An Improbable Pairing Page 10

  “You’ve been away,” she said.

  “Yes. Marlyse, you know I can’t give you what you want. Our relationship is over. Let’s not make this difficult.”

  “It’s the countess, isn’t it? You’ve been with that woman.”

  “Yes.”

  She burst into tears, blotting her eyes as she ran down the steps and into the street. Scott didn’t follow after her. What was there to say? Better an abrupt truth than drawing out a lie.

  Still, he felt guilty for the way he’d hurt Marlyse. He’d never intended to lead her on—he hadn’t promised her anything, and they’d never discussed marriage. Yet now he understood that, once they’d been intimate, her religious beliefs and expectations surrounding sex had risen to a level he couldn’t meet. What if he had known in advance? Would it have changed the outcome? Perhaps. But Scott couldn’t undo the past, and there was no point in fretting over it; he had other things to worry about.

  From this point on, Scott had to assume his professors would be very conscious of his attendance, and they’d probably begun to wonder if he were serious about his studies. He groaned at how unprepared he was, how little he’d studied, and just how loathe he was to put in the time and effort to catch up. He was one question away from being humiliated, and he shuddered to think how much Marlyse and his classmates would enjoy that.

  Collecting the Porsche, Scott drove to his apartment; he needed a peaceful place to think. There, he sat on the sofa, looking ruefully at the pile of books and papers he’d abandoned days ago. How was he to manage school and Desirée? His graduate work was why he’d traveled to Geneva in the first place. The allowance his parents provided was to support his studies. And yet his mind, heart, and body were full of Desirée.

  Who could he turn to for advice? No easy answer emerged, and other than Jean, he had no close friends, confidants, or advisors to give counsel (and he knew what Jean would say). And, unlike Desirée, he did care about what others thought—especially two people: Edward and Sarah Stoddard. He couldn’t allow his parents to hear even a whisper of his relationship with the countess.

  His mind raced, sorting out the pertinent facts, wondering how to balance desire with responsibility and guard the secret of his affair. And then there was Desirée herself—she would do as she pleased. No need to wonder.

  The telephone rang, interrupting his thoughts. Glancing at his watch, he knew it would be his parents. Ever the sticklers on routine, they were calling late.

  “How’s school coming?” (Always his mother’s first question.) “Is it as hard as you thought it would be?” she asked. “Have you made any more friends?”

  “It’s quite difficult,” Scott said. “There’s a lot to read outside class, and, of course, it’s all in French.” Against his better judgment, he admitted, “I’ve met someone new.”

  “But what happened to Marlyse?”

  “She and I broke up a few weeks ago.”

  “Is this someone you met in one of your classes?” his mother asked.

  “No, she’s not a student. We met through a friend, on the ship coming over. She’s Swiss and French. She lives just outside of Geneva.”

  He could practically feel his mother’s frown. “Not a student? What does she do, then?”

  Scott knew this was an important question. His mother would want him to be connected to someone in pursuit of an appropriate goal. For the self-made Stoddards, idleness was abhorrent. He couldn’t say Desirée did nothing. “She’s involved in charitable work.”

  There was a whispered conference, and then his father was on the line. “This girl you’re seeing—she does charitable work? Is she a fundraiser, then?” his father asked.

  Scott silently gave thanks; Father had made it easy to say yes.

  “Well, we hope you remember why you’re in Europe. Your mother and I are glad you have some friends, but Son, don’t let anyone or anything interfere with your studies.”

  They would never run out of questions, but he had provided enough satisfactory answers that they let him go. Scott wearily hung up the phone. Why did he always need a drink after these chats? He was in the kitchen pouring a scotch when the phone rang again.

  “Do you miss me?” Desirée purred. “Why don’t I come into town tonight? We could have dinner.”

  “No, I need to study a little and . . . oh, to hell with it. What time?”

  “I’ll pick you up at half past seven.”

