From Courtesan To Convenient Wife
From Courtesan To Convenient Wife
Marguerite Kaye
Every woman wants to marry him…But what if he's already taken?In this Matches Made in Scandal story Jean-Luc Bauduin, Parisian society’s most eligible bachelor, is determined only to take a wife of his choosing. And until that day comes he’ll ward off his admirers by hiring Lady Sophia Acton to wear his ring! The passion Jean-Luc shares with his convenient bride is enormously satisfying—until he discovers Sophia’s utterly scandalous past!
Every woman wants to marry him
But what if he is already taken?
In this Matches Made in Scandal story, Jean-Luc Bauduin, Parisian society’s most eligible bachelor, is determined to take only a wife of his choosing. But until that day comes, he’ll ward off his admirers by hiring Lady Sophia Acton to wear his ring! The passion Jean-Luc shares with his convenient bride is enormously satisfying—until he discovers Sophia’s utterly scandalous past!
Matches Made in Scandal series:
From Governess to Countess
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
More books in the series coming soon!
“This sweet and hot duet set at the holiday Brockmore Ball is the perfect pick-me-up. Kaye’s tender tale of redemption touches readers’ hearts.”
—RT Book Reviews on Scandal at the Christmas Ball
“Readers will be seduced by the passionate natures of the protagonists, and the fast-paced, thrilling adventure.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Harlot and the Sheikh
MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost fifty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com (http://www.margueritekaye.com).
Also by Marguerite Kaye
Scandal at the Midsummer BallScandal at the Christmas Ball
Comrades in Arms miniseries
The Soldier’s Dark SecretThe Soldier’s Rebel Lover
Hot Arabian Nights miniseries
The Widow and the SheikhSheikh’s Mail-Order BrideThe Harlot and the SheikhClaiming His Desert Princess
Matches Made in Scandal miniseries
From Governess to CountessFrom Courtesan to Convenient Wife
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
Marguerite Kaye
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07357-8
FROM COURTESAN TO CONVENIENT WIFE
© 2018 Marguerite Kaye
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Paris, City of Light, city of romance and my favourite city in the world.
Je t’adore.
Contents
Cover (#ua5db0520-5718-5455-84cf-3d02e8883679)
Back Cover Text (#ued6f3520-46dc-50a6-be00-5c6312a9d939)
About the Author (#u7c7c4d57-7736-587a-ba24-05583ff2b76a)
Booklist (#u248fb66e-72fb-51a7-9ce9-6e35bd77bd0d)
Title Page (#u4978e6b4-7460-5b50-bfda-45a0119b92dc)
Copyright (#ue87c61c4-4bd1-54e1-b3f8-0780083e9ef9)
Dedication (#u5e8da46e-39ed-5838-8420-dd1ad8648f06)
Prologue (#ufa5aa2eb-62f2-5714-8807-10bf93c06814)
Chapter One (#u2df04995-b9f3-5a28-a5ea-711696d0fa47)
Chapter Two (#ub9d8499e-7d24-5523-a097-02dd5225fdc9)
Chapter Three (#ubc25fa81-d275-51d1-8dc8-a2b4a40d16bf)
Chapter Four (#u0f3d2974-5de0-5487-a182-d4d8a028fe49)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
London—May 1818
The house that was her destination was located on Upper Wimpole Street, on the very edge of what was considered to be respectable London. The woman known as The Procurer stepped down lightly from her barouche, ordering her coachman to wait until she had successfully secured entry, then to return for her in an hour. An hour, The Procurer knew from experience, was more than sufficient time to conclude her unique business. One way or another.
Number Fourteen was situated at the far end of the terrace. A shallow flight of steps led to the front door, but the entrance to the basement she sought was around the corner, on Devonshire Street. The Procurer descended the steep stairs cautiously. Despite the bright sunshine of the late spring morning, it was cool down here, dank and gloomy. The curtains were pulled tight over the single, dirty window. A fleck of paint fell from the door when she let the rusty knocker fall.
There was no reply. She rapped again, her eyes on the window, and was rewarded with the ripple of a curtain as the person behind it tried to peer out at her unobserved. She stood calmly, allowing herself to be surveyed, sadly accustomed to the reticence of the women she sought out to welcome unsolicited visitors. The reasons were manifold, but fear lay at the root of all of them.
The Procurer offered an escape route from their tribulations to those women whose particular skills or traits suited her current requirements. The exclusive temporary contracts she offered provided those who satisfied her criteria with the funds to make a fresh start, though what form that would take was always entirely up to them. The unique business she had established was very lucrative and satisfying too, on the whole, though there were occasions when The Procurer despaired of the tiny impact her altruism had, when set against the myriad injustices the world perpetrated against women. Today, however, she was in a positive mood. A new client, another extraordinary request to test her reputation for making the impossible possible. She had heard of Lady Sophia Acton’s spectacular fall from grace and had wondered, at the time, what had been the cause of it. Now, thanks to her spider’s web of contacts, she understood only too well. Her heart was touched—as much as that frozen organ could be, that is.
The Procurer gave a little nod to herself. She could not, she thought wryly, have designed a more appropriate task for the woman if she tried. Who had by now, she judged, had more than sufficient time to decide that her visitor was neither her landlady come to evict her, nor a lady of another sort come to harass her. It was time for Lady Sophia Acton to come out of hiding and return to the world. Albeit a very different one from that which she had previously inhabited.
The Procurer rapped on the door again, and this time her patience was rewarded, as she had known it would be. The woman who answered was tall and willowy, dressed in an outmoded gown of faded worsted which might originally have been either grey, blue or brown, and which was far too warm for the season. Her silver-blonde hair was fixed in a careless knot on top of her head from which long, wispy tendrils had escaped, framing her heart-shaped face. The wide-spaced eyes under her perfectly arched brows were extraordinary: almond-shaped, dark-lashed, the colour of lapis lazuli. There were dark shadows beneath them, and her skin had the fragility of one who slept little, but none the less Lady Sophia Acton was one of the most beautiful women The Procurer had ever encountered. It was an ethereal beauty, the type which would bring out the protective nature in some men, though more often than not, she thought darkly, the fine line between protection and exploitation would easily be crossed. Men would assume that Lady Sophia Acton’s fragile appearance equated to a fragile mind. Meeting the woman’s steady gaze, The Procurer thought very much otherwise.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
The questions were perfunctory, the tone brusque. Lady Sophia had no time for social niceties, which suited The Procurer very well. She insinuated herself through the narrow opening, closing the door firmly behind her. ‘They call me The Procurer,’ she said. ‘And I want to put a business proposition to you.’
* * *
Sophia stared at the intruder in astonishment. This elegant, sophisticated woman was the elusive Procurer?
‘You are thinking that I look nothing like the creature of your imagination,’ her uninvited guest said. ‘Or perhaps I flatter myself. Perhaps you have not heard of me?’
‘I doubt there is anyone in London who has not heard of you, though how many have had the honour of making your acquaintance is a another matter. Your reputation for clandestine dealings goes before you.’
‘More of the great and the good use my services than you might imagine, or they would care to admit. Discretion, however, is what I insist upon above all. Whatever the outcome of our meeting today, Lady Sophia, I must have your promise that you will never talk of it.’
Sophia laughed at this. ‘Madam, you must be aware, for since you know my name you must also know of my notoriety, that there is no one who would listen even if I did. Those with a reputation to guard will cross the street to avoid me, while those who wish to further tarnish my reputation have no interest in my opinions on any subject.’
As she spoke, she led her visitor into the single room which had been her home for the last three weeks. The fourth home she had occupied in the months since her return from France, each one smaller, dingier and less genteel than the preceding one. It was only a matter of time before she was expelled from her current abode, for London, despite being a big city was in reality a small place, and London’s respectable landladies were even smaller-minded.
‘I am afraid that my accommodation does not run to a parlour,’ Sophia said, drawing out one of her two wooden chairs. ‘A woman in my position, it seems, has no right to comfort.’
‘No.’ The Procurer took the seat, pulling off her kid gloves and untying the ribbon of her poke bonnet. ‘A woman in your position, Lady Sophia, has very few options. I take it, from your humble surroundings, that you have decided against the obvious solution to your penury?’
‘You do not mince your words,’ Sophia replied, irked to feel her cheeks heating.
‘I find that it is better to be blunt, when conducting my business,’ The Procurer replied with a slight smile. ‘That way there is no room for misconceptions.’
Sophia took her own seat opposite. ‘Very well then, I will tell you that your assumption is correct. I have decided—I am determined—not to avail myself of the many lucrative offers I have received since my return to London. I was forced into that particular occupation for one very important reason. That reason...’
Despite herself, her throat constricted. Under the table, she curled her hands into fists. She swallowed hard. ‘That reason no longer exists. Therefore I will never—never—demean myself in that manner again, no matter how straitened my circumstances. So if you have come here in order to plead some man’s cause, then I’m afraid your journey has been a wasted one.’
Tears burned in her eyes, yet Sophia met her visitor’s gaze, defying her to offer sympathy. The Procurer merely nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘I have come here to plead on behalf of a man, but my proposal is not what you imagine. The services he requires of you are not of that nature. To be clear, you would be required to put on a performance, but quite explicitly not in the bedchamber. The role is a taxing one, but I think you will be perfect for it.’
Sophia laughed bitterly. ‘I am certainly adept at acting. The entire duration of my last—engagement—was a performance, nothing more.’
‘Something we have in common. I too have earned a living from performing. The Procurer you see before you is a façade, a persona I have been forced to adopt.’
Which remark begged any number of questions. Sophia, however, hesitated. There was empathy in the woman’s expression—but also a clear warning that some things were better left unspoken. Locking such things away in the dark recesses of memory, never to be exposed to scrutiny, was the best way to deal with them, as she knew only too well. Sophia uncurled her fists, clasping her hands together on the table. ‘I will be honest with you, Madam, and trust that your reputation for discretion is well earned. A woman in my position has, as you have pointed out, very few options, and even fewer resources. I do not know in what capacity I can be of service to you, but if I can do so without compromising what is left of my honour, then I will gladly consider your offer.’
Once again, The Procurer gave a little nod, though whether it was because she was satisfied with Sophia’s answer, or because Sophia had answered as she expected, there could be no telling. ‘What I can tell you is that the monetary reward for the fulfilment of your contract, should you choose to accept the commission, would be more than sufficient to secure your future, whatever form that might take.’
‘Frankly, I have no idea. At present, my only future plans are to survive day to day.’ But oh, Sophia thought, how much she would like to be able to discover for herself what the future might hold. Six months ago, bereft and utterly alone, raw with grief, she had been so low that she had no thought at all for the future. But life went on, and as it proceeded and her meagre funds dwindled, Sophia had not been able to look beyond the next month, the next week, the next day. Now, it seemed that a miracle might just be about to happen. The Procurer, that patroness of fallen women, was sitting opposite her and offering her a chance of redemption. ‘I have no idea what the future holds,’ Sophia repeated, with a slow smile, ‘but I do know that I want it, and that whatever it is, I want it to belong to me, and to no one else.’
‘Something else we have in common, then, Lady Sophia.’ This time The Procurer’s smile was warm. She reached over to touch Sophia’s hand. ‘I am aware of your circumstances, my dear, including the reason you were compelled to act as you did. You do not deserve to have paid such a high price, but sadly that is the way of our world. I cannot change that, but I do believe we can be of mutual benefit to each other. You do understand,’ she added, resuming her business-like tone, ‘that I am not offering you charity?’
‘And I am certain that you understand, for you seem to have investigated my background thoroughly, that I would not accept charity even if it was offered,’ Sophia retorted.
‘Then indeed, we understand each other very well.’
‘Not quite that well, Madam. I am as yet completely in the dark regarding this role you think me so perfectly suited for. What is it that you require me to do?’
But The Procurer held up her hand. ‘A few non-negotiable ground rules first, Lady Sophia. I will guarantee you complete anonymity. My client has no right to know your personal history other than that which is pertinent to the assignment or which you yourself choose to divulge. In return, you will give him your unswerving loyalty. We will discuss your terms shortly, but you must know that you will be paid only upon successful completion of your assignment. Half-measures will not be rewarded. If you leave before the task is completed, you will return to England without remuneration.’
‘Return to England?’ Sophia repeated, somewhat dazed. ‘You require me to travel abroad?’
‘All in good time. I must have your word, Lady Sophia.’
‘You have it, Madam, rest assured. Now, will you put me out of my misery and explain what it is that is required of me and who this mysterious client of yours is.’
Chapter One (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
Paris—ten days later
The carriage which had transported Sophia all the way from Calais drew to a halt in front of a stone portal surmounted by a pediment on which carved lions’ heads roared imperiously. The gateway’s huge double doors were closed. Was this her final destination? They had passed through one of the entrance gates to the city some time ago, following the course of the bustling River Seine, which allowed her to catch a glimpse of the imposing edifice which she assumed was Notre Dame cathedral. Despite this, Sophia still couldn’t quite believe she was actually here, in Paris.
The days since her momentous meeting with The Procurer had passed in a blur of activity as her papers were organised, her travel arrangements confirmed, and her packing completed. Not that she’d had much packing to do. The costumes required for her to carry out her new duties would be provided by the man who presumably awaited her on the other side of those doors. The man to whom she was bound for the duration of the contract. The shudder of revulsion was instinctive and quickly repressed. This contract was a world away from the last, less formal and much more distasteful, one she had reluctantly entered into to, she reminded herself. The Procurer had promised her that her stipulated terms would be honoured. Though she must do his bidding in public, this man had no right to any part of her, mind or body, in private. So it was not the same. This man was not Sir Richard Hopkins. The services he was paying for were radically different in nature. And when it was over, she would be truly free for the first time in her life.
The butterflies which had been slowly building in her stomach from early this morning, when she had quit the last of the posting houses to embark on the final leg of her journey, began to flutter wildly as Sophia saw the huge doors swing inward and one of the grooms opened the carriage door and folded down the steps. Gathering up the folds of her travelling gown she descended, glad of his steadying hand, for her nervous anticipation was palpable.
‘Monsieur awaits you, madame,’ the servant informed her.
‘Merci,’ Sophia replied, summoning up what she hoped was an appropriately eager smile, thanking the man in his own language for taking care of her during the journey. The servant bowed. She heard the carriage door slam, the clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones as it headed for the stables.
Bracing herself, Sophia prepared to make her entrance. The hôtel particulier which she assumed was to be her temporary home was beautiful. Built around the courtyard in which she now stood, there were three wings, each with the steeply pitched roof and tall windows in the French baroque style, the walls softened with a cladding of ivy. The courtyard was laid out with two parterres of box hedging cut into an elaborate swirling design which, seen from above, she suspected, would form some sort of crest. The main entrance to the hôtel was on her left-hand side. At the top of a set of shallow steps, the open doorway was guarded by a winged marble statue. And standing beside the statue, a man.
Late afternoon sunlight glinted down, dazzling her eyes. She had the absurd idea that as long as she stood rooted to the spot, time would stand still. Just long enough for her to quell her fears, which were hardly unjustified, given her experience. Men wanted but one thing from her. Despite The Procurer’s promises and reassurances, until she could determine for herself that this man was different and posed no threat to her, she would, quite rightly, be on her guard.
