Page 30 of A Sham Betrothal
As he bowed deeply before Mrs. Twisden, he noticed that she looked as though she had been brought back from death’s door, although wild dogs could not have dragged the truth from him. Whatever color her fever must havelent her had given way to a pasty complexion that held a yellowish tint. Her hair was done neatly but her dress hung from her slim frame, and she trembled as he released the hand he had taken when he bowed.
“Your servant, Madame Twisden,” he said. “You are looking the picture of health, I am pleased to see.”
“You are a flatterer, but I would prefer that over the truth at the moment. Please sit.” Her smile was severe and her voice frail as she gestured to the chair, showing how much the visit cost her. Sophie was seated on the edge of hers as though ready to leap up should her grandmother need her. But Mrs. Twisden was still an admirable old woman despite her infirmity. It gave him a glimpse of where Sophie had her character.
“Tell me about this betrothal of yours,” Mrs. Twisden said. They all looked up as Mary brought a tray of tea and cakes in.
Sophie met his eyes, and he saw the twinkle of humor in her gaze. Let him answer this how he might. She had never told him whether or not she had admitted to the truth about their meeting or whether she had said they’d met in England.
“I believe it was love at first sight,” he said, seeking Sophie’s eyes once again. When their eyes met, something in his chest expanded. It was a moment before he pulled his regard away. “It has not been a long acquaintance—I am sure you must know that. But I could see at once that Sophie was a remarkable woman.”
Now his eyes were fully on the elderly Mrs. Twisden as he elaborated on his supposed fiancée’s qualities—a fiancée who somehow felt more fitted to the role the longer he spoke. “She is courageous and quick-thinking. She speaks French beautifully, and I can easily picture herleading society from our drawing room. I shall not allow myself to be carried away with talk of her beauty, but leave that for her ears alone.”
Sophie poured tea for her grandmother and then for him. When she handed the cup to him, he saw a slight wobble to her fingers, and he sought her eyes again, but she evaded his look. There was heightened color in her cheeks.
His words had been too strong—he had suspected as much. And what was he doing? He had not planned on saying any of that when he’d arrived in the sitting room. He had been trying to reassure her grandmother, and thus support Sophie. Instead, he made theirs sound as though it were the greatest love match of the century. He sipped his tea, which was too hot, and set the cup down abruptly. The urbane manners he had perfected were nowhere to be found.
“So you both plan to live in France, I suppose,” Mrs. Twisden said. “It makes sense. You cannot easily be a marquis and care for your land from England.”
Sophie remained obstinately silent, and he could guess the reason. It was up to him to carry the conversation since he had plunged them into this imbroglio. “Do you mind it?”
Mrs. Twisden had not picked up her tea, and he wondered if she had the strength to do so. He remembered Sophie’s request that he not overstay his welcome.
“I do not. I spent many good years in Paris. I think she will be quite happy here.” She looked up at him with an endearing mixture of pleading and mischief. “I only wonder if you would have room in your house for an old woman?”
Sophie looked at him now, her eyes wide with alarm. This engagement would take on a frightening proportion were he to promise her grandmother she might reside withhim. That was an obligation from which he could not easily extricate himself—not without being a cur.
“I do not know of any old woman,” he said, smiling, “only one who has retained all her charm.” Flattery yes, but also stalling for time. “But I can promise you that anywhere Sophie is, her grandmother will be welcome.”
There. He had answered without an outright falsehood, nor an outright promise. His eyes sought out Sophie’s, wondering if she was satisfied with his response. She smiled. She was satisfied. But then, she broke his gaze rather quickly and dropped hers to her teacup. So perhaps not so satisfied.
It was all rather impossible, wasn’t it? How to disentangle oneself from such a mess?
Chapter 14
After Basile intimated he would be taking his leave, Sophie said she would walk him to the door with an irrational desire to prolong their time together. She wished she could sit outside with him in the garden—for the day was warm but not overly hot, and there was a gentle breeze. But that would be a piece of folly. It was imperative she think rationally, especially when they seemed to be falling more deeply into their farce with time. Feelings would only complicate the matter. And yet, whenever she sat beside him, her reason seemed to evaporate like her breath in his nearness. It was as though the very particles of air that flew around them ceased in their orbit.
And never mind that when he spoke such flattering words, she could no longer remember that they had decided to pretend their engagement to the world at large. A small part of her wondered—couldn’t help but wonder—if he’d meant anything of what he said. His words sounded so sincere, and she didn’t take him for a liar.
These thoughts raced through her mind as she led him those few steps to the corridor and then the front door. Shewaved Mary away and opened the door herself. Instead of leaving, Basile paused at the threshold.
“That was more difficult than I thought it would be, but I believe we pulled through it rather well, don’t you?” Basile said.
What did he expect her to say? How could she tell her grandmother now that she would not be marrying him? Mrs. Twisden had invited herself to live with him! Sophie knew her grandmother had her own house and enough of an income to keep herself with a small degree of comfort. But perhaps the life she had so long been used to was nothing to what she would have if she moved back to Paris and lived in the style of a marquis. This life was more in line with what she’d had when she was young before marrying Sophie’s grandfather. Ah, but it was complicated.
“Sophie?” Basile prodded when she didn’t reply.
“Yes.” She stared at him, still thinking, still lost. “Yes, I think you handled that well.”
He remained in place, his eyes searching hers. “I hope you will join me at the opera this week?” When she was silent still, he added, “It would be good for us to be seen together, for I have it on good authority that some of the queen’s courtiers will be there, and I believe they will wish to regale her with interesting news. It seems you and I are the diversion of the moment.”
His tone was light, but she could not match it and merely nodded. “I will join you there.”
After another moment’s hesitation, Basile took leave of her, and Sophie returned to the drawing room to help her grandmother. Jeannot had come in from the garden where she had been cutting herbs, expressing that she was sorry to have missed the marquis as she helped Mrs. Twisden to her feet.
“Grandmama, will you rest now?”
Her grandmother spared only a brief smile, for she appeared to have grown fatigued from the short visit. As Jeannot supported her arm, she stopped and lifted her hand to pat Sophie’s cheek.
