Chapter 13

Basile rose early the morning after the Lemoines' supper. He was surprisingly awake considering how late he had gone to bed and how much he had tossed and turned as he tried to sleep. He decided to take his horse out and ride along the Champs élysées toward Passy in the direction of where the Ranelagh ball was held. It would get him some exercise and fresh air and would perhaps take his mind off the unsettling realization that occurred to him last night.

He was attracted to Sophie Twisden. Very attracted.

What had started out as mere flirtation to satisfy those who doubted their betrothal had taken on a sudden shift when he found himself ensconced on the small sofa at her side, leaning in to whisper in her ear and drawing in her happy scent of orange citrus. Grazing the soft skin of her neck as he toyed with the curl that fell from her coiffure had been a mistake, for it only made him aware of how much he wanted to continue the exploration.

It was an unfortunate realization to come to at this point, for he was neither ready to settle down—excepting of course if she held him to his public declaration—nor was she a woman he could trifle with. These thoughts dogged his steps as he went to the courtyard and called for his groom to saddle a horse, the ones for riding all of the Kladrubers breed. The stables were conveniently located in his h?tel de ville, which he had to admit was one benefit of holding the title of marquis. If any one of his older brothers were still alive, Basile would have had to content himself with a rented mews several streets away from whatever much smaller house he would possess.

He rode out, wearing a cape to keep off the dust, then turned left to ride along the Seine before crossing over the Pont Royal to continue along the Tuileries. Other riders were about, but none that he knew. Most of the people were in carriages and appeared to have a specific destination in mind. As he allowed his horse to follow the border of the Tuileries, the sight of its leafy trees reminded him that he had not gone there in a while, and the cooling green would be a soothing contrast to the summer heat. It was a project for the next time he was on foot.

Ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of what he thought was a familiar figure walking toward the entrance to the Tuileries near the palace. Was he seeing things? He nudged his horse forward to see if it was indeed she or whether he was conjuring the person he most wished to see.

"Sophie!"

She turned and shielded her eyes from the sun coming up behind him as she looked up. Her face broke out into a smile of recognition.

"Basile, I would have thought you still asleep after our late night."

"I might say the same about you," he replied. "But it appears you are not a woman who is easily fatigued if you are up already. Do you ride?"

"I don't have a horse in Paris, but I do ride when I can." She glanced at her maid who was waiting at the entrance to the garden. "I was just headed into the Tuileries for a walk."

"I would accompany you if I could, but I cannot bring the horse in. Perhaps we might walk together there another time. Or ride somewhere else, if you prefer it. I will lend you one of my mounts."

"It is most kind of you," she said. After a brief moment when their conversation stalled, she offered up a smile and turned to go.

He was reluctant to see her leave. "Sophie!" When she turned back, he added, "We have not decided upon our next sortie together. What shall it be?"

"Ah!" She thought for a moment, then moved back to where his horse stood and raised her eyes to him. "This is quite awkward to speak of and not at all a public outing, but my grandmother is asking that you come to see her, and I do not know how to gainsay her. She is speaking of organizing a repas de fian?ailles as soon as she is well enough to do so. I understand this is what the French do?" At this last bit she cringed as though fearing his response. But how could she think he would mind? He had brought this fully upon himself—and her.

"An engagement dinner! I hadn't thought about that, but of course it must be expected." His horse leaned down to nibble at a purple plant that grew in the cracks of the stone wall beside him and he gave him rein as he thought. She spoke before he could.

"I told Madame Bordenave that we had already organized one, but that it was private. I had to think of something, for she seems to believe you will not bring me to the altar." She laughed, but in her blush he could see the awkwardness of her situation, and not for the first time did he question his sanity in the moment he'd made his impulsive declaration.

"That woman is intolerable." He pulled up on the reins, bringing his horse's head up. "Leave such matters to me. I shall see that everything is done properly that will cause neither doubt nor stain upon your reputation. And as for your grandmother, if it pleases you, you may tell her to expect me tomorrow afternoon if she is well enough to receive me."

Sophie smiled. "She will say she is well enough, but she is still weak. Therefore, I must ask you not to remain too long, for she will insist upon being dressed and receiving you in the sitting room, and I should not like her to fall into a relapse."

"I will take care." Basile bowed from his horse. "And I will take leave of you now. Enjoy your walk, ma chère Sophie."

After she had bid him farewell, he led his horse in a canter as quickly as he could to the end of the quay and turned westward to the Champs Elysées, where he could have the run he desperately needed. He allowed his mind to roam, despite the fact that in one fashion or another his thoughts always seemed to return to her.

