Chapter 2

Sophie bore with Sheldon's diatribe on the impertinence of the entire French race on the way back to their lodgings. She had not thought it a considerable distance when they had decided to walk to the other bank of the Seine to try this notable patisserie, but she had not crossed three streets before she wished him elsewhere.

Hm!What was the name of the attractive Frenchman, again? M. Basile Germain? No—Gervain. Of course it would be astonishing if she'd had any wits to spare after the way he singled her out with those clear blue eyes that seemed to stare straight into a person. His eyes were as blue as the waters of Cornwall. Whatever had possessed him to address her like that? She, who must be considered a nobody in Paris where she had no connections. He had spoken of rescuing her in that teasing way of his. Had he heard her irreverent slip of the tongue when referring to Sheldon as stupid, which she should not have done? It was ill-bred of her, she knew.

A lady never reveals her true feelings and never allows her composure to slip for an instant.Her governess might have left the post two years prior, but her oft-repeated words were firmly embedded in Sophie's conscience.

"I hope you are not thinking of attending that card party the foreigner spoke of." Sheldon's sudden switch from cataloging the peculiar manners of the French to his direct interrogation regarding this one in particular pierced her mental wanderings.

"If my grandmother wishes to attend, I will, of course, accompany her." This was the safest reply.

"You are not likely to receive an invitation," was his sure retort. "The event is tomorrow night, and this Madame Duby-something does not know us."

"Basile is a marquis." Sophie's outward shrug hid her private amusement at owning to the stranger's intimacy as though it were real. "He will likely achieve what he desires."

"You never mentioned having any acquaintances in Paris when we planned this trip." They crossed in front of the imposing edifice of St. Eustache church just as the bells began to ring, their deep clangs chiming from the belfry.

His tone had turned petulant the way it did whenever he felt himself thwarted. Sheldon Cholmsley had an unaccountably high opinion of his own worth and could not imagine that someone might not be in perfect accord with him on all points. He had always been a familiar figure in their house as a favorite of her father's, and she knew her grandmother was beholden to him for escorting them to Paris. If only her grandmother did not frequently cause Sophie's throat to close by encouraging a match, she might be able to laugh off his inflated self-importance. As it was, their nearly week-long travel together to reach Paris had only served to convince Sophie that she would not—could not—choose a life yoked to this man, even compared to one that bordered on destitution.

"To own the truth," Sophie answered at last, "he left London shortly after our acquaintance, and I understood he was headed for Scotland, so I did not look for him here."

If this conversation were to continue, it would tax Sophie"s imagination. It was harmless, really. The marquis had tossed a ball her way in a game she did not understand, and she was merely tossing it on. Something was needed to make the summer heat and Sheldon Cholmsley more bearable.

Mercifully, their conversation drifted to safer ground, and when they finally reached their lodgings, Sophie was relieved to bid him farewell. She assured him her grandmother must still be resting and that it was not opportune to prolong their time together. She entered their rented rooms, situated on the ground floor of the terraced house. It was not as large as the one next door that Sheldon was occupying, but she found it vastly more charming. The cool air greeted her as soon as she stepped out of the sun into the dim entryway. She untied her flat bergère straw hat and set it on the caned chair near the entrance.

"Grandmama?"

Her voice echoed, and she heard a rustling movement from the bedroom on the far end of the house. The wooden soles of her shoes sounded on the stone floor as she traversed the corridor, her eyes on the picturesque garden visible through the glass door at the far end. She turned from the corridor to one of the bedrooms, where her grandmother was resting. Mrs. Twisden, typically indomitable despite her advanced age, portrayed a wilted appearance as she sat in the armchair. She greeted her granddaughter with a faint smile.

"Are you better for having rested?" Sophie sat on the side of her grandmother's bed nearest to the chair, her green skirt spilling out on either side of her. She lifted one of the two packages she had collected from Sheldon. "And despite your assurance that you wished for nothing, I knew as soon as I laid eyes on the babas that I could not return home without one for you."