  He had surrendered. Had he even mounted any opposition? And this hadn’t even been a battle; in the grand scheme of social obligations, one dinner was more of a skirmish. For some reason, Scott couldn’t resist Desirée. Christ, he couldn’t resist himself. At half past seven, he was stationed in front of his apartment building, waiting, when the Mercedes stopped in front of him, Gustav at the wheel. As Scott got into the car, something caught his eye. Was that Marlyse, down the block, hiding in the shadows? But as soon as he was in the car, Desirée reached for him and thoughts of anything else fled as she murmured in his ear, “I love you, my darling.”

  He kissed her neck and mouth, obeying natural reflex, as if he hadn’t seen her in a week. Did Marlyse witness this embrace? He didn’t care.

  Desirée had made a reservation at Le Café Normand on Geneva’s right bank, which was known for its fresh fish. The interior was modern, all glass and chrome and leather installation—quite different from the bucolic seaside atmosphere suggested by the restaurant’s name. As usual, they were seated at one of the best tables, which meant that Desirée could see and, more importantly, be seen. They had just ordered a crisp St. Saphorin and pan-sautéed loup de mer when Scott’s friend Jean entered the restaurant with a coterie of friends. They spotted one another, and Jean immediately came to say hello.

  “Scott, do you remember me?” he said smiling. “It’s your old friend, Jean.” The last time the friends had crossed paths, Scott and Marlyse were just becoming a couple; in the days that followed, Scott had deserted Jean to spend time with her. Now, he was here with someone new.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t called,” Scott said. “I’m a bad friend.” When he introduced Desirée, Jean was graciousness itself. In a singular and practiced motion, he lifted Desirée’s hand and kissed it. Turning his head, he winked at Scott.

  Nothing escaped Desirée’s attention, especially if men were involved. “It seems you two have something to discuss,” Desirée said tartly. “Excuse me for a moment.” She left the friends alone, making her way to the powder room.

  Jean could hardly wait for her to be out of earshot. “The Countess de Rovere! Mon Dieu; are you dating her? Everyone wants to be with her. I’m jealous.”

  “We’re friends, good friends,” said Scott, hoping to end talk about his relationship with Desirée.

  But Jean’s interest couldn’t be deterred. He asked how they met and how long they’d known each other. And then more questions, all in rapid succession without waiting to hear Scott’s answers. Then he professed to understand why he hadn’t seen Scott in so long: “I’m jealous.”

  Though she’d played the game and given the two young men a chance to discuss the beautiful woman at the table, Scott didn’t want Desirée coming back and finding them talking about her. Hoping to hurry Jean on his way, he said, “Here she comes.”

  “But you’re not telling me—” Desirée’s return cut Jean short. “It was so nice to meet one of Scott’s friends,” she said. As she took her seat, Desirée subtly indicated that Scott’s friend had been dismissed; Jean realized his time was up and that he needed to rejoin his own party. He hadn’t gotten all the answers nor asked all the questions he wanted. Undoubtedly, he was shocked to find Scott with Desirée. The older, more sophisticated Frenchman was not accustomed to being upstaged by a protégé; normally, Jean was the one who had the beautiful woman on his arm. Scott knew Jean’s third degree was not complete and that he could expect a call from Jean in the not-too-distant future.

  “Now, tell me; why is your friend unhappy with you, my
prince?”

  “He’s not really unhappy. He’s just teasing me.” He told her the story about how a one-hundred-franc note had introduced him to Jean and how helpful he’d been when Scott first arrived. They were best friends; Jean showed him the real Paris, the Parisians’ Paris. But recently, circumstances had caused them to drift apart.

  “He asked about me, didn’t he?” Desirée said with a knowing smile. When Scott nodded yes, she asked, “And what did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t tell him much. He talked more than I did. But don’t worry; he will call me, and soon.”

  Dinner over, Gustav drove them back to Scott’s apartment in the old town. Desirée wanted to come up, just for a minute, to see where her darling lived. He held her off, protesting that he needed to be more prepared for her visit. And he had to study. Unexpectedly, she relented, and Scott was relieved; he knew what would likely ensue if she made it up to his apartment.