Though she must not appear so. Sophia steeled herself. The future, as she had discovered to her cost, did not take care of itself. This was her chance to forge her own. Though she had assumed her new persona in Calais, now she must play it in earnest. She had coped with much worse, performed a far more taxing role. She could do this! Fixing a demure smile on her face for the benefit of anyone watching from the myriad of windows, she made her way across the paved courtyard.
The man she approached was tall, sombrely dressed, the plain clothes drawing attention to an impressive physique. Black hair. Very tanned skin. Younger than she had anticipated for a man so ostentatiously wealthy, no more than thirty-five, perhaps less. As she reached the bottom of the steps, he smiled, and Sophia faltered. He was a veritable Adonis. She felt her skin prickle with heat, an unfamiliar sensation which she attributed to nerves, as he descended to greet her.
Jean-Luc Bauduin, The Procurer’s client and the reason she was here, took her hand, making a show of raising it to his lips, though he kissed the air above her fingertips. ‘You have arrived at last,’ he said in softly accented English. ‘You can have no idea how eagerly I have been anticipating your arrival. Welcome to Paris, Madame Bauduin. It is a relief beyond words to finally meet my new wife.’
* * *
Jean-Luc led the Englishwoman through the tall doors opening on to the terrace, straight into the privacy of the morning room. ‘We may speak freely here,’ he informed her. ‘Tomorrow, we will play out the charade of formal introductions to the household. For now, I think it would be prudent for us to become a little better acquainted, given that you are supposed to be my beloved wife.’ Thinking that it would take a while to accustom himself to this bizarre notion, he motioned for her to take a seat. ‘You must be tired after your long journey. Will you take some tea?’
Though he spoke in English, she answered him in perfect French. ‘Thank you, it has indeed been a long day, that would be delightful.’
‘Your command of our language is an unexpected bonus,’ Jean-Luc said, ‘but when we are alone, I am happy to converse in yours.’
‘You certainly speak it fluently, if I may return the compliment,’ she said, removing her bonnet and gloves.
‘I am required to visit London frequently on matters of business.’
The service was already set out on the table before her, the silver kettle boiling on the spirit stove. His wife—mon Dieu, the woman who was to play his wife!—set about the ritual which the English were so fond of with alacrity, clearly eager to imbibe. In this one assumption, at least, he had been correct.
Jean-Luc took his seat opposite, studying her as she busied herself making tea. Despite the flurry of communications he’d had with The Procurer, there was a part of him that had not believed the woman would be able to deliver someone who perfectly matched his precise requirements, yet here was the living, breathing proof that she had. In fact, in appearance at least, the candidate she had selected had wildly exceeded his expectations. Not that her allure was the salient factor. Finally, after all these weeks of uncertainty and creeping doubt, he could act. Recent events had threatened to turn his world upside down. Now, he could set it to rights again, and the arrival of this woman, his faux wife, was the first significant step in his plan.
Her name was Sophia, one of the few facts The Procurer had shared with him. Of her origins, her life, past or present, he knew nothing. His request had been for a woman whom the society in which he moved would accept as his wife without question, a woman he could credibly have fallen deeply in love with, enough to cast caution to the winds and marry post-haste. His request had been more than satisfied. The woman The Procurer had sent him was the answer to prayers he hadn’t even said.
He had assumed she would be an actress, but looking at her he found it difficult to believe, though he could not say why. Her beauty was quite dazzling, but it was fragile, sylph-like, ethereal, with none of the overblown showiness required to tread the boards. She was slim as a wand, and looked as if she could slip through rain, as the saying went. Her hair seemed almost silver in the glare of the sunlight behind her, her skin almost translucent, her lips soft pink. But it was her eyes which drew the attention, an extraordinary shade of blue, like the Mediterranean in the south, though he would not call it turquoise or cornflower or even azure. He had never seen such a colour.
To his embarrassment, Jean-Luc felt the first stirrings of desire. It had not occurred to him that he would find the woman he had come to think of as his shield attractive. Her stipulation that there should be absolutely no physical intimacy between them had surprised him. His expectations of the role his wife would play most certainly did not extend to his bed, but on reflection, he thought it wise of her to clarify a matter which could easily be open to misinterpretation, and had agreed without hesitation. Though he did not doubt his ability to honour his promise, he wished that The Procurer had not sent him a woman who was the perfect embodiment of desire—or of his desires, at any rate. He did not wish to be sidetracked by passion, even if it was destined to remain utterly unrequited. He could only hope that the amount of time they would be forced to spend in one another’s company would cure him of such inopportune thoughts. What mattered was not what she was, or what effect she had on him, but what she appeared to be to everyone else.
Accepting the Sèvres cup of tea reluctantly, Jean-Luc’s fingers brushed hers. She was icy cold. She had flinched, out there in the courtyard, when he had affected to kiss her hand, though she had tried to conceal it. She was nervous, he expected. Well, so too was he. There was a great deal riding on her arrival.
On her wedding finger, she wore the simple gold band he had asked The Procurer to purchase on his behalf. She sipped her tea delicately. There was a poised refinement in her manner, that made him wonder if her birth was numerous rungs up the pedigree ladder from his own. But why would a gently born and raised female agree to play a French wine merchant’s wife? An intriguing question, though one he had no time to pursue. Whatever her origins, what mattered was that she was here, allowing him to establish his own. The Procurer had chosen well, as he would expect, given her reputation and the large fee she had demanded. A fee he’d happily pay twice, thrice over, if this masquerade of theirs proved effective.
Unthinking, Jean-Luc took a sip of the dishwater so beloved of the English, and immediately set the cup down with an exclamation of distaste. ‘So, madame,’ he said, ‘to business. Perhaps we could begin with what it is you know of the task which lies ahead of you?’
* * *
Sophia set the delicate Sèvres cup down carefully. Despite the tea, her mouth was dry, her heart thudding. To business, he had said, the identical cold phrase that Hopkins had used. But this time she was no ingénue. She cleared her throat. ‘Before we start, Monsieur Bauduin...’
‘Before we start, madame, I think we should agree to address one another less formally. We are, in the eyes of the world at least, married. My name is Jean-Luc. I would ask that you use it.’
‘Jean-Luc. Yes, I am aware. And I am Sophia.’
‘Of that I am also aware, though I know no more.’
He waited, one brow slightly raised. His eyes were a very dark brown, the lashes long, thick and black. One could not describe a man’s eyes as beautiful, and in any case, this man was too—too masculine. His jaw was very square. There was a permanent furrow between his brows. Not an Adonis, she had been mistaken to label him that, and not handsome either, if one took Lord Byron’s classic perfection as an example. This man who was to be her husband for the time being was not at all like Byron or Adonis or any other model of perfection, but in another mould altogether. Memorable. A vibrant presence one could not ignore. If one was inclined to find a man attractive, then this was undoubtedly such a man. But she was not so inclined. Nor was she about to satisfy his curiosity about her surname either, especially since he was a regular visitor to London. So she met his gaze blankly and said nothing. She was good at that.
‘Simply Sophia it is, then,’ he said eventually, with a casual shrug that might have been defeat, or more likely indifference. ‘Will you at least deign to tell me, Simply Sophia, what The Procurer told you of this assignment?’
Was he teasing her or mocking her? She couldn’t decide, and so decided not to care, which was always the safest thing to do. ‘I was told very little,’ Sophia replied stiffly. ‘Merely that you require me to play the part of your wife, and that I must convince everyone that it has been a love match. The reasons for my presence here, and my duties, she said would be explained by your good self, as would be the terms upon which our contract is to be deemed complete. In short, she was not forthcoming at all, though she assured me that you had disclosed all to her, and that she believed me to be an excellent match for your requirements.’
‘Her reputation for discretion appears to be well founded.’ Jean-Luc twisted the heavy signet ring he wore on his right hand around his finger. ‘It is ironic, that I must explain myself to you, while you are not obliged to tell me anything about yourself. Not even your surname.’
Ironic, and very convenient for her, but, judging by the tension around his mouth, extremely inconvenient for him. Why did a man like this—rich, confident, successful and, yes, Sophia could admit it to herself, extremely attractive—need to pay a complete stranger to act as his wife?
He was still eyeing her expectantly, waiting for her to fill the silence with the answer to his implied question. Sophia kept her expression carefully neutral. ‘If I am to fulfil my role convincingly, then, painful as it may be to explain yourself to a complete stranger, it seems you must.’ And painful as it might be, she must first ensure that her own terms were clearly understood. ‘Though before we proceed, I would like to discuss the conditions which I stipulated.’
‘I am not sure what there is to discuss,’ Jean-Luc answered. ‘I accepted them, as you must know, else you would not be here.’
Sophia smiled tightly. ‘In principle, yes. But I find it is best to be crystal-clear about the detail.’
His brows shot up. ‘You find? You have entered into contracts such as this previously?’
‘I have never before entered into an arrangement such as this one,’ she said stiffly, which was after all the truth, but he need not know the precise nature of her previous arrangements. ‘What I meant was, that I find it is—I think it would be best for us both to be absolutely clear, before we start, as to the extent of our—our intimacies.’ Sophia squirmed inwardly. She sounded like a prude. ‘If I am to play your wife, I presume it is for the benefit of an audience, and that therefore there will be some displays of affection required? I would be obliged if you could explain in plain terms what form you anticipate those taking.’
‘I confess, I had not thought so specifically—but you are right, it is best to be clear.’ Jean-Luc stared down at his signet ring. ‘Very well, in plain terms then, our marriage will be for public consumption only. In private, you have my word of honour that I will make no physical demands upon you of any sort. For the sake of appearances, in public and in front of my servants, our “intimacies”, as you refer to them, will be confined to only those acts which can be performed in public with propriety. Do you wish me to be any plainer or is that sufficient?’
‘It is more than sufficient.’ And an enormous relief. Some of the tension in her shoulders eased. Her instincts told her that she could trust him to keep his word, though her instincts had proven to be fallible in the past. Disastrously so. ‘You understand that any breach of these terms would render our contract null and void? Not only would I leave immediately, but you...’
‘I would be obliged to recompense you with the full amount. I am aware. I have already given you my word that I will not breach the terms, Sophia, I’m not sure what else I can do to reassure you, save to tell you that my reasons for bringing you here in the first place are, en effet, life-changing. This charade of ours must succeed. I have no intentions of doing anything to endanger it. You understand?’
‘I do.’ A little more of the tension eased. She allowed herself a small smile. ‘And I can assure you, monsieur—Jean-Luc—that I will also do all I can to ensure that our charade does succeed.’
‘Eh, bien, then I trust that is an end to the matter?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
He returned her smile, but only in a perfunctory way. ‘You must understand though, Sophia, that it is vital that we are convincing? I do not expect you to make love to me, but I do expect you to appear as if you wish to, or better still as if you just have.’
‘Of course.’ She could feel the slashes of colour stain her cheeks. It was mortifying to discover that even after all she had been forced to endure, her sensibilities could still be so obviously inflamed. It would be considerably easier than she had expected to spend time in his company. It might even be—no, it was too much of an exaggeration to say enjoyable, but it would be no hardship. ‘Though I’m still not at all clear,’ Sophia said, flustered by her thoughts, ‘as to why you need a wife? And why must it be a love match?’
‘Oh, as to that, it is quite simple. Love,’ Jean-Luc said with a wry smile, ‘is the only credible explanation for the suddenness of our union, and the suddenness of our union will come as a great surprise to all who know me.’ He frowned, choosing his words with care. ‘It is not that I am against marriage. It is an institution I have always planned to embrace at some point in the future, but for the time being, it is well known that I am effectively married to my business. Ironically, my passion for my business has largely been responsible for my success, which in turn means that I am rather inconveniently considered a much sought-after marital prize.’
His tone made his thoughts on this state of affairs clear. ‘Yet you have so far evaded capture,’ Sophia said. ‘I cannot believe that you have employed me in order to ensure that you continue to do so. You do not strike me as a man who could be persuaded to do anything against his will.’
‘Not so Simple Sophia after all,’ Jean-Luc said, smiling. ‘You are quite right. It is precisely because I will not have my hand forced that you are here.’
‘Good heavens,’ she exclaimed, startled, for she had spoken mostly in jest. ‘You can’t possibly mean that you are being forced to marry someone against your will?’
His smile became a sneer. ‘There is indeed a woman attempting to do exactly that. Whether she is a charlatan or simply deluded I cannot decide, but whichever it is, she is doomed to failure. I intend to prove to her that her various claims are utterly without foundation. Producing you as proof that I am already married is just my first salvo across her bows.’
* * *
Sophia was gazing up at him, her extraordinary blue eyes wide with astonishment. ‘I don’t understand. One cannot be forced into marriage, not even when—not ever,’ she said, hastily amending whatever it was she had been about to disclose. ‘This woman, she can hardly hold a gun to your head and force you to take her hand in marriage.’
‘But she does have a gun, and she has been holding it at my head since April.’ Jean-Luc laughed grimly. ‘It is loaded, she thinks, with a silver bullet which will be the answer to all her problems. You are the armour I need to deflect that bullet’
Sophia shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I still don’t understand. Why not simply tell her that you won’t marry her?’
‘Because it is not that simple. I’m sorry, I have been living and breathing this farce for so long, and now you are here, I am so eager to put my plans into action that I forget you know nothing of them.’
She smiled, her first genuine smile, and it quite dazzled him. ‘Let me reassure you, I am just as eager as you are to begin. So why don’t you tell me more about this woman who wishes to be your wife. Starting with her name, perhaps?’
‘Haven’t I told you?’ Jean-Luc rolled his eyes. ‘Juliette de Cressy is her name, and she turned up, quite unannounced on my doorstep six weeks ago. Until that point I had never heard of her.’
Sophia wrinkled her brow. ‘But if she was a complete stranger, why did you grant her an audience?’
‘One of the many things which makes me ambivalent about Mademoiselle de Cressy is that she appears, on first inspection, to be eminently respectable. She called with a maid in tow. She had a visiting card. I have an enquiring mind and was intrigued enough to hear what she had to say. When I did, my immediate reaction was simply to dismiss her tale out of hand. In a bid to take the wind out of her sails I told her that she was wasting her time, as I was already married.’
‘I take it she didn’t believe you? Hardly surprising, considering what you have more or less confessed to being known as a dedicated bachelor.’
‘Yes, but it was more than disbelief. She was—I don’t know, it is difficult to explain. At first she was quite distraught, but she very quickly recovered. That is when she produced the legal documents—her silver bullet—which she believed would substantiate her claim. And that is when I realised she was not, as I had assumed, simply a brazen and audacious opportunist who would be put off by the threat of an invisible wife. It wasn’t only that she didn’t believe I was married, you see, it was that she was extremely convincing in the strength of her own case. Of course, the chances were still high that she was an extremely convincing charlatan, but...’
‘It occurred to you that she might simply be, as you said, deluded.’
‘Yes, that is it. Either way, it was clear that she was not going to go away.’
‘And you were faced with the problem of admitting that you had lied when you said you were already married, or coming up with the evidence to back up your fiction.’
