Chapter 14

After Basile intimated he would be taking his leave, Sophie said she would walk him to the door with an irrational desire to prolong their time together. She wished she could sit outside with him in the garden—for the day was warm but not overly hot, and there was a gentle breeze. But that would be a piece of folly. It was imperative she think rationally, especially when they seemed to be falling more deeply into their farce with time. Feelings would only complicate the matter. And yet, whenever she sat beside him, her reason seemed to evaporate like her breath in his nearness. It was as though the very particles of air that flew around them ceased in their orbit.

And never mind that when he spoke such flattering words, she could no longer remember that they had decided to pretend their engagement to the world at large. A small part of her wondered—couldn't help but wonder—if he'd meant anything of what he said. His words sounded so sincere, and she didn't take him for a liar.

These thoughts raced through her mind as she led him those few steps to the corridor and then the front door. She waved Mary away and opened the door herself. Instead of leaving, Basile paused at the threshold.

"That was more difficult than I thought it would be, but I believe we pulled through it rather well, don't you?" Basile said.

What did he expect her to say? How could she tell her grandmother now that she would not be marrying him? Mrs. Twisden had invited herself to live with him! Sophie knew her grandmother had her own house and enough of an income to keep herself with a small degree of comfort. But perhaps the life she had so long been used to was nothing to what she would have if she moved back to Paris and lived in the style of a marquis. This life was more in line with what she'd had when she was young before marrying Sophie's grandfather. Ah, but it was complicated.

"Sophie?" Basile prodded when she didn't reply.

"Yes." She stared at him, still thinking, still lost. "Yes, I think you handled that well."

He remained in place, his eyes searching hers. "I hope you will join me at the opera this week?" When she was silent still, he added, "It would be good for us to be seen together, for I have it on good authority that some of the queen's courtiers will be there, and I believe they will wish to regale her with interesting news. It seems you and I are the diversion of the moment."

His tone was light, but she could not match it and merely nodded. "I will join you there."

After another moment's hesitation, Basile took leave of her, and Sophie returned to the drawing room to help her grandmother. Jeannot had come in from the garden where she had been cutting herbs, expressing that she was sorry to have missed the marquis as she helped Mrs. Twisden to her feet.

"Grandmama, will you rest now?"

Her grandmother spared only a brief smile, for she appeared to have grown fatigued from the short visit. As Jeannot supported her arm, she stopped and lifted her hand to pat Sophie's cheek.

"The marquis appears to be deeply in love with you, my dear. I cannot tell you how glad that makes me. I am determined to be well so I may assist in the wedding preparations." She then continued to her room without waiting for an answer, which was fortunate because Sophie had none.

Basile, in love with me?That couldn't be. How had she gotten herself into such a jumble of lies? Mary collected the tea tray and was passing by with it. At once, Sophie needed to leave the house or she would end up pacing the garden, and it was too small to hold her frustration.

"Mary, would you be able to accompany me again to the Tuileries? I wish to walk there."

"Of course," the maid answered. "I will put these away and be right with you." Mary hurried into the kitchen and was heard to be washing the tea cups and saucers and placing them on their shelf.

Sophie regretted pulling Mary away from her other work, but she could not walk alone any more than she could stay here. She hoped Mary would understand her need for silence.

When they entered the Tuileries some twenty minutes later, Sophie at a nice brisk walk that Mary had no trouble keeping up with, she began to feel better. Mary was indeed understanding of her need for silence and left Sophie to her thoughts as she tried to sort through her tangle of feelings. She should blame Basile, she supposed. And she would—except that she enjoyed spending time with him and hated to think what would have happened if they'd never met. She would be going to parties where she knew no one. Or, no! She would be home nursing her grandmother with Sheldon coming by every day to add irritation to misery. She could only be grateful for the direction her stay in Paris had taken.

But then, it was becoming increasingly difficult to think through how they were to manage the end to their sham betrothal. She liked him very well—all too well, if she were going to be honest with herself. But she did not want to marry a man who had not courted her in earnest. A man who played the part convincingly but did not truly love her.

They rounded the large pond with a fountain placed in its center. On the side of the rounded path, marble statues were placed in between the leafy branches of trees and looked down upon her from their pedestals. The trickling of water in the fountain soothed.

