Chapter 17

Basile sat at Le Gradot with an untouched cup of coffee in front of him. He had gone to the café for distraction, but now that he sat here…imprisoned by the memories of his kiss with Sophie—memories that somehow seemed physically weighted—he wished only to remain in the enthrallment of those memories rather than seeking the distraction he had come for.

Noises erupted around him as the café's occupants called for a beer or coffee, a pastry, or a dish of sorbet. Basile had taken his breakfast earlier that morning without tasting anything and even now could not stomach the thought of anything but coffee, which sat in front of him growing cold. A waiter approached with a newspaper, but he waved him away.

What had Sophie been about last night, flirting with him in such a direct manner? It placed him in a difficult, almost vulnerable position, because for once he was not in command. She should know what such flirtation led to—it paralyzed a man, or it set him on fire. For him, it had done both. He was first paralyzed under her touch. That was, until he had kissed her and became consumed with a fire that incinerated his reason.

His thoughts took him hostage in pleasant agony as he grappled with the question of why she had instigated that particular act of spellbinding. He supposed the secret lay in her words: that in order for their charade to be believable, she had to flirt back with him. But he also wondered if she did so out of retaliation, wishing to show him what it felt like when he did the same to her. He knew she stilled under his touch. Knew it affected her.

No one had come to distract him or disturb his peace in his hour at the café, so Basile stood to pay his shot. It was time he went home anyway. His sister and her husband were supposed to come and stay at the marquis's family home for the length of her confinement. It was not that her husband did not have his own house in Paris, but Thérèse wished to be surrounded by all that was familiar, she had said.

Basile exited the café and turned left onto the Quai de l'Ecole to walk the short distance to the Pont Neuf, still troubled in his mind. No woman had ever disturbed him in the way Sophie did. That he would be tempted to pretend a friendship where there had been none might be explained away by his own whimsy and mischief, but to send his nurse to assist her within a week's acquaintance? Or that he would look forward to seeing her and discussing anything from his feelings on being the marquis to the art of flirting—that he would announce a betrothal without actually contracting one! His behavior was nothing short of inexplicable.

Did he indeed wish to marry her?

The foreign thought stopped him dead in his tracks. That caused a tradesman walking behind him to bump into him, first with an oath, then a mumbled pardon delivered with a lowered brow.

"C'est moi," Basile murmured in return. No, no, no. It could not be. He was too young to be thinking of marriage. He intended to wait until he was forty at the very least before making such an attempt. If one was going to throw away years of one's life, then better to do so when the very best were at least behind him. He could enter the state of matrimony when his youth was a thing of the past.

He crossed the bridge, hardly noticing the Seine rushing beneath. The moving water brought a cooling breeze to temper the August heat. He lifted his gaze ahead to the even row of cream-colored stone houses on the opposite quay.

Would it really be throwing his best years away in being married to her, though? Sophie never bored him. By turns she amused him, enchanted him, and touched him with her strength—that and by her dependence on him, when he suspected she was unused to being vulnerable. She trusted him, which was a novel experience outside a few close friendships. As he was the Gervain family's very last hope for the marquisate's lineage, he had not often met with such blind trust. Instead, his parents had considered him something of a profligate, which was not very fair, since he generally spent his funds on travel.

By the time he arrived at his gate, he was no closer to knowing whether he wished to be wed in earnest or not. The servant opened the iron gate to admit him, and ahead, he saw his brother-in-law accompanying the groom to the stables. So, his sister had arrived.

And there she was, walking along the garden path toward his house, arm in arm with Zoé. A flash of irritation seized him. His sister he could manage, but Zoé? She knew about his betrothal, and nothing would astonish him more if she managed to keep that information to herself. He did not wish to discuss it before he had carefully sorted through his intentions.

At the sound of his approaching footsteps, the women turned arm in arm. Basile removed his hat, bowing to Zoé and kissing his sister. "Bonjour, Thérèse. I hope you have had a good journey."

"'Twas agréable." She turned to Zoé, adding, "You need not leave on my account. I require only a little tea to be restored to perfect health."

Zoé smiled at her, then turned to Basile. "I had not realized Thérèse was arriving only today or I should not have disturbed you. However, now that I am here, can you spare me a few minutes of your time?"

His hesitation lasted only a second. He would use it to tell her to keep silent on the subject of marriage. "Very well. Please, entrez," he said, leading the way indoors.

