Page 3 of A Sham Betrothal
He accepted Greg’s arm who had moved forward placidly while Armand made an unsuccessful attempt to put Basile to the blush about having fallen in love at last. The three of them moved at their own rhythm, and shopkeepers and crowds alike stepped aside to make room, even when a line of carriages tightened the space and forced the crowd against the building’s façade.
Amuse myself.Basile pondered the idea. It had been some time since he had flirted with an Englishwoman. They were so proper, and it was entertaining to coax them out of their reticence.
Something tells me I will.
Chapter 2
Sophie bore with Sheldon’s diatribe on the impertinence of the entire French race on the way back to their lodgings. She had not thought it a considerable distance when they had decided to walk to the other bank of the Seine to try this notablepâtisserie,but she had not crossed three streets before she wished him elsewhere.
Hm!What was the name of the attractive Frenchman, again? M. Basile Germain? No—Gervain. Of course it would be astonishing if she’d had any wits to spare after the way he singled her out with those clear blue eyes that seemed to stare straight into a person. His eyes were as blue as the waters of Cornwall. Whatever had possessed him to addressherlike that? She, who must be considered a nobody in Paris where she had no connections. He had spoken of rescuing her in that teasing way of his. Had he heard her irreverent slip of the tongue when referring to Sheldon as stupid, which she shouldnothave done? It was ill-bred of her, she knew.
A lady never reveals her true feelings and never allows hercomposure to slip for an instant.Her governess might have left the post two years prior, but her oft-repeated words were firmly embedded in Sophie’s conscience.
“I hope you are not thinking of attending that card party the foreigner spoke of.” Sheldon’s sudden switch from cataloging the peculiar manners of the French to his direct interrogation regarding this one in particular pierced her mental wanderings.
“If my grandmother wishes to attend, I will, of course, accompany her.” This was the safest reply.
“You are not likely to receive an invitation,” was his sure retort. “The event is tomorrow night, and this Madame Duby-something does not know us.”
“Basile is a marquis.” Sophie’s outward shrug hid her private amusement at owning to the stranger’s intimacy as though it were real. “He will likely achieve what he desires.”
“You never mentioned having any acquaintances in Paris when we planned this trip.” They crossed in front of the imposing edifice of St. Eustache church just as the bells began to ring, their deep clangs chiming from the belfry.
His tone had turned petulant the way it did whenever he felt himself thwarted. Sheldon Cholmsley had an unaccountably high opinion of his own worth and could not imagine that someone might not be in perfect accord with him on all points. He had always been a familiar figure in their house as a favorite of her father’s, and she knew her grandmother was beholden to him for escorting them to Paris. If only her grandmother did not frequently cause Sophie’s throat to close by encouraging amatch, she might be able to laugh off his inflated self-importance. As it was, their nearly week-long travel together to reach Paris had only served to convince Sophie that she would not—couldnot—choose a life yoked to this man, even compared to one that bordered on destitution.
“To own the truth,” Sophie answered at last, “he left London shortly after our acquaintance, and I understood he was headed for Scotland, so I did not look for him here.”
If this conversation were to continue, it would tax Sophie's imagination. It was harmless, really. The marquis had tossed a ball her way in a game she did not understand, and she was merely tossing it on. Something was needed to make the summer heat and Sheldon Cholmsley more bearable.
Mercifully, their conversation drifted to safer ground, and when they finally reached their lodgings, Sophie was relieved to bid him farewell. She assured him her grandmother must still be resting and that it was not opportune to prolong their time together. She entered their rented rooms, situated on the ground floor of the terraced house. It was not as large as the one next door that Sheldon was occupying, but she found it vastly more charming. The cool air greeted her as soon as she stepped out of the sun into the dim entryway. She untied her flatbergèrestraw hat and set it on the caned chair near the entrance.
“Grandmama?”
Her voice echoed, and she heard a rustling movement from the bedroom on the far end of the house. The wooden soles of her shoes sounded on the stone floor as she traversed the corridor, her eyes on the picturesque garden visible through the glass door at the far end. She turned from the corridor to one of the bedrooms, where her grandmother was resting. Mrs. Twisden, typically indomitable despite her advanced age, portrayed a wilted appearance as she sat in the armchair. She greeted her granddaughter with a faint smile.
“Are you better for having rested?” Sophie sat on the side of her grandmother’s bed nearest to the chair, her green skirt spilling out on either side of her. She lifted one of the two packages she had collected from Sheldon. “And despite your assurance that you wished for nothing, I knew as soon as I laid eyes on thebabasthat I could not return home without one for you.”
“Bring that round table here,” her grandmother said, her eyes on the wrapped package. “And see if Mary has returned from her attempt to buy provisions. She went out to try to purchase a few things, although she said they would not understand one word she spoke, nor she them.”
Sophie set the two wrapped pastries on the bed—their accommodations might be charming, but they were small—and dragged the three-legged table over in front of her grandmother. Then she placed the two packages on top of it and tweaked the ribbon.
“I don’t believe Mary has returned, for there was no noise coming from the kitchen. However, I know just as well as she does how to heat water, provided the fire is still burning. I shall fetch us some tea and plates.”
Sophie did not wait for her grandmother’s reply, but went into the kitchen, where she easily brought water to a boil and set out the tea things as the sounds of Mary’s arrival reached her.
“Oh miss, let me help you with that.” The maid set down her bundle of purchases, including vegetables and a chicken in need of plucking, continuing in a pleasant monologue about how the French were not so bad in their own way. One only had to point to things and they understood each other very well.
Sophie contributed her mite, thinking with wry amusement that Mary had fared better than Sheldon in thatregard. But then, she supposed it really had to do with one’s decision to make the attempt. That and a jot of humility.
Mary lifted the tray of tea and brought it into the bedroom, clucking over Sophie’s persistence in bringing a third plate for her to try the French cake. She could not have persuaded Sheldon to waste his sous on a pastry that would be “cast away on a mere servant” but then neither she nor her grandmother ate so much they would be reluctant to share. The only thing Mary did insist upon was to enjoy her tea and pastry in the kitchen so she might think about how she would set up her domain for the three months they were to remain in Paris.
When it was just the two of them, Sophie recounted her walk with Sheldon, detailing where they had been and what they had seen, with her grandmother interrupting the recital with recollections and questions. She neatly left out all mention of striking up conversations with strange men, no matter how charming the man was.
“Sheldon does not appear to be any nearer to desiring to learn the French language than when we first set foot on the shores of Calais,” Sophie observed with a smirk that she hid in her teacup. “He practically yelled at the tradeswoman in Stohrer, hoping that an increase in the volume of his voice might bring about her sudden fluency in the English tongue.”
Her grandmother set her spoon down and allowed a contented smile to settle on her face as she savored the cake. But she had not missed the censure in Sophie’s tone.
“I must say, this is as delicious as I had remembered it. Sophie, I am well aware that you view the notion of marriage to Sheldon Cholmsley with less than enthusiasm, but I hope you will consider the matter wisely.”