  The next evening, he waited for her in the lobby of Le Gentilhomme, the restaurant at the Hotel Richemont, which was often frequented by the diplomatic corps and visiting royals. It wasn’t long before the Mercedes arrived, the doorman greeted her, and Desirée swept up the steps; as soon as she exited the revolving door, Scott was by her side.

  Joy was a permanent part of her countenance, and it was infectious. Scott kissed her on both cheeks and held her an extra moment as they embraced. She shed her coat, a full-length Russian snow leopard, revealing a cobalt blue sheath with exaggerated shoulders and pencil waist. Her impossibly high heels clicked against the marble floor as they were guided to their table.

  “How did it go with your mother today?” Scott asked.

  “Like a session of the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “I don’t see any bruises from the rack.”

  “Her methods don’t leave visible marks.”

  “You may not be hungry.”

  “I’m starved,” she said, perusing the menu. “Who could eat lunch while trying to answer all her questions?”

  “If it was such an ordeal and you don’t enjoy spending time with her, why did you go to lunch with your mother?”

  “For the same reasons I go to church. I must.”

  Desirée and her mother had thrust and parried over generalities for the first part of their duel, but then the clever matriarch turned the conversation to the rumor that a young American—a much younger American—had been seen more than once with her daughter.

  “What did you say?” Scott asked.

  “Why, naturally, I told her I was in love. I told you; I see no need to sneak around.”

  “I should say you don’t,” Scott said wryly. Taking a sip of his martini, he quipped, “And if you’re interested, I hear The International Herald Tribune has a special on rates. You could take out a full-page ad.”

  “Oh, my darling—you are so funny. I wish you could have seen her face. Of course, Maman knows she can disapprove, she can fume, and she can fuss—and I’ll listen politely. But in the end, she knows I do what I want.” Leaning across the table, she took Scott’s hand in both of hers. “You’re what I want.”

  “You are what I want. Well, I’m glad that’s cleared up. As long as we’re on the subject, what are your mother’s main objections to me?”

  “They’re not important. My mother wants me all to herself; she doesn’t like to share.”

  “Nor do I,” Scott said. “I want you all to myself.”

  nineteen

  IT WAS BACK TO GSTAAD THAT THURSDAY. SCOTT AND Desirée stopped for dinner at a local favorite, Sonnenhof, a quiet gourmet restaurant in the center of the village whose wood beams and cozy booths with comfortable lounge pillows kept regulars coming back, year after year.

  Bathed in the warm glow of several fireplaces, Desirée leaned into Scott’s side. They settled into a homey meal (venison steak, red cabbage, and spaetzle, a soft egg noodle specialty of German-speaking Switzerland) and a full-bodied red. Scott savored the food and Desirée’s softness next to him.

  The next morning, they strolled through the main shopping street of Gstaad, stopping at Maison Lorenz Bach. The luxury boutique had been around for years, offering discerning men and women an array of luxury goods: sweaters, jackets, scarfs and shawls, Hermes ties, a limited collection of furs, and a boutique jewelry department featuring Buccellati (Desirée was a fan of the Italian jeweler’s cocktail rings). The staff welcomed Desirée with such effusiveness she had to be an important customer. Introducing Scott as her friend, she informed the clerk that she wanted to purchase a bow tie for his tuxedo—a nice black silk one, preferably grosgrain. The selection made, she then inquired about cuff links.

  The clerk pointed to a jewelry case containing multiple sets of sophisticated cuff links and studs, and there was one set that drew Desirée’s attention. Two small disks of blue lapis lazuli, with diamonds set on the outside edge, and a small gold chain: one disk became the button on one side of the cuff, the second disk on the other. They were elegant and obviously expensive.

  “We’ll take those, too,” Desirée commanded. “Please add them to my bill and have them wrapped. It is Mr. Stoddard’s birthday.”

  Scott started to protest, but she signaled him not to embarrass her. He waited until they were outside and a few steps away from the shop. “I can’t let you do that.”

  “And why not?”

