Page 4 of A Sham Betrothal
When her grandmother stopped short, courtesy forced Sophie to prod her to continue.
“We are in somewhat straitened circumstances, and…well, we would not have been able to visit Paris without his help. It was the height of kindness for him to escort us here, though he has little love of travel, and allow me to see my beloved city before I die.”
“Grandmama, please do not talk in such a way,” Sophie could not help but interject. “I hope it will be many more years before such a thing occurs.”
“We shall see,” Mrs. Twisden said, not to be deterred. “You have inherited a house, but not a large enough income to live comfortably in it. I do not wish for you to discover what poverty is like. And although you are a girl with a lively personality which, I suppose, little accords with Sheldon’s sober nature, I believe you will not find a life of scarcity to your liking.”
“I suppose you are right,” Sophie replied to an argument she was hearing not for the first time. She exhaled. “We may be invited to a card party by Madame Dubigny tomorrow night. Would you care to go?”
Her grandmother glanced at her sharply. “Dubigny? I believe I know her. How did you come by this invitation?”
“Oh,” Sophie stalled. She would not lie to her grandmother if she could help it, but it was awkward. “We met the Marquis de Verdelle. A Monsieur Gervain it was, and he promised to have invitations sent.”
By some small miracle, her grandmother did not request how they came by the introduction when they knew no one in Paris, but continued to wonder whether the Mme Dubigny was not the former Mademoiselle Paineaux. And were that indeed the case, whether she might not be assured of meeting friends from those early days before shehad married Mr. Twisden and permanently retired from the Paris scene. The reminiscence caused her grandmother to brighten, and her conversation took on a decidedly more cheerful tone. Later, she came to the table for dinner, althoughen déshabillewith a loose dressing gown, in a further sign of hope that anticipation of their first invitation had brought her strength back in force.
Sophie supposed she should have been surprised that the invitations to Madame Dubigny’s party did indeed come that evening, but somehow when Mary opened the door to a visitor bearing the gilded cards she was not. It only confirmed her idea that M. Gervain was a resourceful man. She couldn’t help but grow eager to meet him again.
The next day, Mrs. Twisden showed slight signs of being unwell. When Sophie helped her grandmother up, she found her warm to the touch. Given this development, she thought it unwise for them to attend the party. However, her grandmother refused to be deterred and Sophie hadn’t the heart to insist. Mrs. Twisden was now sure Berthe Paineaux was indeed the Madame Dubigny, for she recalled the circumstances of her friend’s betrothal and even recognised the address on the invitation. It did not matter how low she might be feeling, nothing for the world would allow her to miss seeing her old friend again.
Sheldon had begrudgingly agreed to attend, particularly when he had gone to the embassy that afternoon and had there discovered the ambassador himself would go. It was close enough to walk, except that Sophie did not wish to subject her grandmother to the fatigue of it and requested Sheldon to have his hired horses put to.
Her grandmother had donned a pale lilac gown that lent her a youthful air, but from what Sophie could catch from her soft mutterings, she seemed to be somewhatfearful of appearing old. As for Sophie, she wore one of the pretty gowns her grandmother had commissioned for her before they’d left London. She had not thought they would have the means for a new wardrobe, but her grandmother had surprised her. There was nothing like a becoming gown to fill a girl’s heart with happy anticipation. Her evening dress was of a dark pink rose color with white laces criss-crossing above the stomacher, and the paler pink underskirt was patterned with white flowers.Would she appear as fashionable as the French?That was her main preoccupation.
That, and…would the marquis find it becoming?
Upon their arrival, amajordomeushered them into a drawing room full of people, who all turned to stare at them.
The first thing Sophie noticed was the absence of color in the room. It brought her grandmother up short, who must have noticed the same thing. The people turned toward them were clothed in blacks and the darkest of grays. Why, of course! The late king had only been dead these six weeks—much more recent than their months spent preparing for the voyage, making up all the fashionable gowns such a journey would require. There had been little evidence of mourning on their journey to the capital, but here in the glittering crowd of thenoblesseand thegentilhommes, they must of course don their blacks. Sophie did not read direct censure on their faces, but she felt it all the same.
It appeared her grandmother did as well, for as Sophie took her arm, she felt the flush of heat. In another instant, Madame Dubigny moved forward to greet them with a smile. Mrs. Twisden curtsied and was already murmuring her excuses for their lapse in etiquette, but her friendbrushed it off in her delight at being reunited after so many long years.
Sophie allowed her gaze to roam the crowd as the older women spoke. Adjacent to the large drawing room were two other decently sized rooms where guests were already seated to games of cards, and those in view had turned to look at her too. Embarrassing as it was to stick out so sorely, there was nothing to do now but put up a bold front or turn tail and run. Sheldon, the most ostentatious of them all in an impossibly shiny yellow satin, cleared his throat and moved with purpose toward someone he recognized from the embassy. She felt the relief of his departure immediately.
Then, a hand was at her elbow, and the marquis was bowing at her side, his deep blue eyes more compelling than she had remembered. Her heart decided an accelerated rhythm was called for.
“Sophie, I have been hoping you would come so we might renew our acquaintance.”
“Our long acquaintance,” she murmured with the lift of an eyebrow, calming her first reaction of pleasure to more subdued levels.
He laughed. “Of course. It has been an age. You look as lovely as you always did.”
His impertinence knew no bounds, but she could only be thankful for the diversion of it. Behavior she must shun in London, she could not in Paris. Her voyage had been one of quiet suffering as Sheldon had claimed increasing intimacy by taking her arm and dogging her steps wherever she went. Basile gifted her with the ability to laugh at convention, to be pleased, and she welcomed its freedom. Besides that, it seemed to shield her from the scrutiny ofthe French society gathered for the card party as people began to turn their attention elsewhere.
She leaned in and murmured, “I should have noticed that you and your friends were wearing mourning clothes yesterday and taken the hint. We arrived in Paris only the day before that.”
“The black serves to draw the heat, but it is unavoidable.” He waved his fingers for a servant to bring a glass of something for her to drink. It was a cold, light Chablis that refreshed without being too strong.
“In truth, the king’s death is the only reason I have come to Paris. Otherwise, I would be at my home in the Champagne region.” He bowed again, a practiced gallantry that he softened with a wink. “But then I should not have had the felicity of meeting you.”
She smiled at his empty compliment and shook her head, switching suddenly to English. “I have been wondering what had prompted you to seek the acquaintance. I can only guess some sort of a lark?”
“A lark—a bird?” He drew his brows together, and with his dark features and clear eyes focused on her, only appeared more handsome.
She lifted her chin as she smiled, determined to keep up the flirtation and not let him know how much his steady regard caused her nerves to stretch taut.
“A lark as in a game.”
He smiled, his teeth impossibly white, then stepped closer to her, causing her nerves to spring loose. She was enveloped in the scent he wore. Spices—but not of the heavy sweet kind, which she despised. She could not explain it to herself. He broke all proper boundaries and all physical barriers, but he was not dangerous. She could sense he was not. There was a sweetness to his smile.
