Page 1 of A Sham Betrothal
Chapter 1
July 1774
Paris, France
“Morbleu, but it’s hot.”
Basile Gervain, reluctant marquis of Verdelle, stood on rue Montorgeuil in Les Halles in front of thepâtisserieStohrer, whose wafts of emanating heat carried out the scent of fresh pastries. He was dressed elaborately—unlike the raiment he wore on his own estate—his light gray waistcoat embroidered with a black floral pattern peeping out from his dark gray silk coat. His unpowdered hair was tied in a queue under a black cocked hat, trimmed with a somber silk ribbon, and below his slim breeches, clocked stockings disappeared into buckled shoes with the scantest heel as was the fashion of the day.
To his left, his friend Grégoire St. Pierre stood beside a shop with a clanging bell on the vitrified doorthat sold jewelry to the bourgeois and more modest of the noble class. He was equally distinguished in appearance though more restrained in temperament. A man of few words, Grégoire dressed in as sober a fashion as his long-suffering valet would allow him, a muted style which suited his tall, lanky form.
“’Tis true,en effet.” Greg removed his hat and with it gently stirred the air next to his face before replacing it on his head.
They were waiting for their companion, theVicomtede Galladier, to purchase a token piece of jewelry, for he had fallen in love yet again, to their infinite amusement. Armand de Galladier was born with the soul of a poet and could not resist the call of a blushing face. Unfortunately, he was not gifted with address and had not the success one would expect of a titled man of comfortable means. No one could call him above ordinary in terms of looks, with a weak chin and eyes that had a tendency to bulge. His declarations of love had always carried a tinge of desperation that rather sparked flight in the females he set his eye upon than compelled them to turn a demure face his way.
As they were all three of them young in years, having only just entered their third decade, Basile had no doubt his friend would settle on a woman who was pleased to return his regard before they were in their dotage. For the moment, however, they were pleased to encourage his efforts with teasing and ribaldry.
Opposite to where they waited was apoissonnerie, and the strong smell of fish reached them and mingled with the more pleasant scent of the sweet wine-infusedbaba, the specialty of this particular pastry shop. If there was any mercy to be had on this hot day, it was that no rain had appeared in a fortnight, and the refuse and horse droppingson the street contributed only minimally to the mingled perfumes of Paris. Another reason Basile preferred his home in Champagne. His chef produced fine meals and pastries only slightly inferior to Stohrer, and the scents there were of wheat and grass and flowers. It smelledclean.
A couple passed in front of them whom Basile suspected were English. The gentleman had a profusion of lace pouring from his sleeves with heeled shoes that were more ornamented than was fashionable. The lady wore a spring greenrobe à l’anglaisewith an open skirt to reveal an underskirt embroidered in pink and silver silk threads. Her brown hair was lightly powdered in a similar tone and matched the color of her large eyes to perfection.
In general, Basile chose to allow the female sex to pass by unobserved. He had nearly become entrapped once, and the passage of time had only shown him how lucky was his escape. He much preferred sport and whatever games he might get up with his friends. But something about this English lady caught his attention, likely in the disparity between her queenly air and intelligent eyes and the stolid bulk and dull expression of her escort. Although she barely glanced at Basile, he had time to appreciate the sweet set of her lips, her aquiline nose, and those soft brown eyes.
As the couple entered Stohrer on his right, he swiveled to its entrance, wishing to confirm his hunch that they were indeed of the English race. Perhaps he and his friends might stop for a cup of coffee and aviennoiserieof some sort. It had been hours since they’d broken their fast, had it not? As he contemplated proposing it to his friend, a finicky English male voice reached him on the street through the open door of the bakery.
“I will have three of those pastries with the cream. You may wrap them for us. We will not be dining here.”
A beat of silence fell, and then: “Je suis désolée monsieur, mais je ne comprends rien à ce que vous dites.”
The corner of Basile’s lips turned up. Stohrer was famous enough to have an English clientele, and the tradeswoman behind the counter likely spoke a little of the language. However, there had been no courtesy of a “good day,” and unlike the Englishmen enlightened enough to speak French in a country of French-speakers, this one made no such attempt.
“I said,” came the voice, a notch louder and more shrill, “three, THREE of those. The CREAM.”
“Perhaps…” a gentle, womanly voice hinted.
“No, Sophie. It’s intolerable that they should not speak God’s own language. It’s those cakes I am asking for. Those ones RIGHT THERE.”
Basile listened to the tradeswoman repeat her avowal that she understood nothing, and he shook his head, his grin growing broader as the man repeated his request for the fourth time in a voice that ill hid his frustration. Basile peered into the shop where he spied the Englishman, red around the gills. To his right, the few patrons at the tables leaned in with whispers and muffled laughter.
The pretty Englishwoman stepped forward at last, and Basile managed to catch the low timbre of her words spoken firmly in nearly perfect French.
“Bonjour. Have the goodness to excuse the monsieur. It is not his fault if he is stupid. He would be pleased to take three of yourbabasif you would be so kind as to wrap them for us.”
She stepped back, and the tradeswoman smiled at her and nodded as she set the requested pastries in paper and wrapped them with twine. “Cela fera vingt et un sous.”
“The price is twenty-one sous,” the Englishwomanrepeated to her compatriot. Basile watched as her mask of English indifference shrouded the interesting show of character he had just been witness to when she spoke French.
She couldn’t be the man’s wife, or that was the greatest piece of audacity he had ever seen. To call him stupid before his face without his knowledge and with not so much as a flicker of her eyelids. It made him laugh to think of it. But the manwasstupid if he thought he could endear himself to the French this way. No, it appeared this woman was in need of a rescue from death by boredom at the hands of her tiresome chaperon.
Sophie. That was what the Englishimbécilehad called her.
“Regarde ça!”
Armand’s eager voice sounded at his side, and Basile reluctantly pulled his stare away from the charmingAnglaiseinside of Stohrer’s. In the vicomte’s hand was a garnet brooch with gold sprays springing from its jeweled center in all directions like spindly arms of a starfish.
“You spent a half hour in the shop and contented yourself with one brooch? You amaze me. I had been sure you would have purchased half the boutique,” Basile said with a lurking smile as he met Grégoire’s gaze.
“Well, you see, Apolline and I have only just met,” Armand said naïvely. “I should not wish to scare her off by too grand a gesture.”