Zoé did not come to the point of her visit right away but engaged Thérèse in all manner of talk about the current mourning fashion in Paris, the scene of the Ranelagh ball, interspersing that with questions about her home in Tours. Thérèse's husband, Achille Lacaze, was a landed gentleman and a follower of Dupuy-Demporte's book, the Gentleman Cultivator, where he attempted to increase his profits through agriculture, much in the way the English did. Basile had never thought his sister would fit into such a bucolic lifestyle, but he had to own she seemed perfectly happy.

"You may say your piece in front of me if you wish, Zoé," Thérèse said at last. "I am not at all fatigued. I may even serve as chaperone."

Zoé's smile seemed to dim for a brief instant, but Basile was sure only he noticed it. "Wonderful," she replied.

She continued on with more innocent chatter while a servant brought refreshments, and Basile resigned himself to the inevitable, whatever that might be. A lengthy discussion that little interested him? Allusions to his farce that would only make him uncomfortable? Without Zoé, he could sort out how and what to tell his sister—this, and in his own timing.

"What do you think of Basile's engagement?" Zoé asked, cutting through a brief silence. Her eyes brimmed above her cup.

Basile coughed and spit some of his tea back in his cup as Thérèse turned to him. There was a short, stunned silence, then?—

"Impossible!" Her eyes opened wide with the shock of it. "You—engaged? You must be joking."

Instead of answering her, he turned to Zoé. "I haven't exactly had time to speak of it, given that she has only just arrived. Perhaps you wish to come to the point of why you have called?" he added dangerously. He could throttle her.

"I was wondering if you had received the invitation from the queen for the repas de fian?ailles she wishes to throw for you." Zoé smiled at him, seeming to enjoy his discomfort.

Basile's mouth dropped open and he was bereft of speech for nearly a full minute. The queen wished to take a hand in his engagement? That was disastrous! He stood and rang a bell for a servant. "Bring me my courrier at once," he told him.

"Oui, monsieur."

"Who is this woman that has caught your fancy?" Thérèse asked. "I can scarcely believe you have decided to settle down. I have been waiting for it for an age! But why did you not write of it?"

It was foolish, perhaps, but Basile had hoped to avoid telling his sister at all, considering it was not a true betrothal. Zoé must have known it because she smirked at him over her cup.

The servant hurried back into the drawing room with a small pile of correspondence in hand, and Basile reached out for it as he decided on a reply. "I wished to tell you in person, of course."

His mood soured at the lie. He did not like telling falsehoods to his sister, but strangely nor did he wish to rush and tell her the betrothal was not real. She would have to find out when it was announced that he and Sophie had parted ways. She would have to learn of it as the queen did…

Basile pulled out a letter with a royal seal, his heart sinking. The words in it were clear. This was nothing short of a command—that could be read between the lines. The queen was looking for an excuse to inaugurate the Petit Trianon as her own, now that the former king's mistress and her rival, Madame Du Barry, had been sent away. She was also probably hoping to relieve the tedium of the court mourning through a private party.

"Well?" Basile prompted Zoé, now that he had read the invitation.

"I came to see if you could secure an invitation for me—and perhaps one for Charles as well," Zoé said. "And you should visit Sophie, for she is naturally unnerved by the thought of dining with the queen. She will need your support."

Thérèse was tired of being ignored. "Basile, tell me at once. Who is this Sophie? Do I know her? Why is the queen holding your engagement dinner?"

Basile rested the open letter on his knee. "Sophie Twisden is English, and she is visiting Paris. The queen is undoubtedly looking for a way to enliven Versailles that will not cause her censure for stepping out of strict mourning. She wishes to host a private party that will unite the English in Paris—along with their ambassador, whom she well likes—and will include some of the French nobles. And what better occasion than to celebrate the betrothal of a marquis who was not thought to marry for years? It has the hallmark of success."

"What is this Sophie like?" Thérèse persisted.

Basile shot Zoé a look, which she had no trouble interpreting as she lowered her guilty eyes into her cup. She knew how little he appreciated that she had brought up the engagement at all.

"She is…belle, talentueuse, charmante. She speaks French with great fluency. You will surely like her," he said at last. He might be pretending about the engagement, but he had no need to pretend about her charms. They were in abundance.

"Do you think you can secure an invitation for me?" Zoé asked again.

He would like to have punished her for coming to stir up trouble, but the truth was, her presence would comfort Sophie.

"I will do my best." He narrowed his eyes on her. "But failing that, why do you not ask the Comte deVaudreuil? I saw the two of you quite cozy at the Delbosc's supper."

Zoé colored, and her face took on a somber tone he was unused to seeing in her. "I do not wish to further my acquaintance with him. I depend on you to secure me an invitation."

