Page 34 of A Sham Betrothal
She turned her eyes forward, and having that forthright gaze withdrawn left him reeling. Then, before he could collect his wits, she brought her left hand over and skimmed her hand along his coat sleeve. Slowly, she traced her fingers down the length of his arm until she had reached his bare hand. He swallowed.
“This is a fine coat. So unlike our English ones. Simple, and no lace dripping from the sleeves. How do you call this in French?”
“It’s ajustaucorp.” His voice was thready, which only served to irritate him. He was the one who was supposed to be flirting.
“Just-au-corp. I see. It hugs the body, is that it? I did not know this word.” The touch of her fingers was back, trailing a line down his sleeve, but this time he grabbed her hand and held it in a viselike grip.
“Mademoiselle Twisden, what are you doing?”
She turned wide, innocent eyes to him—eyes that held a glint nonetheless—before she leaned in to murmur, “Why, I am only assisting you in your performance, Monsieur le Marquis. We have Madame Bordenave, Mr. Cholmsley, and Mrs. Betteridge to convince, and now apparently the queen, as well. If all the flirtation comes from you, how can anyone know if your mad passion is returned?”
He set his mouth in a thin line. “I do not believe youneed to do more than receive my overt displays of affection.”
“Oh.” Her mouth formed a perfect circle, puckering a set of pink, luscious lips as her eyes came to rest on his mouth, but she did not move away. Instead she batted her eyelashes once and lifted her eyes to his. “Are you uncomfortable being on the receiving end of my overtures when it is all merely a farce?”
She kept her face close, her eyes never leaving his. Around them, the second act had begun, which was the tragic opera. Their voices filled the theater and seemed to vibrate even within him. Tucked back in the shadows of the box, he had the sensation of being shrouded from the rest of the opera-goers. They were in a world of their own making. In front of them, Charles leaned in to whisper in Zoé’s ear, and in front, Madame Sainte-Croix and her daughter both listened to the opera in apparent rapture. Basile slipped the fan from Sophie’s grasp and opened it fully to shield them from the audience. He then leaned in and saw a jolt of shock in the gleam of her eyes as he closed the distance between them.
He had meant to tease, had meant to give her a taste of her own medicine. But now that he had drawn so near to her, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. The pull was too potent to resist, and he touched his lips to hers. She froze.
He intended to do no more, but when she still had not moved, he became filled with the awareness of her scent and the softness of her lips as the sounds ofOrphée et Euridiceenveloped them in the booming melody of Gluck’s tragic opera. So, he did more than just touch her lips. He kissed her. Then he felt her come to life and lost himself in the sensation of her kissing him back.
“Euridice—” The castrato’s voice rang out above the choir, and Basile’s head spun as his center of gravity seemed to fall away.
He pulled back, and Sophie ducked her head, retiring into her seat and bringing a draft of cold air where she had been. His head buzzed, his heart still pounding from the forbidden taste of her lips. He should not have done that, should not have given into the temptation.
Basile snapped her fan shut and handed it back to her, then rubbed his chin in his hand. Only then did he gather the courage to look up at the audience to see if they had been observed. He had not intended to kiss her. That was going beyond flirtation. It would provide more proof than they needed to validate their engagement—more than was wanted, for it would be hard to pull back from.
Sophie’s head was still down, but Basile glanced around the opera and saw the satisfied expression of de Vaudreuil and the furious expression of Cholmsley.
Parbleu!The queen would surely hear of it now.
Chapter 16
Sophie sat on the stone bench in the garden, immobile, removed from her surroundings, reliving every minute of what had transpired at the opera the night before. She thought about her sudden decision to flirt with Basile the way he had done with her. It had certainly been a bold move. She had wanted to prove a point to the marquis, had wanted him to feel a fraction of what she felt when he touched her in such a way or placed the weight of his regard on her. And hehadfelt it as she had, of that she was sure, for it had led him to kiss her. When her mind came to rest on the moment his lips pressed onto hers, time came to a standstill. He would never have done that if she hadn’t flirted. Despite that, she could not be sorry.
“Your grandmother is much improved.” Jeannot had come to find her in the garden. Sophie had not heard her approach. “She is reading in the sitting room and did not even need a rest after lunch.”
“It is good news.” The weight of Sophie’s thoughts made casual speech difficult.
The nurse busied herself, pulling some errant weeds and cutting stems of thyme that she had been using to maketisanesfor Mrs. Twisden that helped with the cough.
“I think my presence is no longerimperative, mademoiselle,” the nurse said. “I think tomorrow I will leave. It is good timing,je l’avoue, for Madame Thérèse is coming from Tours before her confinement makes such a visit impossible. I will go see to her.”
“Yes, of course,” Sophie said, pulled at last out of her reverie by the news. They had been lucky to have the nurse for as long as they had. Sophie stood and took Jeannot’s strong hand in hers. “I do not know how I can thank you for your kindness to us.”
The nurse patted Sophie’s arm with the strength of someone much younger. “C’est naturel. Until I am called upon to care for yourenfantwith the marquis, I was happy to be otherwise employed.”
The nurse turned to walk back toward the house when her words penetrated.Herinfant? Her baby with the marquis?
“Jeannot,” she called out before stopping short. How could she explain that there would never be anenfant? She had avoided telling Mary about the engagement, although the maid must surely know. But Sophie did not wish to see the nurse disappointed when nothing came of it. “Do you…do you know about the engagement?”
“Why, of course!” the nurse said, turning back with a smile that made her appear even more youthful. “Your grandmother could not keep such news to herself and knew she would have a sympathetic ear in me. Although why Basile did not tell me himself… I will have to scold him on the matter.”
“Yes, do that,” Sophie muttered as soon as the nursehad walked away. She would like to see Basile try to explain the situation to his beloved nurse.
She went inside and down the cool, dim corridor. As she stared at the door to the sitting room, she put her hands on her waist, readying herself to enter it. This was becoming ever more complicated. She would take her grandmother into her confidence, but the truth would only cause her to worry about their debt to Sheldon. Or worse—cause Sophie’s grandmother to try to throw her back into his path.
And then there was the odd feeling she couldn’t explain to herself that the betrothal was actually real. Or that she wished it were real. The thought caused a heaviness to settle in her chest. She could never admit such a thing to Basile who—for all he was a kind and considerate man underneath his playful exterior—would be appalled to think she was tempted even a little bit to hold him to his proposal.
