Page 16 of The Secret of Flirting
“From what I expected. I’d heard that the Princess of Chanay was a rather haughty young lady.”
She had no idea if Aurore was haughty. Though it would stand to reason. Weren’t all princesses haughty?
Not the way Monique played them. And it didn’t matter how Aurore really was. According to the count, no one outside Chanay had ever met the princess, so Lord Fulkham couldn’t be sure what she was like. He was merely trying to catch the woman hehadmet in an error.
Which meant she must be as different from Monique Servais as possible, to throw him off guard, make him doubt his eyes. Monique Servais had given him the sharper side of her tongue, so Princess Aurore must be engaging, flirtatious.
“A man like you should know better than to listen to rumor,” she told him.
“Actually, rumor is my life’s blood. There’s generally a bit of truth in every piece of gossip. It’s my job to find out which bits are true and which bits are trumped-up lies.” He led her down a path. “For example, I heard that you were partial to theatrical entertainments. Is that the case?”
Curse the fellow, he’d heard no such thing. He was just baiting her again.
She fought the urge to stiffen, keeping her grip on his arm deliberately loose. “I enjoy the occasional play, yes. Doesn’t everyone?”
“It depends. I like plays, but only tragedies.” He shot her a veiled look. “Comedies set my teeth on edge.”
She remembered only too well his ridiculous opinion of comedies. “I prefer operas,” she said lightly. “Doesn’t matter to me what the story is about as long as there’s singing. Do you enjoy the opera, monsieur?”
That seemed to catch him off guard, for he frowned. “Not at all, I’m afraid. In real life people don’t speak to each other in arias.”
“In real life people do not dress so lavishly to do their marketing, either, but one can still enjoy seeing such attire in that setting on the stage.”
“Yes, those powdered wigs are quite entertaining,” he drawled. “Especially when the actors and actresses are running in and out of the boudoir.”
She could feel his eyes on her. Clearly he was referencingLe mariage de Figarodirectly. Silly man. As ifthatwould make her lose control and spill her secrets. “Oh, I do like that kind of opera myself.Otelloissodramatic. And that scene in Desdemona’s boudoir makes me weep every time.”
He halted to eye her closely. “You’ve seen Rossini’sOtello?”
“Of course. In Paris. It was quite moving.”
A triumphant look crossed his face. “I thought you rarely left Chanay.”
Too late she remembered what the count had told her about Aurore’s secluded life. She scrambled to cover her error. “That’s true—I rarely do. But Maman took me to Paris to seeOtelloonce when I was a girl. It’s her favorite opera.”
“You said that it ‘makes me weep every time.’ That implies you’ve seen it more than once.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. “I meant ‘every time I think of the scene.’ I misspoke. English is not my native tongue, you know.” She tipped up her chin. “And why do you dissect my words so, monsieur? Is it necessary for the prospective queen of Belgium to speak your language perfectly?”
“That’s not why I ‘dissect’ your words, as you are well aware.”
Merde, obviously he’d figured her out. She would have to tread carefully or else he would swallow her up, and with her, all her hopes for her and Grand-maman’s future. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Come now, mademoiselle.” He leaned close enough to show the hardening planes of his face. “It’s time that you relinquish this pretense. You and I both know that you are Monique Servais andnotthe Princess of Chanay at all.”
Three
Gregory had expected guilt. Shock that he’d found her out. Horror that he’d actually confronted her over it.
He hadnotexpected the damned woman to laugh at him, long and loud, before saying, “Who on earth is Mona Servet?”
“MoniqueSer— Damn it, you know whom I mean. You.You’reMonique Servais.”
Eyes twinkling, she cocked her head at him. “Oh? Tell me more. Why do you think I am not myself and instead am... am...” She waved her hand airily. “Some Frenchwoman.”
“What makes you think she’s French?” he countered.
That made her falter, but so briefly he could almost think he’d imagined it. Except that he hadn’t.