A gentleman headed in her direction. As they were about to cross paths, he lifted his head and paused. "Miss Twisden?"

Sophie stopped as recognition dawned. "Mr. Arlington. A pleasure to meet you here." She pulled her thoughts from the place that had no answers and focused on her countryman. "Do you walk here often?"

"I have started to of late. I like to come here to think." Although a smile accompanied his words, it looked pained. She wondered if Zoé had anything to do with his unhappy look. "Would you like to walk with me a ways?" he asked.

Sophie nodded and turned in his direction as Mary followed at a distance.

"I must congratulate you on your betrothal," he said. "It seems you will be remaining in France on a more permanent basis, will you not?"

It was Sophie's turn to look pained. Another opportunity to lie, and she found she did not want to. But she couldn't give up the act when they were working so hard to make it convincing. "I…believe that is the plan. It's too early to tell."

He peered at her more closely, his unpowdered dark hair catching the sun in its golden reflection. He was a handsome man, but his eyes seemed dull when compared to another set of eyes and his mouth was absent of the humor that revealed a quick wit.

"Is there trouble in your engagement?" As soon he had spoken the words, he warded off the imagined rebuke with his hands. "I do not mean to pry, but I couldn't help but think that perhaps you are not sure of your choice, and that explains your hesitation."

They walked on as Sophie thought how best to answer. "There is a bit of trouble between us, but I hope nothing too serious. I hope we may sort it out."

There! Let him make of that what he would. Perhaps it would make the eventual end to their betrothal more believable if she were to hint now at some discord.

He continued to walk, lost in thought as he touched his cane to the ground with every other footstep. He wore the colors of court mourning, and the shades of gray did nothing to make him appear more lively. "I can certainly understand such a thing. When you attempt a love match with a woman—rather, with a person from a different culture, it is sure to raise misunderstandings. And sometimes those seem insurmountable. Perhaps they are."

Sophie glanced at him, and when he didn't elaborate, she said, "Forgive me for my impertinence, but I believe you have developed a friendship with Mademoiselle Sainte-Croix?"

He tossed her a look, his expression sober as he turned to face forward. "I won't pretend to misunderstand you, for it must be very obvious. I believe she has let you into her confidence?" Sophie nodded, and he went on. "I thought once that we might have a great partiality for each other, but I am beginning to fear I was wrong. I am coming to believe she has not even a heart to give away."

Sophie walked on, tempted to urge him to be more extravagant in his pursuit, but holding herself back. What if she really did not know Zoé as she thought she did, and she encouraged Mr. Arlington to pursue her, only then to give him true cause for a broken heart? Sophie reflected on the wisest course of action for only a minute before deciding she couldn't stay completely silent when she thought Zoé might be suffering too.

"I do know Mademoiselle Sainte-Croix a very little bit. And although I cannot know her well enough to speak with any sort of certainty, I will tell you what I have noticed. When she is with you, her face is alive. When she thinks you are looking, she is animated. But when you seem disapproving and move away, her expression grows dull."

He lifted his head, as though the thought ballooned him with hope. "I should very much like to believe you."

Sophie smiled and kept her eyes trained ahead. "I can only tell you what I've observed. From what I've heard her say, I cannot be convinced that her heart is completely untouched. And she does have a heart to give away, I believe," she added, "for she accompanied Basile to my house to see how my grandmother fared. Then she returned to escort me to a soirée so I might have a chance for diversion during my stay in Paris. That is not the act of a woman who has no heart to give."

Mr. Arlington breathed in deeply and glanced at her. "I suppose I might try again."

"I suppose you might," Sophie said, returning his smile. They both stopped and faced each other.

"I regret leaving you, but do you mind…?"

Sophie shook her head. "My maid is with me, and I wish to walk a little longer."

"Very well, Miss Twisden." He held out his hand and she placed hers in it.

"Mr. Arlington."

They parted ways in a most amicable manner, and she hoped she might have helped him—and Zoé—to find their way through the intricacies of a courtship between two people who were as different as they were.

Now, if only someone would help her with her own.

The night of the opera,Sophie was dressed and waiting by the time Basile came for her. She was also resolved, having decided to do what was needed to keep up the appearances of a true betrothal while keeping her heart firmly intact. These past few days, she had lost her way, walking around like a lovesick girl, but now it was time to use the situation to her full advantage.