"Bring that round table here," her grandmother said, her eyes on the wrapped package. "And see if Mary has returned from her attempt to buy provisions. She went out to try to purchase a few things, although she said they would not understand one word she spoke, nor she them."

Sophie set the two wrapped pastries on the bed—their accommodations might be charming, but they were small—and dragged the three-legged table over in front of her grandmother. Then she placed the two packages on top of it and tweaked the ribbon.

"I don't believe Mary has returned, for there was no noise coming from the kitchen. However, I know just as well as she does how to heat water, provided the fire is still burning. I shall fetch us some tea and plates."

Sophie did not wait for her grandmother's reply, but went into the kitchen, where she easily brought water to a boil and set out the tea things as the sounds of Mary's arrival reached her.

"Oh miss, let me help you with that." The maid set down her bundle of purchases, including vegetables and a chicken in need of plucking, continuing in a pleasant monologue about how the French were not so bad in their own way. One only had to point to things and they understood each other very well.

Sophie contributed her mite, thinking with wry amusement that Mary had fared better than Sheldon in that regard. But then, she supposed it really had to do with one's decision to make the attempt. That and a jot of humility.

Mary lifted the tray of tea and brought it into the bedroom, clucking over Sophie's persistence in bringing a third plate for her to try the French cake. She could not have persuaded Sheldon to waste his sous on a pastry that would be "cast away on a mere servant" but then neither she nor her grandmother ate so much they would be reluctant to share. The only thing Mary did insist upon was to enjoy her tea and pastry in the kitchen so she might think about how she would set up her domain for the three months they were to remain in Paris.

When it was just the two of them, Sophie recounted her walk with Sheldon, detailing where they had been and what they had seen, with her grandmother interrupting the recital with recollections and questions. She neatly left out all mention of striking up conversations with strange men, no matter how charming the man was.

"Sheldon does not appear to be any nearer to desiring to learn the French language than when we first set foot on the shores of Calais," Sophie observed with a smirk that she hid in her teacup. "He practically yelled at the tradeswoman in Stohrer, hoping that an increase in the volume of his voice might bring about her sudden fluency in the English tongue."

Her grandmother set her spoon down and allowed a contented smile to settle on her face as she savored the cake. But she had not missed the censure in Sophie's tone.

"I must say, this is as delicious as I had remembered it. Sophie, I am well aware that you view the notion of marriage to Sheldon Cholmsley with less than enthusiasm, but I hope you will consider the matter wisely."

When her grandmother stopped short, courtesy forced Sophie to prod her to continue.

"We are in somewhat straitened circumstances, and…well, we would not have been able to visit Paris without his help. It was the height of kindness for him to escort us here, though he has little love of travel, and allow me to see my beloved city before I die."

"Grandmama, please do not talk in such a way," Sophie could not help but interject. "I hope it will be many more years before such a thing occurs."

"We shall see," Mrs. Twisden said, not to be deterred. "You have inherited a house, but not a large enough income to live comfortably in it. I do not wish for you to discover what poverty is like. And although you are a girl with a lively personality which, I suppose, little accords with Sheldon's sober nature, I believe you will not find a life of scarcity to your liking."

"I suppose you are right," Sophie replied to an argument she was hearing not for the first time. She exhaled. "We may be invited to a card party by Madame Dubigny tomorrow night. Would you care to go?"

Her grandmother glanced at her sharply. "Dubigny? I believe I know her. How did you come by this invitation?"

"Oh," Sophie stalled. She would not lie to her grandmother if she could help it, but it was awkward. "We met the Marquis de Verdelle. A Monsieur Gervain it was, and he promised to have invitations sent."

By some small miracle, her grandmother did not request how they came by the introduction when they knew no one in Paris, but continued to wonder whether the Mme Dubigny was not the former Mademoiselle Paineaux. And were that indeed the case, whether she might not be assured of meeting friends from those early days before she had married Mr. Twisden and permanently retired from the Paris scene. The reminiscence caused her grandmother to brighten, and her conversation took on a decidedly more cheerful tone. Later, she came to the table for dinner, although en déshabille with a loose dressing gown, in a further sign of hope that anticipation of their first invitation had brought her strength back in force.

