Pru rolled her eyes.
“What’s more,” Pru said. “Tonight you took me to a gay-themed play. Are you trying to tell me something, Lord Winton? Don’t be shy. This is the seventies. You no longer have to hide your true feelings. It’d probably make you more interesting to the general population in any case.”
She tried to walk on, but for once Win refused to let a pointed comment go ignored.
“Pru,” he said and grabbed her arm.
He pulled her back around.
“I’m not gay,” he said with more earnest than necessary.
“I’m only kidding—”
“It’d be easier in some respects. My family would hate it but at least they’d be able to more easily pinpoint their dissatisfaction. Alas, men are selfish, hideous, hairy creatures and it’d be terrifying to crawl into bed with such a monster.”
“Hmm, you are a monster, yes,” Pru said. “Honestly, though? I sort of wish you were.”
She tried to smile, though her eyes were too forlorn to pull off the cheer.
“What do you mean?” Win asked, already regretting the question.
“Well, for one, it would explain why you seem to enjoy my company while summarily rejecting my romantic advances.”
“Sounds like you’ve caught the batshit insanity bug from Lady M.,” he tried.
“I’m struggling to not take this personally,” Pru said as her mouth began to quiver. “I’m putting everything into brushing off what happened, or didn’t happen. I don’t want to be some tiresome girl boring you to death with my insecurities, but you have to understand…”
“Pru.”
“What?”
“Just … Pru…”
“You can’t keep doing this—”
Then suddenly, to his great surprise, and especially to hers, Win leaned forward and kissed her. He felt her gasp as their lips met.
It was a simple kiss, a sweet one, but Win thought that if he never had another in his lifetime, this one would suffice. Pru’s kiss was enough to carry him through the next ten thousand tomorrows.
Later, Win would remember this feeling and think maybe he turned it into his very own curse. One kiss. One chance. Perhaps the mere thought cemented their fate, launching Pru out of his grasp completely and forever.
Seventy-two
?LE SAINT-LOUIS
PARIS
MARCH 1973
When the kiss ended, Win wrapped both arms around Pru’s waist, replacing one contact with another, afraid to let go. The press of her body against his was almost too much to bear, even though their coats remained a barrier between them.
Without a word or even much thought, Win grabbed Pru’s hand, a tad gruffly, and led her off the bridge.
Control yourself, Win thought at the time, no proper woman wants her clothes ripped off in the middle of Paris.
Good thing it was so damned cold.
After crossing the bridge, they hurried along the quay, Pru too bewildered to speak. Win checked his watch. It was just after midnight. Would Jamie be awake? Fifty-fifty odds.
As for the duchess, she was probably gallivanting throughout the city. They’d already contemplated whether Mrs. Spencer might’ve chucked the biography idea altogether to instead reel out her days re-creating her former Parisian salons. The notion, it wasn’t half bad. Win was close to chucking the story, too.
When Win and Pru arrived in front of his building, they looked up together, searching for lights in windows, evidence of life. Win allowed himself to look at her then. With Pru’s eyes lifted heavenward and the moon illuminating her cheeks, Win found he couldn’t hold back a heartbeat longer. He grabbed Pru’s chin and turned her face toward his.
Then he kissed her. Harder this time, and Pru kissed back, no hesitation on her lips.
Still soundless, they made their way inside the building and up the marble staircase. Their legs felt shaky, anemic. The top floor seemed miles away.
Inside the apartment, all was calm, the only light from the hallway, the only sound the hum-tick of the old refrigerator. Win laughed in relief.
“Thank God,” Pru said, knowing his thoughts exactly.
Thank God. They were the first words spoken since their kiss.
In a flurry, they ditched their coats, their gloves, their scarves, and stumbled toward the back of the flat. Though they were still fully clothed, they felt almost naked, their top layers having been shed.
On that night Pru wore a long dress. It was semisheer and dotted with pinpoint flowers, the whole getup cinched around the waist with a belt of string she called “macramé.” The outfit was not appropriate for winter or, really, for any season in Paris. She was Win’s misplaced California girl and he loved her all the more for it.
“Stop,” he said as she removed her belt. “Stop.” His voice softened. “I want to see you like that.”