Chapter 15

Basile stared ahead at the disaster unfolding before him. Mais non—fichtre! The meeting they claimed to have had in London was about to be proven false, and the queen would surely find that piece out. He quickly tempered his alarm. It was merely a challenge. They would rise to it.

"Trust me, Sophie," he murmured as the peacock moved forward with the Englishwoman of indeterminate age at his side.

"Sophie," Mr. Cholmsley said. "Moe-syur," he added with a cold bow toward Basile. "I believe you know our friend, Mrs. Betteridge?"

"I have not had that pleasure," Basile said, bowing.

Cholmsley's brows rose as though he were surprised by the admission. What did he expect? Basile could hardly pretend to the falsehood now that the woman was standing before them.

"Sophie, you said you had met the marquis at Mrs. Betteridge's al fresco picnic. Was it not so?"

"Mrs. Betteridge, how do you do?" Sophie asked. "I hope your journey was pleasant. When did you arrive?"

"Why, only on Wednesday. But is this not the oddest thing? Could it be true that you met your fiancé at my picnic? I don't have any recollection of having met him, much less having invited him."

"No, no. There is some misunderstanding which can surely be explained." Sophie's expression was once again veiled, although there was a tinge of color on her cheeks. "Might I introduce you to Monsieur Gervain, Marquis de Verdelle? He is indeed my fiancé."

"But you said—" Sheldon moved forward to stand over Sophie, and Basile gave her a light tug so that he could take her place in front of the peacock.

"I believe you have misunderstood the lady, for I am meeting the charming Mrs. Betteridge for the first time today." Basile stared at the Englishman pointedly.

M. Cholmsley peered around him at Sophie. "Did you meet this man for the first time in Paris? I cannot imagine when you would have had time." A thought occurred to him. "Did you meet him for the first time on that day?"

"It's the oddest thing," Mrs. Betteridge repeated, clearly lost as she looked from one to the other for a sensible explanation. She did not give the impression of possessing a sensible thought of her own.

"This hardly matters, Sheldon. What matters is that Basile and I are to be married." Sophie looked up as a bell sounded somewhere in the distance. "And the opera is about to begin. If you will excuse us?"

She began to walk forward and turned only to say, "I hope you will have a lovely stay in Paris, Mrs. Betteridge. I am sure we will meet at one of the ambassador's events."

Basile moved to take her arm and escort her to his box seat. Earlier that day, something had put him in a bad temper, irritating him like a small pebble in his boot, except he could not sort out what it was. He had come to the decision it was time to maintain a more respectful distance—something more in line with what two people who were only pretending to be engaged should be displaying. His first glimpse of Sophie in another stylish gown and French coiffure that evening threatened to unravel those plans, for he found himself admiring her more than he should.

It was a dangerous game to play, and he was seeing now just to what extent. To act as though one were betrothed in earnest when one had no intention of seeing it through. To flirt and openly admire and caress cheeks and shoulders of a gently born maiden when one was determined to remain in the bachelor state for some years to come—this was something that should not be undertaken lightly. He had seen firsthand how dangerous it was when he had practically needed to leap away from her at the last soirée to keep from allowing his attraction and admiration to lead him into forbidden territory.

She was walking quickly at his side, and the corridors were growing thin of crowds.

"I am beginning to feel we have made a grave mistake," Sophie said breathlessly before stopping to look at him. "Do you not feel it?"

Basile furrowed his brows. "Why? Because part of the story we told can be proven as untrue? I don't see why that is the problem you say it is. The main thing is that we have both escaped unwanted attention."

She remained in place, despite the sounds reaching them of the comedy beginning to unfold on stage. "Have we, though? I fear we have only plunged ourselves deeper into unwanted attention. Mrs. Betteridge's arrival in Paris will lead Sheldon to spread the news near and far that we have lied about at least part of our engagement. I am sure it is only time before Madame Bordenave will herald it as well."

"That does not matter. I know how society functions, and the thing to do now is to double down and prove that we are indeed a love match, whether it is of long date or a coup de foudre on the streets of Paris." As he studied her, he felt her withdraw from him, sensed her fears. Rather than running while he could, everything in him wanted to convince her not to give way to those fears. Perhaps it really had been love at first sight. If that was so, he really should run.

She paused and searched his eyes intently. "But why take it further?" She broke his gaze. "I mean, clearly we cannot announce that we have pulled the wool over everyone's eyes and that it is a farce. But why go so far as to pretend we are madly in love?"

He held out his hand, and she slipped hers into it. There was that trust again. "Because we will never have anyone convinced if we do not play the part well. And we must play the part, for—as you have said—no one can know we have begun all this as a prank. Our only choice is to play it out until the end as we have decided. It is ours to direct as we will."

She met his eyes again, and he could not read her expression, but her look of doubt seemed to give way to one of resolve. And with it, a frost that had not been there before.

"Very well. If that is what is required, let us do our very best." She turned to walk into the box. Basile followed behind, struggling to think how he might convince her that all would be well when he could not quite see his own way through.