‘Precisely, though I did not immediately rush to The Procurer for help. My next step was to test her resolve by telling her that I wished my lawyer to examine the papers she had to support her claim. She handed them over willingly, informing me that she had expected no less. It was clear she had faith in their authenticity, and equally clear that it had not occurred to her that I might simply destroy them.’
‘Any more than it would have occurred to you, I assume?’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘That is reassuring,’ Sophia said, with an odd little smile. ‘So, Mademoiselle de Cressy’s seemingly innocent trust in you was, then, another point in her favour?’
‘It was.’
‘And the documents, whatever they are?’
Jean-Luc rolled his eyes. ‘Most likely genuine.’
‘So you hired me to prove to Mademoiselle de Cressy that regardless of these documents she has, she is, as we say in England, barking up the wrong tree? You cannot marry her, because you are already married?’ Sophia frowned down at her hands. ‘You have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to call this woman’s bluff. Couldn’t you simply have paid her off?’
‘I offered to do just that, to make the problem go away, but she refused. She said she wanted what was rightfully hers, not blood money. As you will have realised by now,’ Jean-Luc continued, ‘the matter is complicated, and I am aware that you have only just arrived. You have not even seen your room.’
He sat at an angle to her, his long legs tucked under the sofa, which had the effect of stretching his pantaloons tight over his muscled thighs. He might not look like an Adonis, but his build was reminiscent of one. His physical proximity made Sophia uncomfortable. Not unsafe, she was surprised to notice, but—odd. Her pulses were fluttering. It was because he was so close, a warning sign, she supposed, though she felt no inclination to move. ‘All in good time. I take it your plan is to introduce me to Mademoiselle de Cressy sooner rather than later?’
‘All in good time,’ he answered, smiling. ‘My plan for what remains of today is to allow you time to rest and recover from your journey. There is a good deal more to this tale, but it can wait.’
Jean-Luc took her hands between his, a light clasp from which she could easily escape, which meant she had no need to. ‘I will have them bring you dinner in your room, and water for a hot bath, if you wish?’
Sophia couldn’t imagine anything nicer. His thoughtfulness touched her. It had been so long since anyone had thought of her comfort, for in the end even Felicity...
‘That would be perfect,’ she said, desperately trying not to let fall the tears which suddenly stung her eyes. ‘I think I am a little fatigued after all. Merci, Jean-Luc.’
‘It is my pleasure, Sophia.’ He pressed her hands. Then he let her go.
Chapter Two (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
Jean-Luc was in his working in his office the next morning when his new wife appeared, looking much refreshed.
‘May I come in?’ Sophia asked. ‘The footman told me that you don’t like to be disturbed, but I thought...’
He jumped to his feet to pull out a chair for her. ‘Remember that you are my wife, as far as the footman and every other servant is concerned. This is your household to command. In any event, you are not disturbing me. I am far too distracted to work, thanks to you. Are you rested?’
‘Fully.’ She took the seat he indicated, opposite him, but moved it forward, so that she could rest her hands on the desk which separated them. ‘Before you relate the rest of your story, I think it only fair that I reassure you, since you were so patient in reassuring me yesterday.’
‘Reassure me about what?’
She smiled at him faintly. ‘You said that your reasons for bringing me here were life-changing. I should tell you that my reasons for agreeing to come are also life-changing. Coming to Paris, taking on this role, contract, commission, I’m not sure what to call it—this false marriage of ours, if I make a success of it, and I am determined to do just that, the money I will earn will allow me to quite literally change my life.’ She bit her lip, considering her words carefully. ‘I will be free. Free to make my own way in the world, on my own terms. For the first time in my twenty-six years I will be able to live only to suit myself, to finally discover what it is I like, what I want, what makes me happy. So you see, the stakes are too high for me to fail. You can have no idea how much that means to me. I won’t let you down.’
There was a sparkle in her eyes, a tinge of colour that was not embarrassment in her cheeks, giving him a tantalising glimpse of the woman she could be, or would be, if she achieved her goal. He had thought her beautiful before, but seeing her like this, she positively glowed. ‘I can see for myself how much it means,’ Jean-Luc said, quite beguiled. ‘Thank you. May I say that I can think of no one I would rather pretend to be married to than you.’
She laughed. ‘We have not even been married two days. I will be more flattered if you still think so in a week’s time.’
‘Actually, as far as the world is concerned, we have been married since March. But I get ahead of myself. Are you comfortable? Because the tale I’m about to relay is long and convoluted.’
* * *
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Sophia said some time later. ‘I am utterly confounded. Juliette de Cressy not only claims that you are contracted to marry her, but that you are a duke!’
‘Of all the preposterous things this woman alleges, the lunatic notion that I might be the long-lost son of an aristocrat who went to the guillotine—’ Jean-Luc broke off, shaking his head. ‘Me! It is simply ridiculous.’
‘You know, most men would be both delighted and flattered to be informed they were of noble birth.’
‘Even if it means disowning the parents who raised them, who loved them and who tried to give them the best life possible in difficult circumstances? No.’ His mouth firmed. ‘I know who I am. My father—yes there were times when we did not agree, when I thought that he did not care for me, that he—he somehow resented me, but that is normal, for a father and a son, as one grows older, and the other stronger.’
‘I can imagine it would have been normal for you. I expect you were very sure of yourself, even as a boy.’
Jean-Luc laughed. ‘What was your upbringing like? No, you need not answer,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I did not mean to pry.’
Sophia hesitated. She was under no obligation to tell him anything, but it seemed wrong to shut him out completely when he had just confided so much to her. ‘My relationship with my father was difficult. He wanted a son. As a female, I was of limited use to him.’
‘But you knew he cared for you?’
She knew he had not. ‘I never doubted he was my father,’ Sophia said, unwilling to lie.
‘You refer to him in the past tense.’
‘He died four years ago. My mother many years earlier. To return to the matter in hand,’ she said hurriedly, ‘are you saying that, thanks to Mademoiselle de Cressy, you are doubting your own parentage?’
‘Mon Dieu, no! The difficulties I spoke of were a long time ago. My father was very proud of my success. He told me not long before he died, ten years ago, just nine months after Maman, that he could not have asked for a better son.’ Jean-Luc’s hand tightened around the quill he had been fidgeting with. ‘For my father, that was quite an admission, believe me.’
‘More than I ever got,’ Sophia said with feeling. ‘My father never missed an opportunity to tell me that he had never wished for a daughter of any sort, never mind...’ Two. The pain took her by surprise, making her catch her breath. All too aware of Jean-Luc’s perceptive gaze on her, she took a firm grip of herself. ‘Never mind my father,’ she amended lamely. ‘We were talking of yours.’
He waited, just long enough to make it clear he knew she was changing the subject, then set down his quill. ‘My father, Robert Bauduin, you mean, and not the Duc de Montendre.’
‘Indeed. May I ask how you plan to prove your heritage? I’m assuming that you doubt a simple introduction to me will send Mademoiselle de Cressy running for the hills. That you require me to be by your side to maintain the façade, in order to buy yourself the time you need to gather the evidence to quash her claim completely?’
‘Ah, you do understand.’
‘But of course. If a wife does not understand her husband, then she is a poor spouse indeed,’ Sophia quipped.
Jean-Luc smiled, albeit faintly. ‘I must confess, I’m concerned as to how she will react when she does meet you. To date, she has quite simply refused to accept that I have a wife.’
‘Then we must hope that she does not try to eliminate me—an outcome not at all unlikely in the context of this tale, which is worthy of Shakespeare himself.’
‘Or perhaps more appropriately, Molière,’ Jean-Luc said drily, ‘for it has all the hallmarks of a farce. It is, to say the least, inconvenient that the agent which Maxime—Maxime Sainte-Juste, my lawyer, that is—sent to Cognac to retrieve documentary evidence of my birth, came back empty-handed.’
Sophia wrinkled her nose. ‘You don’t find it odd that he couldn’t locate the certificate of your baptism?’
Jean-Luc shrugged. ‘I was surprised, I had assumed that I was born in Cognac, and my parents had always lived there but they must have moved to that town when I was very young. I was born in 1788. It was a time when there was much unrest in the country, crops failing, the conditions which resulted in the Revolution. There could have been any number of reasons for my parents to have relocated.’
‘What about your grandparents then? You must know where they lived.’
‘I don’t. I never knew them, and have always assumed they died before I was born, or when I was too young to remember them.’
‘But there must have been other relatives, surely? Cousins, aunts, uncles?’
‘No one.’ Jean-Luc twisted his signet ring around his finger, looking deeply uncomfortable. ‘When you put it like that, it sounds odd that I never questioned my parents when they were alive, never even noticed my lack of any relatives at all when I was growing up.’
‘But why would you? Your parents are your parents, your family is your family.’
‘Yes, but most people have a family,’ he said ruefully. ‘It seems I did not, though of course I must have relatives somewhere. Unfortunately, I have no idea where I would even begin to look in order to locate them.’
‘What about family friends, then?’
But once more, Jean-Luc shook his head. ‘None who knew my parents before I was born. You’re thinking that is ridiculous, aren’t you? You are thinking, there must be someone!’
‘I am thinking that it is extremely awkward for you that there is no one.’
‘Extremely awkward, and a little embarrassing, and very frustrating,’ he confessed. ‘I cannot prove who I am. More to the point,’ he added, his expression hardening, ‘I cannot prove to Mademoiselle de Cressy who I am, which means that...’
‘You must prove that you are not who she says you are, the long-lost son of the fourth Duc de Montendre.’
‘Exactement.’ Jean-Luc grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, not as straightforward a task as you might imagine. I have, however, made a start on testing the veracity of Mademoiselle de Cressy’s documents. Unlike me, she does have a baptism certificate. Maxime’s agent has been despatched to Switzerland to check it against the relevant parish records. If it proves to be legitimate, then his next task will be to attempt to obtain a description of Juliette de Cressy. As the only child of the recently deceased Comte de Cressy, there must be someone in the neighbourhood where she says she lived for all her twenty-two years who can shed some light on her.’
‘So she was born after her parents left Paris?’
‘If her parents were the Comte and Comtesse de Cressy—who were, incidentally, real people, that too I have established—then she was born six years after they arrived in Switzerland, fleeing Paris in the days when it was still possible to do so, before The Terror.’
‘And the marriage contract, it was written when?’
‘It is dated 1789, the year of the Revolution, and one year after I was born—not that that has anything to do with it.’ With an exclamation of impatience, Jean-Luc got to his feet, prowling restlessly over to the window to perch on the narrow seat in the embrasure, his long legs stretched in front of him. ‘The marriage contract appears to be signed by the sixth Comte de Cressy and the fourth Duc de Montendre. It stipulates a match between the Duc de Montendre’s eldest son, whose long list of names does not include mine, and any future first-born daughter of the Comte de Cressy.’
‘And this fourth Duc de Montendre was killed during the Terror?’
‘As was the Duchess, some time in 1794. This much Maxime has been able to discover, though the circumstances—there are so few records remaining, so much has been destroyed. It may be that the witnesses to the contract also—if they were loyal servants...’
‘They too may have gone to the guillotine?’
‘Like so many others. The final months of the Terror following the Revolution saw mass slaughter, so many heads lost for no reason. Maxime thinks that trying to prove Mademoiselle de Cressy wrong could turn into a wild goose chase.’
‘A whole flock of geese, by the sound of it. It sounds daunting in the extreme.’
Jean-Luc grinned. ‘There is no finer lawyer than Maxime, and no better friend, but the reason he is so successful in his chosen profession is because he is a cautious man, and the reason I am so successful in my chosen profession—or one of them—is that I recognise when it is necessary to cast caution to the wind.’
He returned to his seat behind the desk, picking up his quill again. ‘Maxime is right, though, it will not be a simple matter to prove I am not this Duke’s son. There have been many cases in France over the last few years, of returning émigrés or their apparent heirs, claiming long-lost titles and estates. With so many of the nobility and their dependents dead, so many papers lost, estates ransacked, it is very difficult to prove—or to disprove—such claims. And even if they prove to be true, in most cases, the reward is nothing, or less than nothing, you know? What money existed has long gone, along with anything of value which could be sold or stolen. No one really cares, you see, if Monsieur le Brun turns out to be the Comte de Whatever, if only the name is at stake.’
‘So it would be, ironically, easier for you to accept the title than to reject it?’
‘Equally ironically, acquiring a title, especially such a prestigious one, would, in the eyes of some, be of value to my business. It would,’ Jean-Luc said with a mocking smile, ‘be more prestigious to buy wine from the Duc de Montendre that from Monsieur Bauduin.’
‘But it is not a mere title which mademoiselle would have you claim, but a wife. And another family. Another history.’
‘None of which I desire.’
‘No, but Mademoiselle de Cressy does. Which begs the question, if she is the real Juliette de Cressy, and the contract is valid, if her father really was the Comte, then why didn’t he pursue it when he was alive?’
Jean-Luc nodded approvingly. ‘A good question, and one which you can be assured I asked her. She told me that her parents vowed never to return to France. For them, the country was tainted for ever by the Revolution, which is perfectly understandable—Paris must for them have been a city redolent with terrible memories. Her betrothal to the son of the Duke who was the Comte’s best friend, was a sort of family myth, she said, a story that she was told, and that she believed to be just that—a story. It was only when her father died, and she discovered the marriage contract in his papers, that she realised it was true. His death, she openly admits, left her penniless, for his pension died with him.’
‘So she came here, to Paris, to claim her only inheritance, which is you.’
He shook his head. ‘According to her family tale, as Mademoiselle de Cressy tells it, the Duke sent his son to Cognac in the very early days of the Revolution, to keep him safe, to be raised in secret by a couple named Bauduin, until such a time as he could safely reclaim him. Only his best friend, the Comte de Cressy, was aware of the ruse, and the Comte and his wife fled France around about the same time as their daughter now claims I was sent to live in Cognac. And so it was to Cognac Mademoiselle de Cressy went first, when her father died. And from there, she claims, traced me to Paris—not a difficult thing to do, since my business originated in that town and the office which I keep there today bears my name. This element of her story is, obviously, the most dubious, and equally obviously, impossible to either prove or disprove.’
Sophia frowned, struggling to assimilate the tangle of implications. ‘You think she had the contract and the baptism certificate in her possession, and that she targeted you to play the long-lost heir?’
Jean-Luc spread his hands on the blotter. ‘I am one of the wealthiest men in France. My parents are dead. I have no siblings. And she believed me to be single.’
Sophia couldn’t help thinking that when Jean-Luc himself was added to the equation, it was not surprising that Mademoiselle de Cressy had elected him. ‘Do you think she has taken account of the risk that the real son of the Duc de Montendre might turn up in Paris?’
‘It is fifteen years since Napoleon allowed the first of the émigrés to return, and almost four since the Restoration. If the fourth Duc and Duchess of Montendre had a son—something which is still not verified—and if he is still alive, I think he would have surfaced before now.’
Sophia shook her head. ‘If it is a scheme, it is very ingenious, and Mademoiselle de Cressy must be very bold to attempt to carry it off.’
‘Or very greedy.’
‘Or very desperate.’ As she had been. Desperate almost beyond reason, and utterly heedless of the consequences. Sophia’s stomach churned at the memory, that constant feeling of panic as she searched for a solution, any solution to her own dilemma.
