Page 37 of A Sham Betrothal
Would it really be throwing his best years away in being married to her, though? Sophie never bored him. By turns she amused him, enchanted him, and touched him with her strength—that and by her dependence on him, when he suspected she was unused to being vulnerable. She trusted him, which was a novel experience outside a few close friendships. As he was the Gervain family’s very last hope for the marquisate’s lineage, he had not often met with such blind trust. Instead, his parents had considered him something of a profligate, which was not very fair, since he generally spent his funds on travel.
By the time he arrived at his gate, he was no closer to knowing whether he wished to be wed in earnest or not. The servant opened the iron gate to admit him, and ahead, he saw his brother-in-law accompanying the groom to the stables. So, his sister had arrived.
And there she was, walking along the garden path toward his house, arm in arm with Zoé. A flash of irritation seized him. His sister he could manage, but Zoé? She knew about his betrothal, and nothing would astonish him moreif she managed to keep that information to herself. He did not wish to discuss it before he had carefully sorted through his intentions.
At the sound of his approaching footsteps, the women turned arm in arm. Basile removed his hat, bowing to Zoé and kissing his sister. “Bonjour, Thérèse. I hope you have had a good journey.”
“’Twasagréable.” She turned to Zoé, adding, “You need not leave on my account. I require only a little tea to be restored to perfect health.”
Zoé smiled at her, then turned to Basile. “I had not realized Thérèse was arriving only today or I should not have disturbed you. However, now that I am here, can you spare me a few minutes of your time?”
His hesitation lasted only a second. He would use it to tell her to keep silent on the subject of marriage. “Very well. Please,entrez,” he said, leading the way indoors.
Zoé did not come to the point of her visit right away but engaged Thérèse in all manner of talk about the current mourning fashion in Paris, the scene of the Ranelagh ball, interspersing that with questions about her home in Tours. Thérèse’s husband, Achille Lacaze, was a landed gentleman and a follower of Dupuy-Demporte’s book, theGentleman Cultivator, where he attempted to increase his profits through agriculture, much in the way the English did. Basile had never thought his sister would fit into such a bucolic lifestyle, but he had to own she seemed perfectly happy.
“You may say your piece in front of me if you wish, Zoé,” Thérèse said at last. “I am not at all fatigued. I may even serve as chaperone.”
Zoé’s smile seemed to dim for a brief instant, but Basile was sure only he noticed it. “Wonderful,” she replied.
She continued on with more innocent chatter while a servant brought refreshments, and Basile resigned himself to the inevitable, whatever that might be. A lengthy discussion that little interested him? Allusions to his farce that would only make him uncomfortable? Without Zoé, he could sort out how and what to tell his sister—this, and in his own timing.
“What do you think of Basile’s engagement?” Zoé asked, cutting through a brief silence. Her eyes brimmed above her cup.
Basile coughed and spit some of his tea back in his cup as Thérèse turned to him. There was a short, stunned silence, then?—
“Impossible!” Her eyes opened wide with the shock of it. “You—engaged? You must be joking.”
Instead of answering her, he turned to Zoé. “I haven’t exactly had time to speak of it, given that she has only just arrived. Perhaps you wish to come to the point of why you have called?” he added dangerously. He could throttle her.
“I was wondering if you had received the invitation from the queen for therepas de fiançaillesshe wishes to throw for you.” Zoé smiled at him, seeming to enjoy his discomfort.
Basile’s mouth dropped open and he was bereft of speech for nearly a full minute. The queen wished to take a hand in his engagement? That was disastrous! He stood and rang a bell for a servant. “Bring me mycourrierat once,” he told him.
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Who is this woman that has caught your fancy?” Thérèse asked. “I can scarcely believe you have decided to settle down. I have been waiting for it for an age! But why did you not write of it?”
It was foolish, perhaps, but Basile had hoped to avoid telling his sister at all, considering it was not a true betrothal. Zoé must have known it because she smirked at him over her cup.
The servant hurried back into the drawing room with a small pile of correspondence in hand, and Basile reached out for it as he decided on a reply. “I wished to tell you in person, of course.”
His mood soured at the lie. He did not like telling falsehoods to his sister, but strangely nor did he wish to rush and tell her the betrothal was not real. She would have to find out when it was announced that he and Sophie had parted ways. She would have to learn of it as the queen did…
Basile pulled out a letter with a royal seal, his heart sinking. The words in it were clear. This was nothing short of a command—thatcould be read between the lines. The queen was looking for an excuse to inaugurate the Petit Trianon as her own, now that the former king’s mistress and her rival, Madame Du Barry, had been sent away. She was also probably hoping to relieve the tedium of the court mourning through a private party.
“Well?” Basile prompted Zoé, now that he had read the invitation.
“I came to see if you could secure an invitation for me—and perhaps one for Charles as well,” Zoé said. “And you should visit Sophie, for she is naturally unnerved by the thought of dining with the queen. She will need your support.”
Thérèse was tired of being ignored. “Basile, tell me at once. Who is this Sophie? Do I know her? Why is the queen holding your engagement dinner?”
Basile rested the open letter on his knee. “SophieTwisden is English, and she is visiting Paris. The queen is undoubtedly looking for a way to enliven Versailles that will not cause her censure for stepping out of strict mourning. She wishes to host a private party that will unite the English in Paris—along with their ambassador, whom she well likes—and will include some of the French nobles.And what better occasion than to celebrate the betrothal of a marquis who was not thought to marry for years? It has the hallmark of success.”
“What is this Sophie like?” Thérèse persisted.
Basile shot Zoé a look, which she had no trouble interpreting as she lowered her guilty eyes into her cup. She knew how little he appreciated that she had brought up the engagement at all.
“She is…belle, talentueuse, charmante. She speaks French with great fluency. You will surely like her,” he said at last. He might be pretending about the engagement, but he had no need to pretend about her charms. They were in abundance.
