly beautiful. Her hair is just an ordinary brown, her chin is too pronounced and her nose too small. And then I look again and I think: but she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen because of what I read in her eyes and because, when the light changes, when she turns her head, she is suddenly so lovely that my heart misses a beat. You are a distraction, Mademoiselle Ardleigh, you take up too much of my time and thoughts, and yes, I am obsessed by you.’
    ‘You should be warned that although my family is poor, it is very old. You would probably call me an aristocrat and hate me for my name, if I were French.’
    He kissed her shoulder and ear. ‘I care nothing for your family name. I care only for you, the way you are now. At home the question of love was so complicated. The women of Caen are hungry for change, but there’s