‘Sophia?’ Jean-Luc lifted his hand from hers as soon as she opened her eyes. ‘You look as if you are about to faint. Can I get you some water?’
‘No.’ She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to disguise the deep, calming breaths she was being forced to take. Never again. That was why she was here, wasn’t it? Never again. She could not afford to draw parallels between herself and this Juliette de Cressy, must not allow herself to imagine that they had anything in common. More than anything, she must not allow any sympathy for the woman to jeopardise her own future. ‘I’m fine,’ she said thinly. ‘Perfectly fine. So, where do we go from here?’
He looked unconvinced by her smile, but to her relief, he did not question her further. ‘Establish you as my wife, first and foremost. Introduce you to Mademoiselle de Cressy, which will be in in the presence of Maxime. Try to verify the existence of the lost heir. Try to verify the marriage contract. I have a very long list of tasks, which I will not bore you with.’
‘I won’t be bored. I’d like to help.’
He looked startled. ‘Your role is to play my wife.’
‘Doesn’t a wife help her husband? What do you envisage me doing, if not that?’
Jean-Luc shrugged in a peculiarly Gallic manner. ‘What does a wife do? I have never been married, perhaps you can tell me.’
Almost, she fell for the trap he had laid, but she caught herself just in time, and smiled blandly. ‘Why don’t you let me think about that, come up with a plan of my own, which we can discuss.’
He laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. ‘Very well. I have made arrangements for you to visit the modiste to select your trousseau tomorrow. There will be time before that for me to introduce you to the household. The day after that, a tour of the hôtel. And after that, I am happy to hear your ideas. I do have a very competent housekeeper though, I’m not expecting you to burden yourself with household matters.’
‘At the very least she will expect to take her instructions from me.’
‘Do you know enough of such things to instruct her?’
‘I would not offer if I did not.’
He leaned forward, resting his head on his hand to study her. ‘I was expecting The Procurer to send me an actress.’
‘I’m sure that there are some actresses capable of managing a household.’
‘You are not an actress.’
She rested her chin on her hand, meeting his gaze, reflecting the half-smile that played on his lips. ‘A better one than you, Jean-Luc, for your motives are quite transparent.’
‘But I’m right, am I not? You are not an actress?’
‘I have never been on the stage.’
‘No, I thought this morning, when I first caught sight of you, that your beauty was too ethereal for the stage.’
She could feel herself blushing. She ought to change the subject, to break eye contact, but she didn’t want to. ‘I’m tougher than I look.’
‘Of that I have no doubt. To come all the way to France, alone, even with the assurance of The Procurer’s contract, demonstrates that you are made of stern stuff. And now you offer to help me with my search for the truth, too.’ He reached over to cover her free hand with his. ‘Beautiful, strong and brave, and clever too. I am very glad to have you on my side, Sophia.’
For some reason she was finding it difficult to breathe. ‘We are both on the same side, Jean-Luc.’
‘I like the sound of that. I am not so arrogant as to imagine that I and only I can resolve this mess, Sophia. It’s true, I am accustomed to making all my own decisions, but one of the reasons they are sound is that I take account of other opinions. I would very much appreciate your help. Thank you.’
‘Thank you.’ No man had been interested in her opinions before. No man had been interested in her mind at all. That’s why she was feeling this strange way, light-headed, drawn to him, even enjoying the touch of his hand on hers. Until he withdrew it, broke eye contact, and sat up straight.
‘We are agreed then. However, before we begin the difficult task of proving that Mademoiselle de Cressy’s story is without foundation, there is the small matter of convincing Mademoiselle de Cressy that we are married.’
‘Can we do that? We don’t have any paperwork. What if she tries to verify our story while you are trying to prove her story wrong?’
‘My lawyer has informed her that we were married in England. As to paperwork, it hasn’t occurred to her to ask, perhaps because she doesn’t believe you exist.’
‘So, when do you plan to produce me as evidence?’
‘As soon as we can prove to ourselves that we can be convincing.’
Sophia pursed her lips. ‘You think we need some sort of dress rehearsal?’
He smiled at that. He really did have a very nice smile. It was easy to return it. ‘Tonight,’ Jean-Luc replied. ‘We will have dinner, just the two of us, with the attendant servants looking on. It will be a gentle introduction.’
‘You think so? In my experience, servants are the group most difficult to fool.’
‘Then we will know, after tonight, that if we can fool my household we can fool Paris society, and more importantly, Juliette de Cressy, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Was there a chance that Paris society would contain any visiting English society likely to recognise her? She could not possibly enquire, for to do so would be to betray herself. But The Procurer would not have sent her here if she had considered it a possibility, would she, for then she would have failed in meeting Jean-Luc’s terms, and The Procurer was reputedly infallible. She had to take confidence from that.
‘What is worrying you, Sophia?’
She gave herself a little shake. ‘Nothing. Save that we must concoct a love story, mustn’t we? People will ask how we met, won’t they, and how our whirlwind romance developed.’
‘Whirlwind romance,’ Jean-Luc repeated slowly. ‘I am not familiar with that phrase, but it is—yes, I like it. We will come up with a love story tonight worthy of your Lord Byron,’ he said, his eyes alight with mischief. ‘We dine at seven. I took the liberty of sending your maid out for an evening gown. I had no idea whether you would have anything suitable with you. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘There was no need. I do possess an evening gown, you know.’ Albeit a very shabby and venerable evening gown.
‘Don’t be offended, Sophia. Think of it as your stage costume,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘When you put it on, and not your own clothes, then it will help you, will it not, to play your part?’
How on earth had he guessed she had used that trick before? She had left her previous costumes behind in that house in Half Moon Street, but when she’d worn them—yes, it had been easier to pretend. ‘Thank you,’ Sophia said.
Jean-Luc got to his feet, holding out his hand. She took it. He bowed over it, kissing the air just above her fingertips. ‘À bientôt. I look forward to meeting my wife properly, for the first time.’
Chapter Three (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
The evening dress that Jean-Luc had thoughtfully provided was deceptively simple in its construction, consisting of a cream-silk underdress, and over it a very fine cream muslin cut in the latest fashion, the waist very high, the sleeves puffed, the skirts fuller than had been worn a few Seasons before. Gold-figured lace in a leafy design formed a panel in the centre of the skirt at the front and the back, with twisted gold and cream lace on the décolleté, and a matching trim on the hem.
‘Ça vous plaît, madame?’ the dresser asked Sophia, fussing with the bandeau which was tied around her hair.
‘C’est parfait,’ Sophia replied in her softly modulated French, twisting around in front of the mirror to take in the back view.
It was indeed perfect. The most expensive gown she had ever worn as well as the most chic. Madeleine, the dresser recently employed by Jean-Luc for his new wife, had excellent taste. She would have Madeleine accompany her, Sophia decided, when she visited the modiste tomorrow to select the remainder of her outfits. Or trousseau, as Jean-Luc had referred to it. She was extremely relieved that he was taking no hand in proceedings, though it was ludicrous to compare his taste with Hopkins’s, and even more ludicrous to compare the costumes, or their purpose.
And even more ludicrous again to compare the two men, Sophia chided herself. She must not allow the past to influence her present behaviour. Tonight, she had to prove to Jean-Luc that she could play as his loving bride. Sophia rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror, as she held out her wrists to allow Madeleine to button her long evening gloves. Playing the bride was one thing. It was the loving part that was more problematic.
* * *
They might be dining à deux, but when the footman threw open the double doors and announced her, Sophia felt as if she was walking on to a stage set. The room was quite magnificent, the pale green walls extravagantly adorned with plasterwork and cornicing gilded with gold. Two mirrors, hung opposite each other at either end of the long room, endlessly reflected the huge dining table and its array of silver and gold epergnes in the form of galleons sailing along the polished mahogany surface like an armada. A magnificent chandelier cast flickering shadows through two tall windows and out into the now dark courtyard.
Two place settings were laid at the far end of the table. A fire roared in the white marble hearth. Jean-Luc, austere in his black evening coat and breeches, set down the glass he had been drinking from, and came towards her. His hair was still damp from his bath, combed back from his forehead, almost blue-black in the candlelight. He was freshly shaved, his pristine shirt and cravat gleaming white against his skin. His waistcoat was also plain black, though the buttons were gold. He wore no other adornment, save his diamond pin, a gold fob, and the gold signet ring, but the very plainness of his attire let the man speak for himself, Sophia thought fancifully. A man with no need of ostentation. A man without pretension. A man who exuded confidence in himself. Looking at him, refusing to acknowledge the flicker of attraction which she determinedly attributed to nerves, Sophia concentrated on the other, much more important thing about Jean-Luc. He was a powerful and influential man, but he was not a man who would abuse that power. Her instincts told her so. She decided that in his case, she could trust them.
‘Ma chère.’ He took her hand, bowing over it, his kiss as it had been earlier, bestowed on the air above her fingers. ‘You look ravishing.’
He was waiting, Sophia realised, to take his cue from her. She smiled up at him, the practised smile of one dazzled. ‘Jean-Luc, chéri,’ she said breathlessly, ‘as ever, you flatter me.’ Catching his hand between hers, she allowed her lips to brush his fingertips in the most featherlight of kisses. It was entirely for the benefit of the three—no, she counted four footmen, and the butler, who were standing sentinel around the room, but the touch, voluntarily given, seemed to take Jean-Luc by surprise. He recovered quickly enough, enfolding her hands in his, pulling her towards him, smiling down at her besottedly in a manner she thought must be every bit as practised as her own.
‘I could not flatter you, no matter how hard I tried. The reality exceeds any compliment,’ he said. And then more softly, for her ears only: ‘Bravo, Sophia!’
He ushered her towards the table, releasing her hand only when the footman pulled her chair out for her. She thanked the man, though she knew it was the custom in such large households to pretend that servants were invisible, but this was one habit of her own she would not break, and so she thanked the butler too, when he poured her a flute of champagne, receiving a small, startled nod of acknowledgement.
The food began to arrive in a procession of silver salvers, each set down by a footman, the domed lid removed with a flourish by the butler, and the contents solemnly announced. Artichauts à la Grecque; rillettes; saumon fumé; escargot Dijonnaise; homard à la bordelaise; côtes de veau basilic; lapin Allemande; daube Avignonnaise; asperge gratin; salade Beaucaire...
Sophia’s mouth watered. ‘How did you know to order all my favourite foods?’ she teased.
Jean-Luc laughed, shaking his head. ‘The credit must go to my housekeeper.’
‘My housekeeper.’ Sophia laid her hand over his. ‘I look forward to meeting her tomorrow. From the little I have seen of my beautiful new home, I can tell she is most efficient, but there are certain aspects that I wish to attend to myself, to ensure your maximum comfort, chéri,’ Sophia simpered. ‘I intend to make you proud to have me as a wife.’
‘My love.’ Jean-Luc lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a theatrical kiss to her palm, his eyes dancing with laughter. ‘I have all the proof I need that you will be a perfect wife, now that you are here.’ He raised his champagne glass, touching it to hers. ‘To us.’
‘To us.’ The champagne was icy cold. The food looked absolutely delicious, her mouth was already watering. ‘I would like to start by sampling some artichoke, if you please, they look delicious. Are they from Brittany?’
Handing her the dish, Jean-Luc casting an enquiring look at his butler, who bowed and informed him that Madame Bauduin was quite correct, that these were the first of the season.
‘I had no idea you were a horticulturist, my little cabbage,’ Jean-Luc said.
Sophia sighed theatrically. ‘You have forgotten my passion for the culinary arts.’
‘In my passion for you,’ he replied fervently, ‘I forget everything else.’
He was almost as accomplished an actor as she. If she did not know better, she would think the heavy-lidded, heated look he gave her was genuine. She could feel her own cheeks flushing, and reminded herself that she did know better. ‘Have a care, my love,’ she chastised, ‘we are not alone.’
Jean-Luc responded by raising his glass. ‘I am counting the moments until we are.’
‘Then it would be prudent to have some sustenance first,’ Sophia said, completely flustered. ‘May I have some snails please. I find them a great delicacy.’
He laughed at that, a low rumble of genuine amusement as he handed her the platter. ‘An English woman who likes snails. I truly have captured a prize.’
‘These are not just any old snails, these are escargot Dijonnaise.’ Sophia inhaled the delicate aroma with her eyes closed. ‘A red-wine reduction, with shallots and bone marrow, garlic and truffles. You are very fortunate to have such an accomplished chef.’
Jean-Luc helped himself to the remainder of the snails, popping one into his mouth. ‘We are fortunate,’ he corrected.
‘We are. Please pass on our compliments to...?’
‘Monsieur le Blanc,’ the butler informed her graciously. ‘I will indeed, madame.’
‘So it seems I have married a gourmand,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘Would you like to sample some of this veal?’
‘I’d prefer the rabbit, please. I would not describe myself as a gourmand, but I am very fond of cooking. Though of late I have not—not had the opportunity to indulge my passion.’ The truth was, she had more or less lived on air since her return to England. She looked up to find Jean-Luc studying her once more. She wished he wouldn’t do that. She returned her attention to her plate, absentmindedly sipping on the dry white wine which had seamlessly replaced her champagne.
‘Paris has some excellent restaurants these days. We will sample some of them, if you wish?’ Jean-Luc smiled at her eager expression. ‘In my view, the best places to eat are the cafes, but the type of women who frequent them are not the sort I would wish my wife to mingle with. There is a place near Les Halles, where the oysters...’
Sophia continued to smile, but she no longer heard what he was saying. What would he think if he knew his faux wife was, in her previous life, exactly the sort of woman he would not wish her to mingle with? A cruel paradox. She cursed under her breath. Hadn’t she decided to leave that other life behind!
‘...a great many new restaurants opened in the last ten years,’ Jean-Luc was saying. ‘Run by chefs who once ruled the kitchens of the grandest houses, and who lost their livelihoods when their former employers lost their heads. Chez Noudet in the Palais Royal, for example.’
‘I had not thought—but I suppose many people depended for their livelihoods on the aristocrats who went to the guillotine.’
‘Absolument. My own—our own chef, Monsieur le Blanc, is one such case I am afraid. And this town house too is a victime of the Revolution, in a way. I purchased it four years ago, from the heirs of the noble owners. It had, like most of the abandoned hôtels particuliers here in St Germain and more especially across the river in Le Marais, been looted. Tomorrow, when I show you round properly, you will see there are still bullet marks in the walls of the courtyard. It may have been almost thirty years since the Bastille fell, but the scars of the Revolution are still there, if you know where to look.’
‘But now King Louis is back on the throne, surely things have changed?’
Jean-Luc shrugged. ‘Superficially, perhaps, but it is plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, I think. Some of us, like me, roll our sleeves up and get on with the business of trading, in an effort to restore our country’s finances—and in the process, the fine buildings of our city such as this one. And others, many of our so-called nobility, sit complacently on their rears and expect others to spoon feed them.’
Sophia was somewhat taken aback by this. Would her own heritage place her in the opposite camp to him? Or would her determination to make her own way in life on her own merits be her saving grace? It didn’t matter, she told herself, what Jean-Luc thought of her, provided she fulfilled her contract. But the assertion didn’t ring true. Despite herself, she found him intriguing, his opinions interesting, his determination to be only himself admirable. ‘Are they all so idle, these returning exiles?’ she asked. ‘Can none redeem themselves in your eyes?’