Later, after Basile reentered the gates of his courtyard and handed the reins over to his groom, he went to change his clothes before heading to his study where a newspaper awaited him, along with his correspondence. This and a glass of claret would be just the way to spend the afternoon. He had only just sat when the sound of the knocker announced a visitor.

The majordome entered bearing the card of a M. Sheldon Cholmsley. Blasted peacock. He had better get this interview over with.

"Show him in."

When M. Cholmsley entered his study, Basile stood and gave him a short bow of acknowledgement. "I presume you are here for those matters you wished to discuss with me?"

If he had thought to disconcert M. Cholmsley when the time came to handing over the bills Sophie had warned him about, he much mistook the man. M. Cholmsley sat in the chair Basile had indicated, then brought a pile of papers out of a leather carrier he had with him. He set the pile on the table in front of him.

"You may know that I have paid for Sophie and Mrs. Twisden's journey to France, which included not only their travel, accommodation, and food, but also their gowns and other fripperies. This, of course, was so they might mingle comfortably in French society." He looked at Basile. "You must be aware that Sophie has not a farthing to her name."

Basile studied him for a minute under hooded eyelids that did little to conceal the derision he felt. "I am aware that Sophie brings other assets to our union than money, of which I have no need."

"I am glad to hear it. Then you will not mind my presenting you with these bills that Sophie and her grandmother have incurred since the beginning of the journey."

"And if I should mind?" Basile asked. "What will you do then?"

M. Cholmsley's face took on a belligerent look which did nothing to render his visage more noble. "I shall make it clear to the English society residing in Paris that you are unwilling to care for her needs, which makes me wonder if you are earnest in your willingness to marry her. And I shall cease to pay the rent for their house, although I will not leave them without help. They may reside with me until I return to England."

"I will not hide from you," Basile said, finding it difficult to keep a rein on his temper, "that I find your behavior repulsive. You attempted to force a marriage upon Sophie though she made it clear she did not wish for it. And you now try to pawn off bills to others that you had promised to honor. This is not the behavior of a gentleman."

"I little care what opinion you have of me." But M. Cholmsley's purple cheeks as he drew himself upright belied his words. "I merely wish to say that if you are bent on marrying her, I would advise you to show it by taking charge of her expenses."

Basile sipped the claret his servant had brought him, offering nothing to M. Cholmsley. He would not be staying long enough to drink it.

"You really are a man of coarse manners," Basile said in a mild voice. He had trained himself not to show his emotions so easily, but this one stretched his self-control thin. "A French gentleman does not discuss money in the way that you seem to be able to do."

He stood and sifted through some papers on his desk. "Here are the directions of my man of business. You may discuss this with him, although I am not entirely sure of his proficiency in the English tongue. Afterwards, I will instruct him on what I wish to do, once I've heard his opinion on the matter."

"I quite thought we might settle this here?—"

"But we will not." Basile felt no compunction about cutting the visit short.

His manner seemed to infuriate the peacock, which of course it was calculated to do. M. Cholmsley gathered the papers and stuffed them back into his leather pouch, along with the card for the man of business.

"I do not believe that a betrothal so hastily arranged—and this between a man and woman from two different cultures—can possibly succeed. I do not know what game you are playing, but I hardly think you will end up marrying her after so short an acquaintance."

"You forget," Basile interjected with a raised eyebrow. "It has been two years since we first met."

"Then she will have second thoughts about leaving behind her country and yoking herself to a foreigner." M. Cholmsley lifted a finger. "Sophie is a weak woman and will be overset by this change in lifestyle. These complications will surely occur to her at some point before her marriage."

"Sophie, weak? You do not know her, then." Basile walked over to the door. "As you have nothing of good sense to say, I will bid you good day."

The door opened as he was about to reach for it. His majordome knew him well and must have sensed his dislike for the Englishman. He had not quit his post.

"You may show Monsieur Cholmsley out," he said.

Basile turned, and his visitor clutched his carrier in his right hand and shoved his cocked hat over his wig before stalking out of the room.

When he left, Basile looked at his servant. "I must pen a note to my homme d'affaires and will bid you to send someone to bring it to him."

His servant nodded, and Basile went over to his desk. He would instruct his man of business to provide whatever financial relief Sophie and her grandmother might need and give instructions about the payment of their current and future bills. However, he was undecided over the course of action regarding the bills from before their engagement which M. Cholmsley wished to pass over to him. He would let his man of business do the negotiations. After all, as he'd said to M. Cholmsley, a gentleman did not discuss such affairs.