Sophie supposed she should have been surprised that the invitations to Madame Dubigny's party did indeed come that evening, but somehow when Mary opened the door to a visitor bearing the gilded cards she was not. It only confirmed her idea that M. Gervain was a resourceful man. She couldn't help but grow eager to meet him again.

The next day, Mrs. Twisden showed slight signs of being unwell. When Sophie helped her grandmother up, she found her warm to the touch. Given this development, she thought it unwise for them to attend the party. However, her grandmother refused to be deterred and Sophie hadn't the heart to insist. Mrs. Twisden was now sure Berthe Paineaux was indeed the Madame Dubigny, for she recalled the circumstances of her friend's betrothal and even recognised the address on the invitation. It did not matter how low she might be feeling, nothing for the world would allow her to miss seeing her old friend again.

Sheldon had begrudgingly agreed to attend, particularly when he had gone to the embassy that afternoon and had there discovered the ambassador himself would go. It was close enough to walk, except that Sophie did not wish to subject her grandmother to the fatigue of it and requested Sheldon to have his hired horses put to.

Her grandmother had donned a pale lilac gown that lent her a youthful air, but from what Sophie could catch from her soft mutterings, she seemed to be somewhat fearful of appearing old. As for Sophie, she wore one of the pretty gowns her grandmother had commissioned for her before they'd left London. She had not thought they would have the means for a new wardrobe, but her grandmother had surprised her. There was nothing like a becoming gown to fill a girl's heart with happy anticipation. Her evening dress was of a dark pink rose color with white laces criss-crossing above the stomacher, and the paler pink underskirt was patterned with white flowers. Would she appear as fashionable as the French? That was her main preoccupation.

That, and…would the marquis find it becoming?

Upon their arrival, a majordome ushered them into a drawing room full of people, who all turned to stare at them.

The first thing Sophie noticed was the absence of color in the room. It brought her grandmother up short, who must have noticed the same thing. The people turned toward them were clothed in blacks and the darkest of grays. Why, of course! The late king had only been dead these six weeks—much more recent than their months spent preparing for the voyage, making up all the fashionable gowns such a journey would require. There had been little evidence of mourning on their journey to the capital, but here in the glittering crowd of the noblesse and the gentilhommes, they must of course don their blacks. Sophie did not read direct censure on their faces, but she felt it all the same.

It appeared her grandmother did as well, for as Sophie took her arm, she felt the flush of heat. In another instant, Madame Dubigny moved forward to greet them with a smile. Mrs. Twisden curtsied and was already murmuring her excuses for their lapse in etiquette, but her friend brushed it off in her delight at being reunited after so many long years.

Sophie allowed her gaze to roam the crowd as the older women spoke. Adjacent to the large drawing room were two other decently sized rooms where guests were already seated to games of cards, and those in view had turned to look at her too. Embarrassing as it was to stick out so sorely, there was nothing to do now but put up a bold front or turn tail and run. Sheldon, the most ostentatious of them all in an impossibly shiny yellow satin, cleared his throat and moved with purpose toward someone he recognized from the embassy. She felt the relief of his departure immediately.

Then, a hand was at her elbow, and the marquis was bowing at her side, his deep blue eyes more compelling than she had remembered. Her heart decided an accelerated rhythm was called for.

"Sophie, I have been hoping you would come so we might renew our acquaintance."

"Our long acquaintance," she murmured with the lift of an eyebrow, calming her first reaction of pleasure to more subdued levels.

He laughed. "Of course. It has been an age. You look as lovely as you always did."

His impertinence knew no bounds, but she could only be thankful for the diversion of it. Behavior she must shun in London, she could not in Paris. Her voyage had been one of quiet suffering as Sheldon had claimed increasing intimacy by taking her arm and dogging her steps wherever she went. Basile gifted her with the ability to laugh at convention, to be pleased, and she welcomed its freedom. Besides that, it seemed to shield her from the scrutiny of the French society gathered for the card party as people began to turn their attention elsewhere.