‘Oh, they do. A large part of my business depends upon their custom and patronage. The heirs of the ancien régime are some of my best customers and a valuable source of contacts and new clients throughout Europe. Unlike them, I do not distinguish between old money and new. I can be very charmant when I wish to be. As you know, mon amour.’
This last was said with a smouldering look, and accompanied by another kiss pressed to her palm. Sophia wanted to laugh, only she felt that she couldn’t breathe. Though she still wore her evening gloves, though his lips did not touch her skin, his kiss sent a frisson up her arm. The alarmingly visceral attraction made her feel all tangled up inside. It made her forget that she was playing a part. She looked down at her empty plate, at her full wine glass, with dismay. Lost in their conversation, she didn’t recall what she had eaten, after the rabbit. She didn’t recall the wine changing from white to red. She didn’t recall the footmen clearing the table, bringing in a second course of fruit and ices and mousse.
‘Will you be so very charmant, as to serve me some of that lemon sorbet?’ Sophia asked, extricating her hand. ‘And perhaps you should have some too?’
‘But yes, you are right, something cooling is what is required. In your presence...’ Jean-Luc placed his hand over his heart. ‘I burn like a moth drawn inexorably to the flame.’
Sophia bit back her laughter. ‘Then perhaps you should not come any nearer. I have no desire to cause you pain.’
‘Indeed, that I do believe. For when you agreed to marry me, ma chère, did you not prevent my heart from breaking?’
The soulful look he gave her was too much. Sophia chuckled. ‘Enough,’ she exclaimed in English. ‘I am not sure whether you are aping Lord Byron or one of his creations, but...’
‘You think this is a performance! Madame, you stab me to the heart.’
‘I will, with this cake slice, if you do not stop. It is the most lamentable—oh!’ Sophia covered her mouth, casting a horrified glance over her shoulder, where the butler was making a show of arranging several decanters on a tray. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mouthed, ‘I quite forgot.’
He smiled at her warmly, his voice too low for any of the servants to hear. ‘And so made your performance all the more believable. You have a most infectious laugh, though you do not have call to use it very often, hein? And now I have made you sad, by saying so. I’m sorry.’
Sophia tried to shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ With years of practice of shielding her emotions, both from those she loathed and the person she loved most, she found it unsettling that this man, almost a stranger, seemed able to read her thoughts. She ate a spoonful of lemon sorbet. ‘This is delicious.’
‘And so the performance resumes,’ Jean-Luc said under his breath, before turning to dismiss the servants, telling the butler to leave the clearing up until the morning. ‘Now,’ he said, as the door closed behind the last footman, ‘you may relax. If that is possible, in my company. I merely made a comment, based on a supposition. I was not attempting to pry into your affairs.’
Sophia pushed her sorbet aside. ‘I am perfectly relaxed. It is better that you know nothing of me or my past. Then you will not confuse me with the creature you have brought me here to play.’
‘Sophistry, Sophia?’
Which it was. ‘Talking of which,’ she said, ignoring him, ‘we said we would agree our cover story. How we came to meet, I mean, and fall headlong in love.’
* * *
‘Our whirlwind romance.’ A cursory glance at her, Jean-Luc thought, getting up to pour himself a brandy, would be sufficient for any man to understand perfectly why he would wish to marry her. In her travelling dress, he had thought her slender, but her figure, revealed by the flimsy fabric of the evening gown, was certainly not lacking in curves. She was the kind of enigma that unwittingly brought out the most primal instincts in men: innocent yet sensual; fragile yet resilient; a woman who yearned to be protected, and one who desired nothing but to be left entirely alone. Was it unwitting? Impossible, surely, for any woman to be so accomplished an actress.
‘Would you care to join me?’ he asked, holding the decanter aloft, unsurprised when she shook her head. A woman who liked to keep a clear head. And who was, he told himself, simply doing the job she had been brought here to do. It was not her fault that he was distracted by her. Though one would have to be made of stone not to be.
Jean-Luc set his brandy impatiently aside and resumed his seat. He had his faults, but woolly thinking was not one of them. ‘Let us plot the arc of our romance. Obviously, we met in England,’ he said. ‘Fortunately, I was there on business in February for a few weeks. It was not long after I returned, at the beginning of April, that Juliette de Cressy found her way to my doorstep.’
‘So we met and married in the space of a few weeks,’ Sophia said.
‘We met and fell deeply in love and married,’ Jean-Luc corrected her. ‘It was a coup de foudre, for both of us. One look was enough.’
‘You don’t really believe that can happen? That one would decide to bind oneself for ever to a complete stranger, on the basis of a—a heated glance, without knowing anything of them, or of their intentions?’
It was, in fact, a notion he had always derided, but the scorn in her voice made Jean-Luc contrary. ‘Doesn’t love triumph over all?’
‘Love does not put food on the table, any more than it puts a roof over one’s head. In fact, in my opinion, love is the flimsiest possible reason for anyone to marry.’
‘What would you consider more sound reasons?’
‘It is a matter of quid pro quo, isn’t it?’ Sophia answered, as if this was perfectly obvious. ‘Pedigree, wealth, position, influence, these are the bulwarks of marriage contracts. Where there is a fair exchange, then affection may flourish, but there are so very few fair exchanges, aren’t there, and in most cases, it is the women who has least to offer, and so must sacrifice the most.’
She was staring off into the distance, having almost forgotten that he was there. ‘And even then,’ she continued coldly, ‘it is often not enough. Lies are offered in exchange for promises. Could any such marriage flourish? No,’ she concluded firmly. ‘No. It is best that it does not even begin. No matter what the consequences.’
Could she be referring to herself? Fascinated, Jean-Luc had a hundred questions he was burning to ask and frustratingly, he could not ask any of them. ‘Fortunately, we do not have to concern ourselves with that, since our marriage is entirely fictitious,’ he pointed out instead.
Sophia blinked. ‘You’re right. It is just that, a figment of our imagination. They say everyone loves a romance, don’t they? Why should they question ours?’ She pursed her lips. ‘So, we met in England. I expect you bumped into me when you were shopping for some shirts, and I was looking to match some ribbons for a new hat. I dropped my packages. You picked them up. Our eyes met, and we knew, yes?’
Her smile was as brittle as the spun sugar which decorated the honey cake. Jean-Luc returned it, like for like. ‘I took you to tea,’ he said, ‘and then the next day for a carriage ride in Hyde Park, and we met every day after that. A week before I was due to return to Paris, I realised that I could not return without you, and so I proposed on the spot.’
‘And I accepted with alacrity, and we were married by special licence—that is something one can easily accomplish, if you have sufficient funds,’ Sophia added, her smile turning bitter. ‘But I could not travel with you immediately, because I had...’ She faltered. ‘Why could I not come with you?’
‘Perhaps you had family, loose ends to tie up?’
‘No, none. Recently I have lived alone.’ She blushed. ‘Oh, you meant did the Sophia who married you live alone. No, she wouldn’t have, would she, a genteel unmarried woman like that? She would have had a companion of some sort.’
Which made him wonder what sort of woman that made Sophia, if not a woman like that? She had been completely confident with his servants, and quite at home taking this long, elaborate dinner. Her manners, her general air of refinement, were completely natural, the product of good breeding and habit. His butler had taken to her at once, and like his chef, Fournier was another of the aristocracy’s old retainers. Who was she? He itched to ask, but it would be futile. Subtlety was the key to extracting any information from the real Sophia. For now, he must concentrate on the fictional one. ‘So, this companion of yours, she has to be settled elsewhere, then?’
‘In the country,’ Sophia said, nodding. ‘In a cottage of her own, in the village where she grew up. I could do that for her. As the wife of a wealthy man, it would be the least I could do. And I’d want to make sure she was comfortable too, wouldn’t I, since she had been my companion for so long? So I remained in England, counting the days until we were reunited.’
‘And I waited here in Paris, counting the days until you came.’
Sophia frowned. ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone though?’
‘I did, I told Maxime, my oldest friend. It would have been he who drew up the settlements. I wanted to keep you a secret, to unveil you in person, knowing that when they saw you, everyone would understand in a moment why I fell so madly in love with you.’
‘And your servants?’
‘Our servants,’ he reminded her. ‘Have known of your arrival from the day after I received confirmation of your appointment, from The Procurer, but they won’t have talked.’
‘You are very confident of that.’
‘I have every reason to be. I pay very well, and I do not suffer insubordination.’
‘So your intention then, is to present me to Mademoiselle de Cressy...’
‘As soon as possible, now that we have our story straight.’
She smiled tentatively. ‘Do you ever shop for your own shirts?’
He laughed, as much with relief that their story had lifted her mood, as at her acumen. ‘Never, if I can avoid it. What if I had business with Berry Brothers, the wine merchants in St James’s Street—a company I do have dealings with, as it happens. Walking back to my town house, I’d go along Bond Street, wouldn’t I, and that was when I bumped into you. There, does that work?’
‘I think so. Will you relate it?’
‘We shall tell it together, just as we did there.’ Jean-Luc grinned. ‘Although we’ll have to add in a few loving glances.’
She clasped her hands together at her breast and fluttered her lashes at him. ‘Cornflower blue, the ribbons I was trying to match. You said they were the colour of my eyes.’
He smiled. ‘Ah no, I would not have said that, for your eyes are no such colour. I was wondering to myself only this morning, what colour are they, those beautiful eyes of my beautiful wife, for I would not call it turquoise or cornflower or even azure.’
‘What then would you call it, my love?’
She was not laughing, but there was laughter in her eyes, just as there had been before, when she had forgotten to act. Heat prickled down his back and his belly contracted as desire caught him in its grip. ‘I have no name for the colour, but it is the blue of the Mediterranean in the south on one of those perfect days, when the sun is almost white in the sky, and the sea glitters, and the heat makes your skin tingle.’
Sophia nodded. ‘I know,’ she said softly.
He leaned closer. She smelled of flowers, like an English springtime after the rain, but at the same time he could swear there was an intoxicating heat emanating from her. ‘You want to dive in,’ he said, ‘to feel the cool lap of the waves soothe your burning skin.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Like gossamer, that is how I always imagined it would be.’
Their knees were touching. He could sense the rise and fall of her breasts, only inches away from him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. ‘Gossamer,’ Jean-Luc repeated. ‘No, it is like silk. Like your hair,’ he said, his fingers brushing one long strand which had escaped her coiffure, then trailing down her cheek, her neck, to rest on her shoulder.
He heard her sharp intake of breath and waited, but she did not move. ‘Jean-Luc, is this still—are we acting?’
He could lie, but that would be a big mistake. No matter how beguiled he was by her, her scent, her curves, the allure of her mouth, he could not pretend in order to take advantage. ‘I am not,’ he said, releasing her. ‘Not any more. I forgot myself. Forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Sophia said, shaking out her skirts as she rose. ‘We immersed ourselves in our roles rather too enthusiastically, that is all.’
He chose not to contradict her. ‘You play yours to perfection. No one will doubt you. But it is very late, and we have a very full day tomorrow. Come, I will escort you to your chamber.’
He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, with her so tantalisingly close on the other side of the locked door. But at least tonight, it would be this astonishing creature who was to play his wife who would keep him awake, and not that other, deluded creature, the reason Sophia was here in the first place.
Chapter Four (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
The next morning Sophia joined Jean-Luc in the breakfast room, attended by Fournier the butler, who seemed to have taken a shine to her, and two footmen. Afterwards, Jean-Luc introduced his wife to the rest of the household, who were lined up in serried ranks in the entrance hall. She lost count of how many there were, but her determination to speak to everyone, down to the youngest scullery maid, met with Madame Lambert the housekeeper’s approval, as well as Jean-Luc’s.
The remainder of the day was spent acquiring her trousseau. Clothes had never held much interest for Sophia—a happy circumstance since, for most of her life, there had been little money to spend on them. She had refused to spend any of their meagre allowance on her previous trousseau, telling Felicity afterwards, in an attempt to make light of the situation, that she’d shown remarkably foresight. As to the silks lavished on her by Hopkins, she never considered those anything but garish costumes for the performance she was required to put on.
This latest, and hopefully last, part she would have to play required costumes too, but of a very different kind. Seated in the plush receiving room of one of Paris’s most exclusive modistes, aided and abetted with enthusiasm by Madeleine, her dresser, Sophia momentarily abandoned herself to the seductive delights of high fashion. Morning dresses, carriage dresses, promenade dresses, evening dresses and ball gowns were paraded in front of her, in a flutter of silk and satin and lace, crape and gauze, figured muslin, plain muslin, zephyr and sarcenet. There were under-dresses and over-dresses. There were nightgowns and peignoirs, chemises and petticoats of the finest cambric, silk stockings, corsets trimmed with satin and that latest fashion in undergarments, pantaloons. There were pelisses and coats and tippets and cloaks, boots and half-boots, sandals and shoes. There were pairs of gloves of every colour to suit every occasion, and so many bonnets that Sophia quite lost track of their various appellations and purposes.
‘No, I’ve seen a plethora,’ she said after several dizzying hours. ‘I require only a few dresses, perhaps one evening gown, certainly no ball gowns. There is no point—’ She broke off abruptly. Neither the modiste nor the dresser must suspect that her role as Jean-Luc’s wife was temporary. ‘What I mean is,’ she amended, ‘I would like time to consider my future needs, and will purchase today only what I require to see me through the next few weeks.’
‘But of course, a most sensible approach,’ the modiste said, smiling approvingly. ‘Might I suggest Madame Bauduin leaves it to her dresser and I to make the initial selection? Madame is very fortunate that she has the figure to carry off any garment.’
‘Yes. Thank you—though please, only the bare minimum for now,’ Sophia said, already wincing inwardly at the expense which Jean-Luc would be put to, despite the fact that he had insisted, before she set out this morning, that she considered only her requirements to dress as befitted his wife, and not the expense.
Entrusting Madeleine with the task, Sophia returned in the carriage to the hôtel, a brief and uncomfortable journey through the narrow streets, the view from the mud-spattered window giving her frustratingly little sense of the city she longed to explore. This would be her only chance to see Paris. Under the terms of their contract, she had agreed to disappear from both Jean-Luc’s life and his country when her task was completed. How would he explain his short-lived marriage? It was not her problem, she told herself as the carriage halted outside the gates of the town house and the footman folded down the steps. But she was curious none the less, and finding her husband waiting for her on the terrace, took the opportunity to ask him.
‘I will say that you have returned to England to nurse your former companion. Is that not a plausible explanation?’
‘Very plausible.’
‘Good! Then, when time has passed, I will say that you had come to the conclusion that you could not settle in France and wished to remain in England. It would mean painting you in an unfavourable light, though.’
‘Tell people whatever you wish. It cannot be any worse than—’
She broke off abruptly. What they say already. So obvious a conclusion to that sentence that there could be no possible alternative. But Jean-Luc did not finish it for her. Instead he pressed her hand, and there was something in those dark brown eyes, sympathy or pity or—whatever it was, it made her feel uncomfortable, so she looked away, fussing with the strings of her reticule.
‘Did you have successful shopping trip, ma mie?’