For it was advantageous to be engaged to a marquis, even if it was one she had no intention of marrying. It would give her status in Paris while she was here. And as much as it chafed, she had to admit she preferred to be under his mercy than Sheldon's. He would see to it that she and her grandmother were safely returned to England and would not expect marriage as payment. That was an improvement.

Never mind that you wouldn't exactly deplore being married to him, a small voice inside whispered.

But that was neither here nor there. Sheldon had to be utterly convinced she was out of his grasp until she was no longer under his mercy. When she was back in England, she could pursue her own life and disappear completely from his view. Such a thing was hardly possible while living next door to him. And she would find a way to pay both him and Basile back for any bills incurred on her behalf. She would have to! Forget a simple country life in the dower house that was hers. She would have to rent out her house and find a paid position in addition to supplement her small income in order to pay him back.

These were the rational thoughts she forced to parade through her mind as she readied herself for the evening. Jeannot had come to her aid once again with her coiffure. It was lovely, really, the way her features improved when there was height in the back with the boucles on the sides and the long curl placed artfully over her shoulder—the curl that Basile had toyed with and left her nearly faint.

So when the knock sounded on the door, Sophie was already standing in the corridor, giving a final adjustment to the laces over her gray stomacher. Her French corset cinched her waist in neatly and gave a beautifully feminine form with her paniers on either side adding volume. She had placed her own patch onto a powdered face. In Paris, she was learning of the necessity to appear modish. It would be better to go about en nature than to be considered sadly out of fashion.

The sight of Basile entering caused her breath to catch. He was still wearing the sober colors of court mourning, but his coat was embroidered with silver. And the silver hair powder he wore in complement stood in stark contrast to his dark blue eyes and the general strength in his features and bearing. He swept off his hat, extended his leg and bowed low.

"Behold in me, your eternal admirer," he said, smiling.

Jeannot came into the corridor then and admonished him in familiar French to take proper care of Mademoiselle Sophie and see that she returned home without being overly fatigued.

Sophie smiled at her and turned to Basile, saying in English, "You needn't waste your compliments on me when there is no one here to see."

He leaned down to kiss Jeannot on the cheek, which she found charming in its familiarity, then turned to her. "Truth is never wasted. Are you ready?"

Sophie nodded and they went outdoors to his carriage. She had forgotten to ask him but quite thought Zoé and her family might be accompanying them that evening. After all, it was not as though they needed to talk about flirtation and coordinate their behavior toward one another as they had the last time. But the carriage was empty when he helped her into it.

Basile snapped the door shut and tapped on the roof with his cane as the horses darted forward.

"Who are we to sit with today?" Sophie asked him.

"We shall be in my opera box, and I've invited the Sainte-Croix family to join us there. I hope this meets with your approval?" He raised an eyebrow.

She tossed one of her shoulders. "Of course."

It was odd. He was being flirtatious but was somehow colder than usual, and it troubled her. Perhaps he regretted everything—the engagement which she reminded herself was his own fault—the flirting, the stack of her bills. His reserve certainly seemed to indicate regret.

How had their lives become so entwined? For heaven's sake, even his former nurse was residing at her house and caring for her grandmother. And he was in receipt of the entirety of her bills—Sheldon's brief note told her as much. It was mortifying! She would have to find some way to pull back herself, to salvage her dignity.

They spoke little on the way to the opera, and when they arrived, she allowed him to help her out of the carriage as she stared up at the vast stone fa?ade of the opera house. They followed the streams of people inside, and Sophie lifted her wide skirt as she navigated the stairs. When they arrived inside and were in the broad corridor, Sophie stopped dead in her tracks. There, on the other end of the hall talking to Sheldon, was Mrs. Betteridge. Sophie's blood drained from her face. Her, of all people, here in France? That would destroy everything!

"Oh dear." She lay a suddenly cold hand on Basile's arm.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" Basile looked down at her hand, then back up, catching sight of her expression. "Sophie, what is it?"

For a moment she was silent. It felt like the floor was falling in as her mind reeled. "Mrs. Betteridge has come to Paris."

Basile continued to regard her, clearly unenlightened by her words, so she elaborated. "She is the woman who supposedly introduced us at the al fresco picnic in London, and now Sheldon is learning directly from her lips that she has no idea who you are."