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 and amuse-bouches that 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 a roué."

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. The English 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, something about 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."

Madame Bordenave stared hard at her. "If he brings you to the altar, perhaps I might concur. But there has not even been a repas de fian?ailles announced."

An engagement dinner? Sophie was unaware that the French did such a thing after they became engaged. She must ask Basile. Before she could think of an answer, Madame Bordenave leaned nearer, overwhelming Sophie with the scent of patchouli.

"When he and I were engaged, that was the very first thing he did. He was quite eager to bring me to the altar, I assure you."

Every one of Sophie's nerves was on end in this battle of female wits. Why, why did some women feel it necessary to drag others down so they might pull themselves up, like a cock on a dung heap?

"Perhaps the engagement dinner has been announced, but only to those to whom it concerns," she suggested, a smile touching her lips. She was not afraid of the widow, but a cold settled in her stomach despite her fearlessness. Sophie did not wish to be humiliated by a woman such as she, and it was beginning to dawn on her that she would be if they were to announce their rupture before she left Paris. It was clear Madame Bordenave was roiling with jealousy.

"What I am most curious to know," Sophie went on, deciding it was better to go on the offensive than to stand back on her weak foot, "is why you are so single-mindedly throwing your heart after a lost cause. An engaged man? You have nothing to gain and everything to lose."

Madame Bordenave narrowed her eyes. "Allow me to inform you?—"

"Sophie!"

She turned to see who had spoken, and raised her eyes to the tall, slim figure who stood before her. It was one of Basile's friends. She quickly racked her brain for his name and in an instant was all smiles. "Grégoire, how lovely to see you this evening."

He bowed deeply, then stood straight with a smile in place. "The pleasure is all mine. I was hoping to have a moment of your time." Then, bowing to the widow, he added, "Madame," before slipping his arm under Sophie's and leading her to the far corner of the room.

As they walked, he leaned down to murmur, "Forgive me for addressing you by your Christian name. I had to do so or that woman would know it all. Any close friend of Basile's must call you Sophie, for he would quickly make sure any fiancée of his was on intimate terms with his friends. It is Basile's way. And of course you must know that he has confided everything to Armand and to myself."

"I guessed as much since you were there when he announced it." She squeezed his arm. "I give you full leave to call me Sophie, even when we are out of earshot of the widow and anyone else we might need to convince." She laughed. "And I made free use of your name, you must remember, although for a panicked moment I feared I would not remember it."

He pulled her to sit on a sofa as the people walking by glanced at them with some curiosity. He did not, however, sit as close as Basile had promised he would, but rather kept to his end.

"Armand and I have been wondering how you are bearing up under the scrutiny that comes from Basile's announcement." His manner of speaking to her was kind despite his having the appearance of a severe and even somewhat taciturn man.

She held his regard and sighed, then lowered hers with a resigned smile. "You must not see me as a victim, although"—at this she did have to incline toward him so he would make out her words—"he did catch me by surprise by the unexpected and public nature of it."

Grégoire gave a silent laugh. "Basile is nothing if not spontaneous."

"Somehow that does not shock me." Grégoire laughed audibly this time, pulling more glances their way, and she continued. "When I supported my grandmother in her idea of coming to Paris, even going so far as to depend upon Mr. Cholmsley in his role of escort, I had not realized how difficult a position I would put myself in where he was concerned. I was in need of protection from unwelcome attention, and this"—she splayed her fingers to communicate the betrothal and all it entailed—"has given me what I needed. For the time being."

He nodded, then looked up as Basile advanced upon them.

"I must offer you my deepest gratitude for squiring ma Sophie while I was talking to the duke." Basile bowed. "But now be gone. I wish to sit next to my woman."

Grégoire lifted an eyebrow in surprise and stood, taking a proper leave of Sophie. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of two people so clearly besotted."

Basile smiled at him as he walked away, then immediately shifted close enough so his leg was touching hers and his arm was flush against her own in a partial embrace. Sophie drew in a sharp breath, then quickly wiped the surprise from her face and forced a smile for those who were watching her.

"There is no time to waste," she murmured.

"None." He leaned in so that his muscular thigh was flush against hers, and she could feel his breath on her neck. Her pulse fluttered, and she feared her limbs would shake. They were beginning to already.

"Do not be afraid of me," Basile murmured. There was nothing seductive about his voice. If anything, he sounded determined. "This is for show, but I will not compromise you. You may rely upon me, for I promise to bring you safely through this farce."

She nodded and relaxed slightly, although she had a strange desire to blink the moisture away from her eyes when he called it a farce. A farce it was, though, she firmly reminded herself.

"What I wish to know," went the murmur, still close but now friendly, "is what you and my friend Greg spoke of while I was called away." He said Greg with a strongly rolled r.

She bit back a smile. She had thought him to be speaking in a friendly way, but if she didn't know better, she would call this jealousy.

"You should not concern yourself with what we spoke of—especially when we were not sitting as closely as you and I are."

"Nevertheless, one must have a topic of conversation when one is murmuring in a lady's ear to convince the world at large that we are madly in love with one another."

"Ah." Goodness. Sophie was determined—determined—that she would not succumb to any sort of feelings for this Frenchman, who possessed more charm than any man had a right to. However, she did wish she had remembered to bring her fan.

"Let me whisper back then"—she turned her face in the direction of his neck for the purpose—"if only to assure you that your friend and I spoke of nothing. I hardly remember what we spoke of." She allowed her gaze to roam around the room and willed her trembling to cease.

"Come. That is a poor answer."

She felt his eyes as he watched her. Then she felt his approach as he slowly lifted a hand to caress the curl that hung over her shoulder.

Her breath ceased.

The movement and voices in the room clanged and boomed, though they sounded from far away.

And then his fingers skimmed her shoulder as he lifted the curl in his hand.

Please don't kiss my neck, she thought, for I shall be undone by such a gesture. Despite her internal pleas, she could not have moved for all the world.

He dropped the curl and shifted away suddenly, and she drew in a breath as would a person who surfaced from the deep, even as she felt a crimson flush rise to her cheeks. As she lifted her eyes, she found Sheldon watching her, his face contracted in lines of fury. It was the sight of him that allowed her to bring her breathing back to normal and her flush to die down. Yes, she was a willing party to this farce if only to set her life on her own terms. Marry she might do, but only for the deepest affection. Absolutely not out of necessity and certainly not upon the pressure of a man who thought he had rights.