A finger under her chin gently forced her to meet his gaze. ‘It depends how you define successful. I suspect I have spent a great deal of your money.’ Which, she thought sardonically, was the goal of every woman in her former situation, though it was one she had never shared. One of the things, she suspected, that had kept her under Hopkins’s protection for so long, and had made him most reluctant to give her up. She had a much more precious use for his largesse.
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Marguerite Kaye
Every woman wants to marry him…But what if he's already taken?In this Matches Made in Scandal story Jean-Luc Bauduin, Parisian society’s most eligible bachelor, is determined only to take a wife of his choosing. And until that day comes he’ll ward off his admirers by hiring Lady Sophia Acton to wear his ring! The passion Jean-Luc shares with his convenient bride is enormously satisfying—until he discovers Sophia’s utterly scandalous past!
Every woman wants to marry him
But what if he is already taken?
In this Matches Made in Scandal story, Jean-Luc Bauduin, Parisian society’s most eligible bachelor, is determined to take only a wife of his choosing. But until that day comes, he’ll ward off his admirers by hiring Lady Sophia Acton to wear his ring! The passion Jean-Luc shares with his convenient bride is enormously satisfying—until he discovers Sophia’s utterly scandalous past!
Matches Made in Scandal series:
From Governess to Countess
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
More books in the series coming soon!
“This sweet and hot duet set at the holiday Brockmore Ball is the perfect pick-me-up. Kaye’s tender tale of redemption touches readers’ hearts.”
—RT Book Reviews on Scandal at the Christmas Ball
“Readers will be seduced by the passionate natures of the protagonists, and the fast-paced, thrilling adventure.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Harlot and the Sheikh
MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost fifty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling (but only on the level), gardening (but only what she can eat) and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis (though not at the same time). Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com (http://www.margueritekaye.com).
Also by Marguerite Kaye
Scandal at the Midsummer BallScandal at the Christmas Ball
Comrades in Arms miniseries
The Soldier’s Dark SecretThe Soldier’s Rebel Lover
Hot Arabian Nights miniseries
The Widow and the SheikhSheikh’s Mail-Order BrideThe Harlot and the SheikhClaiming His Desert Princess
Matches Made in Scandal miniseries
From Governess to CountessFrom Courtesan to Convenient Wife
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife
Marguerite Kaye
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07357-8
FROM COURTESAN TO CONVENIENT WIFE
© 2018 Marguerite Kaye
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Paris, City of Light, city of romance and my favourite city in the world.
Je t’adore.
Contents
Cover (#ua5db0520-5718-5455-84cf-3d02e8883679)
Back Cover Text (#ued6f3520-46dc-50a6-be00-5c6312a9d939)
About the Author (#u7c7c4d57-7736-587a-ba24-05583ff2b76a)
Booklist (#u248fb66e-72fb-51a7-9ce9-6e35bd77bd0d)
Title Page (#u4978e6b4-7460-5b50-bfda-45a0119b92dc)
Copyright (#ue87c61c4-4bd1-54e1-b3f8-0780083e9ef9)
Dedication (#u5e8da46e-39ed-5838-8420-dd1ad8648f06)
Prologue (#ufa5aa2eb-62f2-5714-8807-10bf93c06814)
Chapter One (#u2df04995-b9f3-5a28-a5ea-711696d0fa47)
Chapter Two (#ub9d8499e-7d24-5523-a097-02dd5225fdc9)
Chapter Three (#ubc25fa81-d275-51d1-8dc8-a2b4a40d16bf)
Chapter Four (#u0f3d2974-5de0-5487-a182-d4d8a028fe49)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
London—May 1818
The house that was her destination was located on Upper Wimpole Street, on the very edge of what was considered to be respectable London. The woman known as The Procurer stepped down lightly from her barouche, ordering her coachman to wait until she had successfully secured entry, then to return for her in an hour. An hour, The Procurer knew from experience, was more than sufficient time to conclude her unique business. One way or another.
Number Fourteen was situated at the far end of the terrace. A shallow flight of steps led to the front door, but the entrance to the basement she sought was around the corner, on Devonshire Street. The Procurer descended the steep stairs cautiously. Despite the bright sunshine of the late spring morning, it was cool down here, dank and gloomy. The curtains were pulled tight over the single, dirty window. A fleck of paint fell from the door when she let the rusty knocker fall.
There was no reply. She rapped again, her eyes on the window, and was rewarded with the ripple of a curtain as the person behind it tried to peer out at her unobserved. She stood calmly, allowing herself to be surveyed, sadly accustomed to the reticence of the women she sought out to welcome unsolicited visitors. The reasons were manifold, but fear lay at the root of all of them.
The Procurer offered an escape route from their tribulations to those women whose particular skills or traits suited her current requirements. The exclusive temporary contracts she offered provided those who satisfied her criteria with the funds to make a fresh start, though what form that would take was always entirely up to them. The unique business she had established was very lucrative and satisfying too, on the whole, though there were occasions when The Procurer despaired of the tiny impact her altruism had, when set against the myriad injustices the world perpetrated against women. Today, however, she was in a positive mood. A new client, another extraordinary request to test her reputation for making the impossible possible. She had heard of Lady Sophia Acton’s spectacular fall from grace and had wondered, at the time, what had been the cause of it. Now, thanks to her spider’s web of contacts, she understood only too well. Her heart was touched—as much as that frozen organ could be, that is.
The Procurer gave a little nod to herself. She could not, she thought wryly, have designed a more appropriate task for the woman if she tried. Who had by now, she judged, had more than sufficient time to decide that her visitor was neither her landlady come to evict her, nor a lady of another sort come to harass her. It was time for Lady Sophia Acton to come out of hiding and return to the world. Albeit a very different one from that which she had previously inhabited.
The Procurer rapped on the door again, and this time her patience was rewarded, as she had known it would be. The woman who answered was tall and willowy, dressed in an outmoded gown of faded worsted which might originally have been either grey, blue or brown, and which was far too warm for the season. Her silver-blonde hair was fixed in a careless knot on top of her head from which long, wispy tendrils had escaped, framing her heart-shaped face. The wide-spaced eyes under her perfectly arched brows were extraordinary: almond-shaped, dark-lashed, the colour of lapis lazuli. There were dark shadows beneath them, and her skin had the fragility of one who slept little, but none the less Lady Sophia Acton was one of the most beautiful women The Procurer had ever encountered. It was an ethereal beauty, the type which would bring out the protective nature in some men, though more often than not, she thought darkly, the fine line between protection and exploitation would easily be crossed. Men would assume that Lady Sophia Acton’s fragile appearance equated to a fragile mind. Meeting the woman’s steady gaze, The Procurer thought very much otherwise.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
The questions were perfunctory, the tone brusque. Lady Sophia had no time for social niceties, which suited The Procurer very well. She insinuated herself through the narrow opening, closing the door firmly behind her. ‘They call me The Procurer,’ she said. ‘And I want to put a business proposition to you.’
* * *
Sophia stared at the intruder in astonishment. This elegant, sophisticated woman was the elusive Procurer?
‘You are thinking that I look nothing like the creature of your imagination,’ her uninvited guest said. ‘Or perhaps I flatter myself. Perhaps you have not heard of me?’
‘I doubt there is anyone in London who has not heard of you, though how many have had the honour of making your acquaintance is a another matter. Your reputation for clandestine dealings goes before you.’
‘More of the great and the good use my services than you might imagine, or they would care to admit. Discretion, however, is what I insist upon above all. Whatever the outcome of our meeting today, Lady Sophia, I must have your promise that you will never talk of it.’
Sophia laughed at this. ‘Madam, you must be aware, for since you know my name you must also know of my notoriety, that there is no one who would listen even if I did. Those with a reputation to guard will cross the street to avoid me, while those who wish to further tarnish my reputation have no interest in my opinions on any subject.’
As she spoke, she led her visitor into the single room which had been her home for the last three weeks. The fourth home she had occupied in the months since her return from France, each one smaller, dingier and less genteel than the preceding one. It was only a matter of time before she was expelled from her current abode, for London, despite being a big city was in reality a small place, and London’s respectable landladies were even smaller-minded.
‘I am afraid that my accommodation does not run to a parlour,’ Sophia said, drawing out one of her two wooden chairs. ‘A woman in my position, it seems, has no right to comfort.’
‘No.’ The Procurer took the seat, pulling off her kid gloves and untying the ribbon of her poke bonnet. ‘A woman in your position, Lady Sophia, has very few options. I take it, from your humble surroundings, that you have decided against the obvious solution to your penury?’
‘You do not mince your words,’ Sophia replied, irked to feel her cheeks heating.
‘I find that it is better to be blunt, when conducting my business,’ The Procurer replied with a slight smile. ‘That way there is no room for misconceptions.’
Sophia took her own seat opposite. ‘Very well then, I will tell you that your assumption is correct. I have decided—I am determined—not to avail myself of the many lucrative offers I have received since my return to London. I was forced into that particular occupation for one very important reason. That reason...’
Despite herself, her throat constricted. Under the table, she curled her hands into fists. She swallowed hard. ‘That reason no longer exists. Therefore I will never—never—demean myself in that manner again, no matter how straitened my circumstances. So if you have come here in order to plead some man’s cause, then I’m afraid your journey has been a wasted one.’
Tears burned in her eyes, yet Sophia met her visitor’s gaze, defying her to offer sympathy. The Procurer merely nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘I have come here to plead on behalf of a man, but my proposal is not what you imagine. The services he requires of you are not of that nature. To be clear, you would be required to put on a performance, but quite explicitly not in the bedchamber. The role is a taxing one, but I think you will be perfect for it.’
Sophia laughed bitterly. ‘I am certainly adept at acting. The entire duration of my last—engagement—was a performance, nothing more.’
‘Something we have in common. I too have earned a living from performing. The Procurer you see before you is a façade, a persona I have been forced to adopt.’
Which remark begged any number of questions. Sophia, however, hesitated. There was empathy in the woman’s expression—but also a clear warning that some things were better left unspoken. Locking such things away in the dark recesses of memory, never to be exposed to scrutiny, was the best way to deal with them, as she knew only too well. Sophia uncurled her fists, clasping her hands together on the table. ‘I will be honest with you, Madam, and trust that your reputation for discretion is well earned. A woman in my position has, as you have pointed out, very few options, and even fewer resources. I do not know in what capacity I can be of service to you, but if I can do so without compromising what is left of my honour, then I will gladly consider your offer.’
Once again, The Procurer gave a little nod, though whether it was because she was satisfied with Sophia’s answer, or because Sophia had answered as she expected, there could be no telling. ‘What I can tell you is that the monetary reward for the fulfilment of your contract, should you choose to accept the commission, would be more than sufficient to secure your future, whatever form that might take.’
‘Frankly, I have no idea. At present, my only future plans are to survive day to day.’ But oh, Sophia thought, how much she would like to be able to discover for herself what the future might hold. Six months ago, bereft and utterly alone, raw with grief, she had been so low that she had no thought at all for the future. But life went on, and as it proceeded and her meagre funds dwindled, Sophia had not been able to look beyond the next month, the next week, the next day. Now, it seemed that a miracle might just be about to happen. The Procurer, that patroness of fallen women, was sitting opposite her and offering her a chance of redemption. ‘I have no idea what the future holds,’ Sophia repeated, with a slow smile, ‘but I do know that I want it, and that whatever it is, I want it to belong to me, and to no one else.’
‘Something else we have in common, then, Lady Sophia.’ This time The Procurer’s smile was warm. She reached over to touch Sophia’s hand. ‘I am aware of your circumstances, my dear, including the reason you were compelled to act as you did. You do not deserve to have paid such a high price, but sadly that is the way of our world. I cannot change that, but I do believe we can be of mutual benefit to each other. You do understand,’ she added, resuming her business-like tone, ‘that I am not offering you charity?’
‘And I am certain that you understand, for you seem to have investigated my background thoroughly, that I would not accept charity even if it was offered,’ Sophia retorted.
‘Then indeed, we understand each other very well.’
‘Not quite that well, Madam. I am as yet completely in the dark regarding this role you think me so perfectly suited for. What is it that you require me to do?’
But The Procurer held up her hand. ‘A few non-negotiable ground rules first, Lady Sophia. I will guarantee you complete anonymity. My client has no right to know your personal history other than that which is pertinent to the assignment or which you yourself choose to divulge. In return, you will give him your unswerving loyalty. We will discuss your terms shortly, but you must know that you will be paid only upon successful completion of your assignment. Half-measures will not be rewarded. If you leave before the task is completed, you will return to England without remuneration.’
‘Return to England?’ Sophia repeated, somewhat dazed. ‘You require me to travel abroad?’
‘All in good time. I must have your word, Lady Sophia.’
‘You have it, Madam, rest assured. Now, will you put me out of my misery and explain what it is that is required of me and who this mysterious client of yours is.’
Chapter One (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
Paris—ten days later
The carriage which had transported Sophia all the way from Calais drew to a halt in front of a stone portal surmounted by a pediment on which carved lions’ heads roared imperiously. The gateway’s huge double doors were closed. Was this her final destination? They had passed through one of the entrance gates to the city some time ago, following the course of the bustling River Seine, which allowed her to catch a glimpse of the imposing edifice which she assumed was Notre Dame cathedral. Despite this, Sophia still couldn’t quite believe she was actually here, in Paris.
The days since her momentous meeting with The Procurer had passed in a blur of activity as her papers were organised, her travel arrangements confirmed, and her packing completed. Not that she’d had much packing to do. The costumes required for her to carry out her new duties would be provided by the man who presumably awaited her on the other side of those doors. The man to whom she was bound for the duration of the contract. The shudder of revulsion was instinctive and quickly repressed. This contract was a world away from the last, less formal and much more distasteful, one she had reluctantly entered into to, she reminded herself. The Procurer had promised her that her stipulated terms would be honoured. Though she must do his bidding in public, this man had no right to any part of her, mind or body, in private. So it was not the same. This man was not Sir Richard Hopkins. The services he was paying for were radically different in nature. And when it was over, she would be truly free for the first time in her life.
The butterflies which had been slowly building in her stomach from early this morning, when she had quit the last of the posting houses to embark on the final leg of her journey, began to flutter wildly as Sophia saw the huge doors swing inward and one of the grooms opened the carriage door and folded down the steps. Gathering up the folds of her travelling gown she descended, glad of his steadying hand, for her nervous anticipation was palpable.
‘Monsieur awaits you, madame,’ the servant informed her.
‘Merci,’ Sophia replied, summoning up what she hoped was an appropriately eager smile, thanking the man in his own language for taking care of her during the journey. The servant bowed. She heard the carriage door slam, the clop of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones as it headed for the stables.
Bracing herself, Sophia prepared to make her entrance. The hôtel particulier which she assumed was to be her temporary home was beautiful. Built around the courtyard in which she now stood, there were three wings, each with the steeply pitched roof and tall windows in the French baroque style, the walls softened with a cladding of ivy. The courtyard was laid out with two parterres of box hedging cut into an elaborate swirling design which, seen from above, she suspected, would form some sort of crest. The main entrance to the hôtel was on her left-hand side. At the top of a set of shallow steps, the open doorway was guarded by a winged marble statue. And standing beside the statue, a man.