His family box contained six seats. Madame Sainte-Croix and Jeanne were sitting in the seats closest to the railing, and Charles was seated in the middle row beside Zoé. Basile hadn't told her that he had invited her swain, but he could tell from her upright posture that she was more conscious of Charles's presence than what was occurring on stage. If Charles couldn't win her hand with such gifts as a darkened opera house and three hours with which to woo a woman at his disposal, then he didn't deserve to win her.

Sophie sat in the last row, shaded by the overhead curtain. Basile took the seat next to her, glancing around the boxes on the opposite side of the theater. More than one person caught his regard and nodded in acknowledgment. One of them was the Comte de Vaudreuil, who was known to be a particular favorite of the queen. He was watching Basile closely.

Basile leaned in to Sophie and caught the bergamot and clove scent of her powder. Her coiffure was really done in such a charming manner thanks to Jeannot—their nurse had often helped Basile's sister when the maids were too busy. Sophie had put on her own patch that day, higher up on her cheek and it was near enough to tempt him to touch it. He remained in this position of contemplation long enough that he felt Sophie freeze at his side.

"What is it?" she whispered. "You are staring at me."

So much for his resolve to act in a more distant manner. He could not resist the pull to flirt with her. "'Tis only that I spotted the Comte de Vaudreuil, and I am giving him a show so he can report back to the queen."

"Ah."

The word was spoken lightly and after a moment, she relaxed into him, allowing her arm to sink into his. His heart skittered out of his chest and applauded with the rest of the audience as the comedy below came to an end. Slowly she turned her face to his until their eyes were level and she was staring into his soul. "Perhaps we should give him a show. The earl and anyone else who might be watching."

She turned her eyes forward, and having that forthright gaze withdrawn left him reeling. Then, before he could collect his wits, she brought her left hand over and skimmed her hand along his coat sleeve. Slowly, she traced her fingers down the length of his arm until she had reached his bare hand. He swallowed.

"This is a fine coat. So unlike our English ones. Simple, and no lace dripping from the sleeves. How do you call this in French?"

"It's a justaucorp." His voice was thready, which only served to irritate him. He was the one who was supposed to be flirting.

"Just-au-corp. I see. It hugs the body, is that it? I did not know this word." The touch of her fingers was back, trailing a line down his sleeve, but this time he grabbed her hand and held it in a viselike grip.

"Mademoiselle Twisden, what are you doing?"

She turned wide, innocent eyes to him—eyes that held a glint nonetheless—before she leaned in to murmur, "Why, I am only assisting you in your performance, Monsieur le Marquis. We have Madame Bordenave, Mr. Cholmsley, and Mrs. Betteridge to convince, and now apparently the queen, as well. If all the flirtation comes from you, how can anyone know if your mad passion is returned?"

He set his mouth in a thin line. "I do not believe you need to do more than receive my overt displays of affection."

"Oh." Her mouth formed a perfect circle, puckering a set of pink, luscious lips as her eyes came to rest on his mouth, but she did not move away. Instead she batted her eyelashes once and lifted her eyes to his. "Are you uncomfortable being on the receiving end of my overtures when it is all merely a farce?"

She kept her face close, her eyes never leaving his. Around them, the second act had begun, which was the tragic opera. Their voices filled the theater and seemed to vibrate even within him. Tucked back in the shadows of the box, he had the sensation of being shrouded from the rest of the opera-goers. They were in a world of their own making. In front of them, Charles leaned in to whisper in Zoé's ear, and in front, Madame Sainte-Croix and her daughter both listened to the opera in apparent rapture. Basile slipped the fan from Sophie's grasp and opened it fully to shield them from the audience. He then leaned in and saw a jolt of shock in the gleam of her eyes as he closed the distance between them.

He had meant to tease, had meant to give her a taste of her own medicine. But now that he had drawn so near to her, he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. The pull was too potent to resist, and he touched his lips to hers. She froze.

He intended to do no more, but when she still had not moved, he became filled with the awareness of her scent and the softness of her lips as the sounds of Orphée et Euridice enveloped them in the booming melody of Gluck's tragic opera. So, he did more than just touch her lips. He kissed her. Then he felt her come to life and lost himself in the sensation of her kissing him back.

"Euridice—" The castrato's voice rang out above the choir, and Basile's head spun as his center of gravity seemed to fall away.

He pulled back, and Sophie ducked her head, retiring into her seat and bringing a draft of cold air where she had been. His head buzzed, his heart still pounding from the forbidden taste of her lips. He should not have done that, should not have given into the temptation.

Basile snapped her fan shut and handed it back to her, then rubbed his chin in his hand. Only then did he gather the courage to look up at the audience to see if they had been observed. He had not intended to kiss her. That was going beyond flirtation. It would provide more proof than they needed to validate their engagement—more than was wanted, for it would be hard to pull back from.

Sophie's head was still down, but Basile glanced around the opera and saw the satisfied expression of de Vaudreuil and the furious expression of Cholmsley.

Parbleu!The queen would surely hear of it now.