She leaned in and murmured, "I should have noticed that you and your friends were wearing mourning clothes yesterday and taken the hint. We arrived in Paris only the day before that."

"The black serves to draw the heat, but it is unavoidable." He waved his fingers for a servant to bring a glass of something for her to drink. It was a cold, light Chablis that refreshed without being too strong.

"In truth, the king's death is the only reason I have come to Paris. Otherwise, I would be at my home in the Champagne region." He bowed again, a practiced gallantry that he softened with a wink. "But then I should not have had the felicity of meeting you."

She smiled at his empty compliment and shook her head, switching suddenly to English. "I have been wondering what had prompted you to seek the acquaintance. I can only guess some sort of a lark?"

"A lark—a bird?" He drew his brows together, and with his dark features and clear eyes focused on her, only appeared more handsome.

She lifted her chin as she smiled, determined to keep up the flirtation and not let him know how much his steady regard caused her nerves to stretch taut.

"A lark as in a game."

He smiled, his teeth impossibly white, then stepped closer to her, causing her nerves to spring loose. She was enveloped in the scent he wore. Spices—but not of the heavy sweet kind, which she despised. She could not explain it to herself. He broke all proper boundaries and all physical barriers, but he was not dangerous. She could sense he was not. There was a sweetness to his smile.

"Yes, ma chère Sophie. It was a game, but I mean you no harm, I assure you. You seemed too lovely to be chained to that balourd—forgive me."

"Forgiven," she replied promptly. "Were he less imposing upon my peace, I should be more generous with my patience."

"Monsieur Gervain, do introduce me to your lovely English companion."

It was a light feminine voice that had spoken, and Sophie turned her eyes to a young woman, who presented a stunning tableau, from her black gown with white trim to her bright blue eyes and white powdered hair. On her, the somber color was dramatic. She looked ravishing, and Sophie reminded herself to leave off flirting with the marquis in her presence or come off looking the fool. This woman was his match—she was not.

"Mademoiselle Zoé Sainte-Croix, allow me to present you to Mademoiselle Sophie Twisden, an Englishwoman whose acquaintance I am delighted to rekindle after an absence of two years."

Sophie's smile faltered for only an instant. She did not wish for her grandmother to get wind of the falsehood she had, on impulse, allowed to continue. Mrs. Twisden surely would if the introductions continued in this way.

"You may as well address each other by Zoé and Sophie," he went on, "since I have a feeling we are going to be in frequent company this summer, and there is nothing more tedious than Mademoiselle Ceci and Mademoiselle Cela."

Sophie hesitated. To address each other by their given names would be to claim instant friendship with a woman she did not know—and one who was more likely to capture the marquis' heart than she was. But then, what did she have to lose in this foreign city? It was not like the marquis was hers, anyway.

She smiled at Zoé, determined to offer unguarded friendship until the woman should otherwise prove unworthy of it. "You are most welcome to use my Christian name if it suits you. I do not mind."

Zoé returned the overture with warmth and assured her she should be only too glad and hoped to learn where she was staying so she might visit. Sophie had not yet had time to offer a reply when the sounds of Sheldon's voice from behind caused her to stiffen.

"Sophie, come. I must present you to all the Englishmen and women here."

She lifted her eyes to Basile, then Zoé, and continued in French. "As you have heard, I have been summoned. I am staying at 10 rue des Saints in the Faubourg de Saint Germain, and I would be delighted to receive you." Her words were directed at Zoé alone, for as much as she had forayed outside of the strictest respectability by such bold flirtation, she would not be so improper as to invite him.

But as she followed behind Sheldon, her thoughts became muddled. She had not realized how much she had taken a liking to the marquis until the appearance of the beautiful Frenchwoman—who was clearly on the best of terms with him—made evident how foolish she was to hold out for anything beyond a mere friendship.