Late afternoon sunlight glinted down, dazzling her eyes. She had the absurd idea that as long as she stood rooted to the spot, time would stand still. Just long enough for her to quell her fears, which were hardly unjustified, given her experience. Men wanted but one thing from her. Despite The Procurer’s promises and reassurances, until she could determine for herself that this man was different and posed no threat to her, she would, quite rightly, be on her guard.
Though she must not appear so. Sophia steeled herself. The future, as she had discovered to her cost, did not take care of itself. This was her chance to forge her own. Though she had assumed her new persona in Calais, now she must play it in earnest. She had coped with much worse, performed a far more taxing role. She could do this! Fixing a demure smile on her face for the benefit of anyone watching from the myriad of windows, she made her way across the paved courtyard.
The man she approached was tall, sombrely dressed, the plain clothes drawing attention to an impressive physique. Black hair. Very tanned skin. Younger than she had anticipated for a man so ostentatiously wealthy, no more than thirty-five, perhaps less. As she reached the bottom of the steps, he smiled, and Sophia faltered. He was a veritable Adonis. She felt her skin prickle with heat, an unfamiliar sensation which she attributed to nerves, as he descended to greet her.
Jean-Luc Bauduin, The Procurer’s client and the reason she was here, took her hand, making a show of raising it to his lips, though he kissed the air above her fingertips. ‘You have arrived at last,’ he said in softly accented English. ‘You can have no idea how eagerly I have been anticipating your arrival. Welcome to Paris, Madame Bauduin. It is a relief beyond words to finally meet my new wife.’
* * *
Jean-Luc led the Englishwoman through the tall doors opening on to the terrace, straight into the privacy of the morning room. ‘We may speak freely here,’ he informed her. ‘Tomorrow, we will play out the charade of formal introductions to the household. For now, I think it would be prudent for us to become a little better acquainted, given that you are supposed to be my beloved wife.’ Thinking that it would take a while to accustom himself to this bizarre notion, he motioned for her to take a seat. ‘You must be tired after your long journey. Will you take some tea?’
Though he spoke in English, she answered him in perfect French. ‘Thank you, it has indeed been a long day, that would be delightful.’
‘Your command of our language is an unexpected bonus,’ Jean-Luc said, ‘but when we are alone, I am happy to converse in yours.’
‘You certainly speak it fluently, if I may return the compliment,’ she said, removing her bonnet and gloves.
‘I am required to visit London frequently on matters of business.’
The service was already set out on the table before her, the silver kettle boiling on the spirit stove. His wife—mon Dieu, the woman who was to play his wife!—set about the ritual which the English were so fond of with alacrity, clearly eager to imbibe. In this one assumption, at least, he had been correct.
Jean-Luc took his seat opposite, studying her as she busied herself making tea. Despite the flurry of communications he’d had with The Procurer, there was a part of him that had not believed the woman would be able to deliver someone who perfectly matched his precise requirements, yet here was the living, breathing proof that she had. In fact, in appearance at least, the candidate she had selected had wildly exceeded his expectations. Not that her allure was the salient factor. Finally, after all these weeks of uncertainty and creeping doubt, he could act. Recent events had threatened to turn his world upside down. Now, he could set it to rights again, and the arrival of this woman, his faux wife, was the first significant step in his plan.
Her name was Sophia, one of the few facts The Procurer had shared with him. Of her origins, her life, past or present, he knew nothing. His request had been for a woman whom the society in which he moved would accept as his wife without question, a woman he could credibly have fallen deeply in love with, enough to cast caution to the winds and marry post-haste. His request had been more than satisfied. The woman The Procurer had sent him was the answer to prayers he hadn’t even said.
He had assumed she would be an actress, but looking at her he found it difficult to believe, though he could not say why. Her beauty was quite dazzling, but it was fragile, sylph-like, ethereal, with none of the overblown showiness required to tread the boards. She was slim as a wand, and looked as if she could slip through rain, as the saying went. Her hair seemed almost silver in the glare of the sunlight behind her, her skin almost translucent, her lips soft pink. But it was her eyes which drew the attention, an extraordinary shade of blue, like the Mediterranean in the south, though he would not call it turquoise or cornflower or even azure. He had never seen such a colour.
To his embarrassment, Jean-Luc felt the first stirrings of desire. It had not occurred to him that he would find the woman he had come to think of as his shield attractive. Her stipulation that there should be absolutely no physical intimacy between them had surprised him. His expectations of the role his wife would play most certainly did not extend to his bed, but on reflection, he thought it wise of her to clarify a matter which could easily be open to misinterpretation, and had agreed without hesitation. Though he did not doubt his ability to honour his promise, he wished that The Procurer had not sent him a woman who was the perfect embodiment of desire—or of his desires, at any rate. He did not wish to be sidetracked by passion, even if it was destined to remain utterly unrequited. He could only hope that the amount of time they would be forced to spend in one another’s company would cure him of such inopportune thoughts. What mattered was not what she was, or what effect she had on him, but what she appeared to be to everyone else.
Accepting the Sèvres cup of tea reluctantly, Jean-Luc’s fingers brushed hers. She was icy cold. She had flinched, out there in the courtyard, when he had affected to kiss her hand, though she had tried to conceal it. She was nervous, he expected. Well, so too was he. There was a great deal riding on her arrival.
On her wedding finger, she wore the simple gold band he had asked The Procurer to purchase on his behalf. She sipped her tea delicately. There was a poised refinement in her manner, that made him wonder if her birth was numerous rungs up the pedigree ladder from his own. But why would a gently born and raised female agree to play a French wine merchant’s wife? An intriguing question, though one he had no time to pursue. Whatever her origins, what mattered was that she was here, allowing him to establish his own. The Procurer had chosen well, as he would expect, given her reputation and the large fee she had demanded. A fee he’d happily pay twice, thrice over, if this masquerade of theirs proved effective.
Unthinking, Jean-Luc took a sip of the dishwater so beloved of the English, and immediately set the cup down with an exclamation of distaste. ‘So, madame,’ he said, ‘to business. Perhaps we could begin with what it is you know of the task which lies ahead of you?’
* * *
Sophia set the delicate Sèvres cup down carefully. Despite the tea, her mouth was dry, her heart thudding. To business, he had said, the identical cold phrase that Hopkins had used. But this time she was no ingénue. She cleared her throat. ‘Before we start, Monsieur Bauduin...’
‘Before we start, madame, I think we should agree to address one another less formally. We are, in the eyes of the world at least, married. My name is Jean-Luc. I would ask that you use it.’
‘Jean-Luc. Yes, I am aware. And I am Sophia.’
‘Of that I am also aware, though I know no more.’
He waited, one brow slightly raised. His eyes were a very dark brown, the lashes long, thick and black. One could not describe a man’s eyes as beautiful, and in any case, this man was too—too masculine. His jaw was very square. There was a permanent furrow between his brows. Not an Adonis, she had been mistaken to label him that, and not handsome either, if one took Lord Byron’s classic perfection as an example. This man who was to be her husband for the time being was not at all like Byron or Adonis or any other model of perfection, but in another mould altogether. Memorable. A vibrant presence one could not ignore. If one was inclined to find a man attractive, then this was undoubtedly such a man. But she was not so inclined. Nor was she about to satisfy his curiosity about her surname either, especially since he was a regular visitor to London. So she met his gaze blankly and said nothing. She was good at that.
‘Simply Sophia it is, then,’ he said eventually, with a casual shrug that might have been defeat, or more likely indifference. ‘Will you at least deign to tell me, Simply Sophia, what The Procurer told you of this assignment?’
Was he teasing her or mocking her? She couldn’t decide, and so decided not to care, which was always the safest thing to do. ‘I was told very little,’ Sophia replied stiffly. ‘Merely that you require me to play the part of your wife, and that I must convince everyone that it has been a love match. The reasons for my presence here, and my duties, she said would be explained by your good self, as would be the terms upon which our contract is to be deemed complete. In short, she was not forthcoming at all, though she assured me that you had disclosed all to her, and that she believed me to be an excellent match for your requirements.’
‘Her reputation for discretion appears to be well founded.’ Jean-Luc twisted the heavy signet ring he wore on his right hand around his finger. ‘It is ironic, that I must explain myself to you, while you are not obliged to tell me anything about yourself. Not even your surname.’
Ironic, and very convenient for her, but, judging by the tension around his mouth, extremely inconvenient for him. Why did a man like this—rich, confident, successful and, yes, Sophia could admit it to herself, extremely attractive—need to pay a complete stranger to act as his wife?
He was still eyeing her expectantly, waiting for her to fill the silence with the answer to his implied question. Sophia kept her expression carefully neutral. ‘If I am to fulfil my role convincingly, then, painful as it may be to explain yourself to a complete stranger, it seems you must.’ And painful as it might be, she must first ensure that her own terms were clearly understood. ‘Though before we proceed, I would like to discuss the conditions which I stipulated.’
‘I am not sure what there is to discuss,’ Jean-Luc answered. ‘I accepted them, as you must know, else you would not be here.’
Sophia smiled tightly. ‘In principle, yes. But I find it is best to be crystal-clear about the detail.’
His brows shot up. ‘You find? You have entered into contracts such as this previously?’
‘I have never before entered into an arrangement such as this one,’ she said stiffly, which was after all the truth, but he need not know the precise nature of her previous arrangements. ‘What I meant was, that I find it is—I think it would be best for us both to be absolutely clear, before we start, as to the extent of our—our intimacies.’ Sophia squirmed inwardly. She sounded like a prude. ‘If I am to play your wife, I presume it is for the benefit of an audience, and that therefore there will be some displays of affection required? I would be obliged if you could explain in plain terms what form you anticipate those taking.’
‘I confess, I had not thought so specifically—but you are right, it is best to be clear.’ Jean-Luc stared down at his signet ring. ‘Very well, in plain terms then, our marriage will be for public consumption only. In private, you have my word of honour that I will make no physical demands upon you of any sort. For the sake of appearances, in public and in front of my servants, our “intimacies”, as you refer to them, will be confined to only those acts which can be performed in public with propriety. Do you wish me to be any plainer or is that sufficient?’
‘It is more than sufficient.’ And an enormous relief. Some of the tension in her shoulders eased. Her instincts told her that she could trust him to keep his word, though her instincts had proven to be fallible in the past. Disastrously so. ‘You understand that any breach of these terms would render our contract null and void? Not only would I leave immediately, but you...’
‘I would be obliged to recompense you with the full amount. I am aware. I have already given you my word that I will not breach the terms, Sophia, I’m not sure what else I can do to reassure you, save to tell you that my reasons for bringing you here in the first place are, en effet, life-changing. This charade of ours must succeed. I have no intentions of doing anything to endanger it. You understand?’
‘I do.’ A little more of the tension eased. She allowed herself a small smile. ‘And I can assure you, monsieur—Jean-Luc—that I will also do all I can to ensure that our charade does succeed.’
‘Eh, bien, then I trust that is an end to the matter?’
‘Thank you, yes.’
He returned her smile, but only in a perfunctory way. ‘You must understand though, Sophia, that it is vital that we are convincing? I do not expect you to make love to me, but I do expect you to appear as if you wish to, or better still as if you just have.’
‘Of course.’ She could feel the slashes of colour stain her cheeks. It was mortifying to discover that even after all she had been forced to endure, her sensibilities could still be so obviously inflamed. It would be considerably easier than she had expected to spend time in his company. It might even be—no, it was too much of an exaggeration to say enjoyable, but it would be no hardship. ‘Though I’m still not at all clear,’ Sophia said, flustered by her thoughts, ‘as to why you need a wife? And why must it be a love match?’
‘Oh, as to that, it is quite simple. Love,’ Jean-Luc said with a wry smile, ‘is the only credible explanation for the suddenness of our union, and the suddenness of our union will come as a great surprise to all who know me.’ He frowned, choosing his words with care. ‘It is not that I am against marriage. It is an institution I have always planned to embrace at some point in the future, but for the time being, it is well known that I am effectively married to my business. Ironically, my passion for my business has largely been responsible for my success, which in turn means that I am rather inconveniently considered a much sought-after marital prize.’
His tone made his thoughts on this state of affairs clear. ‘Yet you have so far evaded capture,’ Sophia said. ‘I cannot believe that you have employed me in order to ensure that you continue to do so. You do not strike me as a man who could be persuaded to do anything against his will.’
‘Not so Simple Sophia after all,’ Jean-Luc said, smiling. ‘You are quite right. It is precisely because I will not have my hand forced that you are here.’
‘Good heavens,’ she exclaimed, startled, for she had spoken mostly in jest. ‘You can’t possibly mean that you are being forced to marry someone against your will?’
His smile became a sneer. ‘There is indeed a woman attempting to do exactly that. Whether she is a charlatan or simply deluded I cannot decide, but whichever it is, she is doomed to failure. I intend to prove to her that her various claims are utterly without foundation. Producing you as proof that I am already married is just my first salvo across her bows.’
* * *
Sophia was gazing up at him, her extraordinary blue eyes wide with astonishment. ‘I don’t understand. One cannot be forced into marriage, not even when—not ever,’ she said, hastily amending whatever it was she had been about to disclose. ‘This woman, she can hardly hold a gun to your head and force you to take her hand in marriage.’
‘But she does have a gun, and she has been holding it at my head since April.’ Jean-Luc laughed grimly. ‘It is loaded, she thinks, with a silver bullet which will be the answer to all her problems. You are the armour I need to deflect that bullet’
Sophia shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I still don’t understand. Why not simply tell her that you won’t marry her?’
‘Because it is not that simple. I’m sorry, I have been living and breathing this farce for so long, and now you are here, I am so eager to put my plans into action that I forget you know nothing of them.’
She smiled, her first genuine smile, and it quite dazzled him. ‘Let me reassure you, I am just as eager as you are to begin. So why don’t you tell me more about this woman who wishes to be your wife. Starting with her name, perhaps?’
‘Haven’t I told you?’ Jean-Luc rolled his eyes. ‘Juliette de Cressy is her name, and she turned up, quite unannounced on my doorstep six weeks ago. Until that point I had never heard of her.’
Sophia wrinkled her brow. ‘But if she was a complete stranger, why did you grant her an audience?’
‘One of the many things which makes me ambivalent about Mademoiselle de Cressy is that she appears, on first inspection, to be eminently respectable. She called with a maid in tow. She had a visiting card. I have an enquiring mind and was intrigued enough to hear what she had to say. When I did, my immediate reaction was simply to dismiss her tale out of hand. In a bid to take the wind out of her sails I told her that she was wasting her time, as I was already married.’
‘I take it she didn’t believe you? Hardly surprising, considering what you have more or less confessed to being known as a dedicated bachelor.’
‘Yes, but it was more than disbelief. She was—I don’t know, it is difficult to explain. At first she was quite distraught, but she very quickly recovered. That is when she produced the legal documents—her silver bullet—which she believed would substantiate her claim. And that is when I realised she was not, as I had assumed, simply a brazen and audacious opportunist who would be put off by the threat of an invisible wife. It wasn’t only that she didn’t believe I was married, you see, it was that she was extremely convincing in the strength of her own case. Of course, the chances were still high that she was an extremely convincing charlatan, but...’