The next day,Basile presented himself at Sophie's door and glanced at the adjoining house where Cholmsley lived. The sight brought his ire back in full force. For the briefest of moments, his irritation against the man turned into frustration over how this engagement was complicating his life. However, when the more egotistical portion of his brain tried to lay the burden at Sophie's door, he stopped himself.

She had not entrapped him. She had not even remarked his presence until he had forced himself upon her notice. No. There was only one person to blame, and it was he, himself. He had brought this on his own head, and he would cheerfully do whatever was necessary to extricate both Sophie and himself from the mess.

He rapped at the door and waited until Mary opened it. After delivering a curtsy and a smile more friendly than the maid had thus far given him, she led him to the sitting room where he found Sophie seated in one of her more colorful gowns. Mourning attire could be dispensed with if one was just sitting at home. Her grandmother sat near her, similarly attired.

As he bowed deeply before Mrs. Twisden, he noticed that she looked as though she had been brought back from death's door, although wild dogs could not have dragged the truth from him. Whatever color her fever must have lent her had given way to a pasty complexion that held a yellowish tint. Her hair was done neatly but her dress hung from her slim frame, and she trembled as he released the hand he had taken when he bowed.

"Your servant, Madame Twisden," he said. "You are looking the picture of health, I am pleased to see."

"You are a flatterer, but I would prefer that over the truth at the moment. Please sit." Her smile was severe and her voice frail as she gestured to the chair, showing how much the visit cost her. Sophie was seated on the edge of hers as though ready to leap up should her grandmother need her. But Mrs. Twisden was still an admirable old woman despite her infirmity. It gave him a glimpse of where Sophie had her character.

"Tell me about this betrothal of yours," Mrs. Twisden said. They all looked up as Mary brought a tray of tea and cakes in.

Sophie met his eyes, and he saw the twinkle of humor in her gaze. Let him answer this how he might. She had never told him whether or not she had admitted to the truth about their meeting or whether she had said they'd met in England.

"I believe it was love at first sight," he said, seeking Sophie's eyes once again. When their eyes met, something in his chest expanded. It was a moment before he pulled his regard away. "It has not been a long acquaintance—I am sure you must know that. But I could see at once that Sophie was a remarkable woman."

Now his eyes were fully on the elderly Mrs. Twisden as he elaborated on his supposed fiancée's qualities—a fiancée who somehow felt more fitted to the role the longer he spoke. "She is courageous and quick-thinking. She speaks French beautifully, and I can easily picture her leading society from our drawing room. I shall not allow myself to be carried away with talk of her beauty, but leave that for her ears alone."

Sophie poured tea for her grandmother and then for him. When she handed the cup to him, he saw a slight wobble to her fingers, and he sought her eyes again, but she evaded his look. There was heightened color in her cheeks.

His words had been too strong—he had suspected as much. And what was he doing? He had not planned on saying any of that when he'd arrived in the sitting room. He had been trying to reassure her grandmother, and thus support Sophie. Instead, he made theirs sound as though it were the greatest love match of the century. He sipped his tea, which was too hot, and set the cup down abruptly. The urbane manners he had perfected were nowhere to be found.

"So you both plan to live in France, I suppose," Mrs. Twisden said. "It makes sense. You cannot easily be a marquis and care for your land from England."

Sophie remained obstinately silent, and he could guess the reason. It was up to him to carry the conversation since he had plunged them into this imbroglio. "Do you mind it?"

Mrs. Twisden had not picked up her tea, and he wondered if she had the strength to do so. He remembered Sophie's request that he not overstay his welcome.

"I do not. I spent many good years in Paris. I think she will be quite happy here." She looked up at him with an endearing mixture of pleading and mischief. "I only wonder if you would have room in your house for an old woman?"

Sophie looked at him now, her eyes wide with alarm. This engagement would take on a frightening proportion were he to promise her grandmother she might reside with him. That was an obligation from which he could not easily extricate himself—not without being a cur.

"I do not know of any old woman," he said, smiling, "only one who has retained all her charm." Flattery yes, but also stalling for time. "But I can promise you that anywhere Sophie is, her grandmother will be welcome."

There. He had answered without an outright falsehood, nor an outright promise. His eyes sought out Sophie's, wondering if she was satisfied with his response. She smiled. She was satisfied. But then, she broke his gaze rather quickly and dropped hers to her teacup. So perhaps not so satisfied.

It was all rather impossible, wasn't it? How to disentangle oneself from such a mess?