Basile did not pry. It likely had something to do with Charles. He had not missed the way the Englishman had left the evening of the opera, his face like a thundercloud after watching Zoé flirt shamelessly with the earl. Perhaps Zoé was finally understanding what sort of a man he was. It occurred to Basile in a belated way that Sophie never flirted with anyone but him, not that he had seen.

"I will ask the Duc d'Orléans, and see if he might procure one," Basile said.

When Zoé took her leave, Thérèse eyed him with speculation. "So you have found a wife at last. It took you long enough after Claudia." After a moment, she added simply, "I am glad."

This was the moment to say something that would sow seeds of doubt that the engagement was not on such solid footing as everyone might believe, but he did not have the heart for it. The thought of ending the engagement was no longer a matter of course. In fact, if they were not already engaged, he quite thought he might like to court Sophie. And since he was not ready to be married, the idea was not worth dwelling on.

At last, Thérèse went to rest from the journey. Basile spent a short time with Achille, discussing the agricultural practices he was implementing, which at any other time would have interested him. Before his brother-in-law could be carried away by the topic, Basile had to plead a prior engagement so he could escape. And a short while later, he was knocking on Sophie's door. There, it was no surprise that he found her in the garden, her grandmother also having chosen to rest in the heat of the afternoon.

Sophie looked up when he strode out to her, then stood. Her gown was one of her more cheerful ones with broad stripes of cherry red and pink. It would have been impossible to walk out in it just now when the mood of Paris was somber, but he had to own how well she looked in it. Her expression, however, was wan.

He bowed over her hand, stopping short of kissing it but did not immediately let go. The idea of courtship had intruded once again in his thoughts. Despite himself, his heart beat a faster rhythm when he found himself near her. Perhaps he should suggest the idea of making their betrothal real.

"Did Zoé come to see you?" she asked.

He nodded. "And informed my sister of our engagement." He smiled at her ruefully, but she did not return it.

"What shall we do?" she asked simply. "It has all become so complicated. First my grandmother asking to live with you, then your sister learning of it. And now the queen is bringing our match into the highest public sphere with a dinner. It seems to me a dilemma entangled beyond remedy."

Basile stared at her, his heart heavy with her unhappiness. She did not deserve to be burdened with such worries, and it was fully his fault. "Won't you sit beside me?" he asked, giving her hand a light tug toward the stone bench.

She sat in a rustle of silk, and he sat beside her, careful not to sit as closely as before for fear it might result in the very thing that happened at the opera. His gaze fell to her dimpled chin, her elegant nose, her large brown eyes, and he absorbed all the details of her profile until she turned his way. He still had not answered her question. How was he going to get them safely through the court and society intrigue? Perhaps there was a simpler way. What once had been unthinkable, now seemed…not quite so.

"I promised I would see you through this." He shut his eyes for a moment as he gathered his courage. "I have asked once before, but I will ask again. Are you sure you do not wish to become betrothed in earnest? I never meant to compromise you by my prank."

"No!" she said, too suddenly as she turned her face forward.

His heart stuttered to a halt. He had almost thought she might wish for it. Without entirely being certain of his own feelings, he had begun to wish…oh, he did not know precisely what he wished for. It was too monumental to think it was marriage at this precise point in life. But he wished he could somehow continue to have Sophie Twisden in his life in some capacity. He wished she had not rejected him so summarily. That she did was more than a blow to his pride. It was a disappointment.

"No," she said again more calmly. "I have no wish for a betrothal that was established either to serve a pecuniary service or a convenient one. I merely wish to be guided by you on how to get through this dinner and its after-effects without enduring censure."

The fire he had felt the night of the opera fizzled. In its place was a sort of cold disappointment. He swallowed and brought his stare to the fountain in the corner of the garden whose bubbling sound filled the silence that had fallen. It was not until she had rejected his sincere offer that something like hurt pierced his chest. And yet, he would have to honor her by doing what she asked. He took in a silent breath, then let it out.

"We continue the charade until the end and convince the queen. We show all of society how deep are our feelings for one another, and then we shall have our fight and subsequent break-up. It will be out of sight of the public eye, for we do not want a scandal. But we will be sure that the reason that spreads is one of our choosing."

He turned to her, so she could see his determination. "And as I promised, I will see you safely back to England. You have nothing to fear."

"You are most gallant," she replied, her voice revealing none of the playfulness he had come to know in her.

He could understand why. He had been anything but gallant in forcing this sham betrothal on her, and she was the one to suffer for it.