He felt as though the place was too small for him, too boring, too restrictive. Too much was expected of him, and they were all things he had no intention of doing. Social obligations, family responsibilities, learning about investments and holdings and trusts, and the things his father bought and sold which one day he would inherit. There was more to life than that, Charles had explained to Marielle as he ran long, gentle fingers through her silky cinnamon-colored hair, which hung long past her shoulders. She was a tall girl, but she was dwarfed next to him, and with him she felt delicate and frail and yet wonderfully protected.

He had lived in Paris for five years when they met, and it was obvious that he adored it. His life was there, his friends, his writing, his soul, his inspiration. But in September, she was due to sail home on the Paris. To the gentle life they had in store for her, to the men she would meet, and the girls who were her friends, and the small but elegant brownstone on East Sixty-second. In no way did it compare with the Delauney home, only ten blocks north, but it was respectable certainly…respectable…and very boring. In no way did it compare with his garret on the rue du Bac, rented to him by an impoverished noblewoman who owned the entire hotel particulier below it. Charles had taken Marielle there one day, and they had all but made love. But at the last moment, he had come to his senses, and left the room hastily for a few moments to compose himself. And when he returned with a serious air, he sat down next to her on the bed, as she tried to straighten her dress and regain her composure.

“I'm sorry…” His dark hair and fiery green eyes made him look even more dramatic, but there was an anguished air about him too, which always touched her. She had never known anyone even remotely like him, or done the things she suddenly wanted to do with him. She knew she was losing her head over him, but she couldn't help it.