Page 32 of A Sham Betrothal
“Mr. Arlington.”
They parted ways in a most amicable manner, and she hoped she might have helped him—and Zoé—to find their way through the intricacies of a courtship between two people who were as different as they were.
Now, if only someone would help her with her own.
The night of the opera,Sophie was dressed and waiting by the time Basile came for her. She was also resolved, having decided to do what was needed to keep up the appearances of a true betrothal while keeping her heart firmly intact. These past few days, she had lost her way, walking around like a lovesick girl, but now it was time to use the situation to her full advantage.
For it was advantageous to be engaged to a marquis, even if it was one she had no intention of marrying. It would give her status in Paris while she was here. And as much as it chafed, she had to admit she preferred to be under his mercy than Sheldon’s. He would see to it that she and her grandmother were safely returned to England and would not expect marriage as payment. That was an improvement.
Never mind that you wouldn’t exactly deplore being married to him, a small voice inside whispered.
But that was neither here nor there. Sheldon had to be utterly convinced she was out of his grasp until she was no longer under his mercy. When she was back in England, she could pursue her own life and disappear completely from his view. Such a thing was hardly possible while living next door to him. And she would find a way to pay both him and Basile back for any bills incurred on her behalf. She would have to! Forget a simple country life in the dower house that was hers. She would have to rent out her house and find a paid position in addition to supplement her small income in order to pay him back.
These were the rational thoughts she forced to parade through her mind as she readied herself for the evening. Jeannot had come to her aid once again with her coiffure. It was lovely, really, the way her features improved when there was height in the back with theboucleson the sides and the long curl placed artfully over her shoulder—the curl that Basile had toyed with and left her nearly faint.
So when the knock sounded on the door, Sophie was already standing in the corridor, giving a final adjustment to the laces over her gray stomacher. Her French corset cinched her waist in neatly and gave a beautifully feminine form with her paniers on either side adding volume. She had placed her own patch onto a powdered face. In Paris, she was learning of the necessity to appear modish. It would be better to go abouten naturethan to be considered sadly out of fashion.
The sight of Basile entering caused her breath to catch. He was still wearing the sober colors of court mourning, but his coat was embroidered with silver. And the silver hair powder he wore in complement stood in stark contrastto his dark blue eyes and the general strength in his features and bearing. He swept off his hat, extended his leg and bowed low.
“Behold in me, your eternal admirer,” he said, smiling.
Jeannot came into the corridor then and admonished him in familiar French to take proper care of Mademoiselle Sophie and see that she returned home without being overly fatigued.
Sophie smiled at her and turned to Basile, saying in English, “You needn’t waste your compliments on me when there is no one here to see.”
He leaned down to kiss Jeannot on the cheek, which she found charming in its familiarity, then turned to her. “Truth is never wasted. Are you ready?”
Sophie nodded and they went outdoors to his carriage. She had forgotten to ask him but quite thought Zoé and her family might be accompanying them that evening. After all, it was not as though they needed to talk about flirtation and coordinate their behavior toward one another as they had the last time. But the carriage was empty when he helped her into it.
Basile snapped the door shut and tapped on the roof with his cane as the horses darted forward.
“Who are we to sit with today?” Sophie asked him.
“We shall be in my opera box, and I’ve invited the Sainte-Croix family to join us there. I hope this meets with your approval?” He raised an eyebrow.
She tossed one of her shoulders. “Of course.”
It was odd. He was being flirtatious but was somehow colder than usual, and it troubled her. Perhaps he regretted everything—the engagement which she reminded herself was his own fault—the flirting, the stack of her bills. His reserve certainly seemed to indicate regret.
How had their lives become so entwined? For heaven’s sake, even his former nurse was residing at her house and caring for her grandmother. And he was in receipt of the entirety of her bills—Sheldon’s brief note told her as much. It was mortifying! She would have to find some way to pull back herself, to salvage her dignity.
They spoke little on the way to the opera, and when they arrived, she allowed him to help her out of the carriage as she stared up at the vast stone façade of the opera house. They followed the streams of people inside, and Sophie lifted her wide skirt as she navigated the stairs. When they arrived inside and were in the broad corridor, Sophie stopped dead in her tracks. There, on the other end of the hall talking to Sheldon, was Mrs. Betteridge. Sophie’s blood drained from her face. Her, of all people, here in France? That would destroy everything!
“Oh dear.” She lay a suddenly cold hand on Basile’s arm.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?” Basile looked down at her hand, then back up, catching sight of her expression. “Sophie, what is it?”
For a moment she was silent. It felt like the floor was falling in as her mind reeled. “Mrs. Betteridge has come to Paris.”
Basile continued to regard her, clearly unenlightened by her words, so she elaborated. “She is the woman who supposedly introduced us at theal frescopicnic in London, and now Sheldon is learning directly from her lips that she has no idea who you are.”
Chapter 15
Basile stared ahead at the disaster unfolding before him.Mais non—fichtre!The meeting they claimed to have had in London was about to be proven false, and the queen would surely findthatpiece out. He quickly tempered his alarm. It was merely a challenge. They would rise to it.
“Trust me, Sophie,” he murmured as the peacock moved forward with the Englishwoman of indeterminate age at his side.
“Sophie,” Mr. Cholmsley said. “Moe-syur,” he added with a cold bow toward Basile. “I believe you know our friend, Mrs. Betteridge?”