  “The expense makes me uncomfortable. You know I can’t afford these things.”

  “My darling, don’t be provincial. Must we do only the things you can afford? Or will you be sensible and learn to enjoy the things that I can afford?” Nothing could cut him to the core so much as being labeled provincial. A little pond and small minds—the very thing he’d hoped to escape by leaving his parents and Charleston.

  Could he learn to enjoy her paying his way? Time after time, Desirée had treated him. Dinners, hotels, drinks, and now clothes and jewelry. Aren’t there ugly names for men who allow women to pay? Scott cringed at how provincial that thought was. He couldn’t keep up with her financially (he was a student on an allowance—a generous one, but still, an allowance—and she had family money and had married into nobility) or match her sophistication (she was older, well traveled, fashionable, worldly in a way the young American could never grasp). But Scott thought he acquitted himself rather well in other areas: native intelligence, academic knowledge, and the bedroom. Yes, she was French and had had other lovers, but he knew she appreciated his abandon and stamina in the lovemaking department. They were good together, and they both knew it.

  These imbalances were aspects of their relationship that Scott had to resolve before they went much further—assuming he could turn off this passion if he wanted to. He was in love; she was in love. What future could they possibly have? And how much of that future was his decision? He didn’t sense any leverage where Desirée was concerned. Had he given up all power when she financed his keep? She was a countess and had been married to a powerful man; it was unlikely she was looking for liaisons with powerful men again. Scott was sure that part of his appeal was just how much power she could wield over him.

  Sooner or later, he returned to the one question that continually gnawed at him: how was he going to succeed in a very difficult field of study at the university and be available to Desirée? His parents had afforded him the opportunity to go to school in Europe, but the agreed-upon quid pro quo was that studies came first. How could he ever justify giving precedence to the countess’s extensive social calendar? If he managed to somehow successfully complete his degree, how would Desirée react to a lover with a career? How likely was it that any position in international business would allow the kind of freedom that being Desirée’s companion would demand?

  As he dressed for the ball, the glittering cuff links with their chains reminded Scott that gifts often came with a price.

  THE SLEIGH BALL AT THE PALACE WAS ONE OF GSTAAD SOCIety’s premiere events of the season. While some attendees, having flown in for the event itself, were s
taying at the hotel, others streamed in from various surrounding chalets and villas. Everyone gathered for pre-dinner cocktails in the great hall, which had been cleared for the evening of the Palace’s usual hoi polloi. Champagne flowed, and canapés were passed continuously to keep the revelers’ spirits high and their appetites whetted for what was to come.

  The Palace’s palatial ballroom was the scene following cocktail hour, and the elegantly attired guests took their seats with anticipation. The multicourse dinner featured foie gras de Strasbourg, roast duck from the Dordogne, various cheeses, and a floating island dessert. The best white burgundies and full-bodied reds from Bordeaux complemented each course. Over three hours, conversation flowed while waiters served and poured.

  Music filled the ballroom, which had been transformed into a winter scene. The effect was of a quaint village in the Alps. Between courses, there was dancing; two bands, one traditional and one playing current pop music, alternated without break, so everyone wanting to take a turn on the floor had the right tune.

  Couples (mostly married, if not exclusive) and singles (some on the prowl) filled the tables and dance floors. There were probably a hundred and fifty people, and the fashion show they presented was tres chic. J. Mendel furs, jewelry from Harry Winston, and family heirloom jewels (retrieved, Scott guessed by the size and quality of stones, from bank vaults) adorned many of the perfectly coiffed women, who furtively evaluated and compared one another’s couture gowns from the corner of their eyes.

  Scott, like the other men, was smartly outfitted in black tie. He was a handsome complement to Desirée. Dressed in a spectacular Christian Dior gown of winter white, her curves were fully and provocatively on display; a side slit ascended suggestively up one smooth leg. As Desirée moved, greeting friends and numerous admirers, the light caught the diamonds on her choker, earrings, and jewel-encrusted bodice of her dress. She could not have been more radiant.