Page 26 of A Sham Betrothal
“It is only natural,” he replied, his lips curling up of their own accord, “for I am French.”
“And therefore a most practiced flirt besides being excessively diverting,” she replied. “I see. And what else?”
Basile thought for a moment. “I may be required from time to time to offer a small kiss on your cheek. Perhaps inthe area where I placed your patch, there”—he lifted his finger to touch her cheek—“on that dimple next to your mouth.”
Sophie’s emotions were betrayed in her nervous laugh. “Of course. I shall endeavor to endure it while showing a suitable mix of bashfulness and delight.”
“Delight you will be far from feeling, of course,” he could not but add in a teasing voice, hoping it were not so.
She met his stare quite frankly. “Oh, I would not go so far as to say that. But Basile?—”
The use of his given name in their intimate setting reminded him of their charade, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing. She had stopped short, and he was forced to prod her. “What is it?”
Her look grew vulnerable, but she shrugged it off. “’Tis nothing. I am perfectly ready to follow you in this charade, for it suits my own ends. Sheldon has not been by to visit once since I assured him I was serious in my determination to marry you. However, if we are seen to be too affectionate, it might give rise to a different sort of talk—one I would not at all like to have said about me, particularly when I return to England unmarried.”
She averted her gaze, entreating softly, “Do not carry the flirtation too far.” And although he could not be quite sure of it, he thought he heard her add, “For it will only confuse me.”
Basile reached out for her hand and she placed it in his. “I am a gentleman, and I will do nothing to harm your reputation.En plus, you may be sure that I will see you safely returned to England when your time here is finished, although it cannot be until the king has given me leave to quit the territory.”
She slipped her hand out of his and clasped hers on herlap. The gesture left him frowning—wondering if he had carried everything too far.
“Tell me again,” he said. “Are you certain you can accept that our betrothal is false? I plunged you into a difficult situation by announcing our engagement without first gaining your accord. I must insist that I will do the honorable thing and marry you, even without the pressure of society forcing such a thing by their talk.”
She smiled and shook her head, her eyes fixed on her fingers knit together. “I would not wish a marriage for such reasons. As much as I will not marry for convenience, nor will I marry to still gossiping tongues. I merely hope to avoid particularly ruinous slander.”
She looked up and smiled at him in the dark of the carriage as it began to slow. The sounds of other carriages and people’s voices grew louder, signaling they had arrived at their destination.
“Do you know,” she said, “there is a dower house on the edge of my family’s property that was bequeathed to me? I believe that I would happily live in the most frugal manner there rather than marry for any reason other than love. The kind of love where?—”
Basile held his breath waiting for the rest. She opened her lips, but the footman had hopped down and opened the door to the carriage, so Basile had no choice but to step out and give his hand to assist her to alight. He would not know the rest—now. But he would find it out, for he’d thought there were only two kinds of love. An unrequited desperate kind or a wedded love in name but entirely devoid of passion. He suspected she had spoken of neither.
Chapter 12
The Lemoines’ soirée was not as intimate as Basile had suggested in his note. He and Sophie trailed behind a stream of people who greeted their hosts before following the crowd upstairs. She assumed if he had invited her to it, the most notable of society would be in attendance and that was all that was needed for their ruse. It did cross her mind briefly to wonder why either of them were so fixed upon keeping up the appearances of their engagement, but that involved examining motivations she was not quite ready to face, so she put it out of her mind.
It was their turn, and Basile greeted the host and hostess before introducing her as his charming fiancée.
“Of whom we have heard so much,” Madame Lemoine said with a kind smile as Sophie curtsied. “I hope you will enjoy yourself this evening.”
The Lemoines lived near the Palais Royale and their house was the largest she had yet seen in Paris. They were shown up to the drawing room on the first floor, which felt spacious despite the number of people congregating there.In an adjoining room, tables were laid out with a spread of delicacies andamuse-bouchesthat would be simple to eat with one’s fingers.
Basile leaned in to whisper in her ear, stirring the tiny hairs on her neck and causing her to startle, then hold her breath from his nearness. The smooth silk of his coat brushed her arm and his warmth caused heat to rush through her. Somehow, she had not expected him to start his plan of flirtation so soon.
“If I leave your side for a moment, can you bear it? The duke is signaling his desire to speak to me, and he is not someone I wish to put in your path. He is something of aroué.”
She tucked her head to the side to answer him in a like manner without pulling quite as close as he had. “It may surprise you to know that I do not fear being left alone in a room full of foreigners. Although,” she added in a louder voice with a teasing grin, “it must tax every emotion to be parted from you, be it only for a moment.”
A woman turned at her words, and Sophie recognized her as the widow Basile seemed to be trying to avoid. He returned the smile, then left in an opposite direction from her. As soon as he’d gone, the woman came up to her—to cause trouble, no doubt. Sophie would not be easily cowed.
“Miss Twisden, is it?” the widow asked her in strongly accented English.
“It is. And I believe you are Madame Bordenave,” Sophie replied, unperturbed by the sly hostility she heard in her tone.
“You know all, it seems.” Madame Bordenave studied her for a moment. “So you have captured our marquis, and yet with such bland English looks and mannerisms. TheEnglish race has always been an insipid one, has it not? It is astonishing that a warm-blooded Frenchman could look your way.”
Sophie was not as beautiful as Madame Bordenave, she knew. But such spitefulness did nothing to add to the widow’s beauty.
“I suppose you wish to provoke some sort of retaliatory feeling in me, but I am sorry to disoblige you,” Sophie said. “As insipid as the English might be,somethingabout me in particular has drawn your marquis, as you have said. I can only suppose that he does not find anything bland about me at all.”
