He gave a laugh of disbelief at what he was hearing, but then her eyes narrowed, her pointed chin went up in that way he knew so well, and he appreciated that with every moment that passed, he was digging himself into a deeper hole. Her next words confirmed it.
“I want you to leave.”
“Like hell I will.” He took a step toward her, but her next words stopped him cold.
“Ritz is taking Marie-Louise and the children and moving to Paris next month. Escoffier and Echenard are going with him, and he wants me to come, too. He’s offered me the same post at his hotel there that I’ve had here.”
Cold fear closed around his heart like a fist. Bad enough that he couldn’t offer her the evidence to prove his side. But now, he’d also have the breadth of the English Channel between them to deal with?
He swallowed hard, trying to think past the sick knot in his gut. “Are you taking up his offer?”
Even as he asked the question, he was wondering how Cassie would feel about moving to Paris, and he was wishing, not for the first time, that he’d worked harder on learning proper French as a boy. It was beginning to look as if he might need it.
“Are you taking him up on his offer?” he asked again. “Please, at least tell me that.”
It seemed an eternity before she answered.
“I haven’t decided,” she said at last, and his relief was so great, he felt weak in the knees. “Many details have yet to be worked out. But either way,” she added before he could savor this minor victory, “it has nothing to do with you, since once you leave here, you and I will not be seeing each other again.”
If she had really decided against him, she’d have taken the job, pesky details about it notwithstanding. She was, whether she realized it herself or not, giving him a chance to regain her trust. But he also knew there was only one way to do it.
“If you think I’m giving up, Delia, you couldn’t be more wrong,” he said gently.
She walked to the door and opened it. “Goodbye, Simon.”
He followed her, pausing in the doorway to look at her one more time, to inhale again the luscious scent of her. “This isn’t goodbye,” he told her. “Because you love me, and I love you. And I refuse to believe that this one issue shall divide us forever. I want to marry you, and—”
“Marry?” she cut in with such vehement scorn it made him wince. “I see no reason to marry again, and if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be you. Why should I?”
He met her hostile gaze steadily. “Because I am the right man for you, Delia. I know it, and in proving it, I won’t let anything get in my way, not Ritz, not your god-awful late husbands, not even the damned English Channel.”
With that, he walked out, realizing exactly what he had to do, bracing himself to risk everything he’d spent his life working for, everything he’d fought to prove and protect, including his honor. He just hoped it would be enough.
19
Delia propped her elbow on the arm of the settee in her suite at the Bristol and rested her chin in her hand, staring disinterestedly through the doorway at her new maid, who was packing her trunks for Paris. Normally, a trip to Paris would fill her with delight, but not this time. Turning away, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Only midmorning, she thought with a sigh, and she already felt tired.
“What do you think of these, my lady?”
Delia opened her eyes and turned her head toward the bedroom where Bartlett was holding up two evening gowns.
“Leave the ciel-blue satin,” Delia told her. “I’m not going to any balls in Paris, so I won’t need a ball gown.”
“You might be invited to a ball, my lady. One never knows.”
“There won’t be time for such things. Ritz will have me working most of that time, if I know that man at all. No, put the satin back in the armoire. But pack the tangerine silk. I might have need of that. Marie-Louise may drag us off to some dinner party somewhere.”
The maid returned to the bedroom, and Delia once again leaned back and closed her eyes, overwhelmed by a weariness of spirit that was all too familiar.
The past few days had been utter hell. Stories about Ritz’s departure—and hers—from the Savoy had been the stuff of lurid speculation in every London paper. Interestingly enough, nothing about those absurd accusations of fraud had leaked out. Simon had assured her that would be the case, but given his duplicity during the past two months, she was hardly feeling inclined to be grateful.
During the past three days, her emotions had run the gamut—pain, love, and betrayal had all come and gone, leaving her now both spent and weary. She’d been here so many times before, and she was once again baffled at her own willful blindness when it came to men she loved.
Not surprisingly, such self-recrimination hadn’t helped boost her spirits. Nor had blaming Simon done much good, either. Her mood remained as bleak as a winter’s day.
For the second time, Ritz had come to her rescue. He’d told her he was taking his wife, Marie-Louise, and the children to Paris, and he thought she might like to come, too. Not only would she have the chance to see the progress made on the Paris hotel, she could pick which of the staff offices she preferred, hire a secretary, and start looking for an apartment. And, Ritz had added with his uncanny knack for knowing just what she needed, she might like to be away from London and the wild stories that were circulating in the press.
With happy relief, she had agreed. She’d hired a maid, notified her family, and written a carefully worded letter to Cassandra Hayden, explaining that something had come up and that she would not be able to launch her for her London debut, but promising to find someone willing to chaperone the girl in her stead.