‘It occurred to you that she might simply be, as you said, deluded.’
‘Yes, that is it. Either way, it was clear that she was not going to go away.’
‘And you were faced with the problem of admitting that you had lied when you said you were already married, or coming up with the evidence to back up your fiction.’
‘Precisely, though I did not immediately rush to The Procurer for help. My next step was to test her resolve by telling her that I wished my lawyer to examine the papers she had to support her claim. She handed them over willingly, informing me that she had expected no less. It was clear she had faith in their authenticity, and equally clear that it had not occurred to her that I might simply destroy them.’
‘Any more than it would have occurred to you, I assume?’
‘You assume correctly.’
‘That is reassuring,’ Sophia said, with an odd little smile. ‘So, Mademoiselle de Cressy’s seemingly innocent trust in you was, then, another point in her favour?’
‘It was.’
‘And the documents, whatever they are?’
Jean-Luc rolled his eyes. ‘Most likely genuine.’
‘So you hired me to prove to Mademoiselle de Cressy that regardless of these documents she has, she is, as we say in England, barking up the wrong tree? You cannot marry her, because you are already married?’ Sophia frowned down at her hands. ‘You have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to call this woman’s bluff. Couldn’t you simply have paid her off?’
‘I offered to do just that, to make the problem go away, but she refused. She said she wanted what was rightfully hers, not blood money. As you will have realised by now,’ Jean-Luc continued, ‘the matter is complicated, and I am aware that you have only just arrived. You have not even seen your room.’
He sat at an angle to her, his long legs tucked under the sofa, which had the effect of stretching his pantaloons tight over his muscled thighs. He might not look like an Adonis, but his build was reminiscent of one. His physical proximity made Sophia uncomfortable. Not unsafe, she was surprised to notice, but—odd. Her pulses were fluttering. It was because he was so close, a warning sign, she supposed, though she felt no inclination to move. ‘All in good time. I take it your plan is to introduce me to Mademoiselle de Cressy sooner rather than later?’
‘All in good time,’ he answered, smiling. ‘My plan for what remains of today is to allow you time to rest and recover from your journey. There is a good deal more to this tale, but it can wait.’
Jean-Luc took her hands between his, a light clasp from which she could easily escape, which meant she had no need to. ‘I will have them bring you dinner in your room, and water for a hot bath, if you wish?’
Sophia couldn’t imagine anything nicer. His thoughtfulness touched her. It had been so long since anyone had thought of her comfort, for in the end even Felicity...
‘That would be perfect,’ she said, desperately trying not to let fall the tears which suddenly stung her eyes. ‘I think I am a little fatigued after all. Merci, Jean-Luc.’
‘It is my pleasure, Sophia.’ He pressed her hands. Then he let her go.
Chapter Two (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
Jean-Luc was in his working in his office the next morning when his new wife appeared, looking much refreshed.
‘May I come in?’ Sophia asked. ‘The footman told me that you don’t like to be disturbed, but I thought...’
He jumped to his feet to pull out a chair for her. ‘Remember that you are my wife, as far as the footman and every other servant is concerned. This is your household to command. In any event, you are not disturbing me. I am far too distracted to work, thanks to you. Are you rested?’
‘Fully.’ She took the seat he indicated, opposite him, but moved it forward, so that she could rest her hands on the desk which separated them. ‘Before you relate the rest of your story, I think it only fair that I reassure you, since you were so patient in reassuring me yesterday.’
‘Reassure me about what?’
She smiled at him faintly. ‘You said that your reasons for bringing me here were life-changing. I should tell you that my reasons for agreeing to come are also life-changing. Coming to Paris, taking on this role, contract, commission, I’m not sure what to call it—this false marriage of ours, if I make a success of it, and I am determined to do just that, the money I will earn will allow me to quite literally change my life.’ She bit her lip, considering her words carefully. ‘I will be free. Free to make my own way in the world, on my own terms. For the first time in my twenty-six years I will be able to live only to suit myself, to finally discover what it is I like, what I want, what makes me happy. So you see, the stakes are too high for me to fail. You can have no idea how much that means to me. I won’t let you down.’
There was a sparkle in her eyes, a tinge of colour that was not embarrassment in her cheeks, giving him a tantalising glimpse of the woman she could be, or would be, if she achieved her goal. He had thought her beautiful before, but seeing her like this, she positively glowed. ‘I can see for myself how much it means,’ Jean-Luc said, quite beguiled. ‘Thank you. May I say that I can think of no one I would rather pretend to be married to than you.’
She laughed. ‘We have not even been married two days. I will be more flattered if you still think so in a week’s time.’
‘Actually, as far as the world is concerned, we have been married since March. But I get ahead of myself. Are you comfortable? Because the tale I’m about to relay is long and convoluted.’
* * *
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Sophia said some time later. ‘I am utterly confounded. Juliette de Cressy not only claims that you are contracted to marry her, but that you are a duke!’
‘Of all the preposterous things this woman alleges, the lunatic notion that I might be the long-lost son of an aristocrat who went to the guillotine—’ Jean-Luc broke off, shaking his head. ‘Me! It is simply ridiculous.’
‘You know, most men would be both delighted and flattered to be informed they were of noble birth.’
‘Even if it means disowning the parents who raised them, who loved them and who tried to give them the best life possible in difficult circumstances? No.’ His mouth firmed. ‘I know who I am. My father—yes there were times when we did not agree, when I thought that he did not care for me, that he—he somehow resented me, but that is normal, for a father and a son, as one grows older, and the other stronger.’
‘I can imagine it would have been normal for you. I expect you were very sure of yourself, even as a boy.’
Jean-Luc laughed. ‘What was your upbringing like? No, you need not answer,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I did not mean to pry.’
Sophia hesitated. She was under no obligation to tell him anything, but it seemed wrong to shut him out completely when he had just confided so much to her. ‘My relationship with my father was difficult. He wanted a son. As a female, I was of limited use to him.’
‘But you knew he cared for you?’
She knew he had not. ‘I never doubted he was my father,’ Sophia said, unwilling to lie.
‘You refer to him in the past tense.’
‘He died four years ago. My mother many years earlier. To return to the matter in hand,’ she said hurriedly, ‘are you saying that, thanks to Mademoiselle de Cressy, you are doubting your own parentage?’
‘Mon Dieu, no! The difficulties I spoke of were a long time ago. My father was very proud of my success. He told me not long before he died, ten years ago, just nine months after Maman, that he could not have asked for a better son.’ Jean-Luc’s hand tightened around the quill he had been fidgeting with. ‘For my father, that was quite an admission, believe me.’
‘More than I ever got,’ Sophia said with feeling. ‘My father never missed an opportunity to tell me that he had never wished for a daughter of any sort, never mind...’ Two. The pain took her by surprise, making her catch her breath. All too aware of Jean-Luc’s perceptive gaze on her, she took a firm grip of herself. ‘Never mind my father,’ she amended lamely. ‘We were talking of yours.’
He waited, just long enough to make it clear he knew she was changing the subject, then set down his quill. ‘My father, Robert Bauduin, you mean, and not the Duc de Montendre.’
‘Indeed. May I ask how you plan to prove your heritage? I’m assuming that you doubt a simple introduction to me will send Mademoiselle de Cressy running for the hills. That you require me to be by your side to maintain the façade, in order to buy yourself the time you need to gather the evidence to quash her claim completely?’
‘Ah, you do understand.’
‘But of course. If a wife does not understand her husband, then she is a poor spouse indeed,’ Sophia quipped.
Jean-Luc smiled, albeit faintly. ‘I must confess, I’m concerned as to how she will react when she does meet you. To date, she has quite simply refused to accept that I have a wife.’
‘Then we must hope that she does not try to eliminate me—an outcome not at all unlikely in the context of this tale, which is worthy of Shakespeare himself.’
‘Or perhaps more appropriately, Molière,’ Jean-Luc said drily, ‘for it has all the hallmarks of a farce. It is, to say the least, inconvenient that the agent which Maxime—Maxime Sainte-Juste, my lawyer, that is—sent to Cognac to retrieve documentary evidence of my birth, came back empty-handed.’
Sophia wrinkled her nose. ‘You don’t find it odd that he couldn’t locate the certificate of your baptism?’
Jean-Luc shrugged. ‘I was surprised, I had assumed that I was born in Cognac, and my parents had always lived there but they must have moved to that town when I was very young. I was born in 1788. It was a time when there was much unrest in the country, crops failing, the conditions which resulted in the Revolution. There could have been any number of reasons for my parents to have relocated.’
‘What about your grandparents then? You must know where they lived.’
‘I don’t. I never knew them, and have always assumed they died before I was born, or when I was too young to remember them.’
‘But there must have been other relatives, surely? Cousins, aunts, uncles?’
‘No one.’ Jean-Luc twisted his signet ring around his finger, looking deeply uncomfortable. ‘When you put it like that, it sounds odd that I never questioned my parents when they were alive, never even noticed my lack of any relatives at all when I was growing up.’
‘But why would you? Your parents are your parents, your family is your family.’
‘Yes, but most people have a family,’ he said ruefully. ‘It seems I did not, though of course I must have relatives somewhere. Unfortunately, I have no idea where I would even begin to look in order to locate them.’
‘What about family friends, then?’
But once more, Jean-Luc shook his head. ‘None who knew my parents before I was born. You’re thinking that is ridiculous, aren’t you? You are thinking, there must be someone!’
‘I am thinking that it is extremely awkward for you that there is no one.’
‘Extremely awkward, and a little embarrassing, and very frustrating,’ he confessed. ‘I cannot prove who I am. More to the point,’ he added, his expression hardening, ‘I cannot prove to Mademoiselle de Cressy who I am, which means that...’
‘You must prove that you are not who she says you are, the long-lost son of the fourth Duc de Montendre.’
‘Exactement.’ Jean-Luc grimaced. ‘Unfortunately, not as straightforward a task as you might imagine. I have, however, made a start on testing the veracity of Mademoiselle de Cressy’s documents. Unlike me, she does have a baptism certificate. Maxime’s agent has been despatched to Switzerland to check it against the relevant parish records. If it proves to be legitimate, then his next task will be to attempt to obtain a description of Juliette de Cressy. As the only child of the recently deceased Comte de Cressy, there must be someone in the neighbourhood where she says she lived for all her twenty-two years who can shed some light on her.’
‘So she was born after her parents left Paris?’
‘If her parents were the Comte and Comtesse de Cressy—who were, incidentally, real people, that too I have established—then she was born six years after they arrived in Switzerland, fleeing Paris in the days when it was still possible to do so, before The Terror.’
‘And the marriage contract, it was written when?’
‘It is dated 1789, the year of the Revolution, and one year after I was born—not that that has anything to do with it.’ With an exclamation of impatience, Jean-Luc got to his feet, prowling restlessly over to the window to perch on the narrow seat in the embrasure, his long legs stretched in front of him. ‘The marriage contract appears to be signed by the sixth Comte de Cressy and the fourth Duc de Montendre. It stipulates a match between the Duc de Montendre’s eldest son, whose long list of names does not include mine, and any future first-born daughter of the Comte de Cressy.’
‘And this fourth Duc de Montendre was killed during the Terror?’
‘As was the Duchess, some time in 1794. This much Maxime has been able to discover, though the circumstances—there are so few records remaining, so much has been destroyed. It may be that the witnesses to the contract also—if they were loyal servants...’
‘They too may have gone to the guillotine?’
‘Like so many others. The final months of the Terror following the Revolution saw mass slaughter, so many heads lost for no reason. Maxime thinks that trying to prove Mademoiselle de Cressy wrong could turn into a wild goose chase.’
‘A whole flock of geese, by the sound of it. It sounds daunting in the extreme.’
Jean-Luc grinned. ‘There is no finer lawyer than Maxime, and no better friend, but the reason he is so successful in his chosen profession is because he is a cautious man, and the reason I am so successful in my chosen profession—or one of them—is that I recognise when it is necessary to cast caution to the wind.’
He returned to his seat behind the desk, picking up his quill again. ‘Maxime is right, though, it will not be a simple matter to prove I am not this Duke’s son. There have been many cases in France over the last few years, of returning émigrés or their apparent heirs, claiming long-lost titles and estates. With so many of the nobility and their dependents dead, so many papers lost, estates ransacked, it is very difficult to prove—or to disprove—such claims. And even if they prove to be true, in most cases, the reward is nothing, or less than nothing, you know? What money existed has long gone, along with anything of value which could be sold or stolen. No one really cares, you see, if Monsieur le Brun turns out to be the Comte de Whatever, if only the name is at stake.’
‘So it would be, ironically, easier for you to accept the title than to reject it?’
‘Equally ironically, acquiring a title, especially such a prestigious one, would, in the eyes of some, be of value to my business. It would,’ Jean-Luc said with a mocking smile, ‘be more prestigious to buy wine from the Duc de Montendre that from Monsieur Bauduin.’
‘But it is not a mere title which mademoiselle would have you claim, but a wife. And another family. Another history.’
‘None of which I desire.’
‘No, but Mademoiselle de Cressy does. Which begs the question, if she is the real Juliette de Cressy, and the contract is valid, if her father really was the Comte, then why didn’t he pursue it when he was alive?’
Jean-Luc nodded approvingly. ‘A good question, and one which you can be assured I asked her. She told me that her parents vowed never to return to France. For them, the country was tainted for ever by the Revolution, which is perfectly understandable—Paris must for them have been a city redolent with terrible memories. Her betrothal to the son of the Duke who was the Comte’s best friend, was a sort of family myth, she said, a story that she was told, and that she believed to be just that—a story. It was only when her father died, and she discovered the marriage contract in his papers, that she realised it was true. His death, she openly admits, left her penniless, for his pension died with him.’
‘So she came here, to Paris, to claim her only inheritance, which is you.’
He shook his head. ‘According to her family tale, as Mademoiselle de Cressy tells it, the Duke sent his son to Cognac in the very early days of the Revolution, to keep him safe, to be raised in secret by a couple named Bauduin, until such a time as he could safely reclaim him. Only his best friend, the Comte de Cressy, was aware of the ruse, and the Comte and his wife fled France around about the same time as their daughter now claims I was sent to live in Cognac. And so it was to Cognac Mademoiselle de Cressy went first, when her father died. And from there, she claims, traced me to Paris—not a difficult thing to do, since my business originated in that town and the office which I keep there today bears my name. This element of her story is, obviously, the most dubious, and equally obviously, impossible to either prove or disprove.’
Sophia frowned, struggling to assimilate the tangle of implications. ‘You think she had the contract and the baptism certificate in her possession, and that she targeted you to play the long-lost heir?’
Jean-Luc spread his hands on the blotter. ‘I am one of the wealthiest men in France. My parents are dead. I have no siblings. And she believed me to be single.’
Sophia couldn’t help thinking that when Jean-Luc himself was added to the equation, it was not surprising that Mademoiselle de Cressy had elected him. ‘Do you think she has taken account of the risk that the real son of the Duc de Montendre might turn up in Paris?’
‘It is fifteen years since Napoleon allowed the first of the émigrés to return, and almost four since the Restoration. If the fourth Duc and Duchess of Montendre had a son—something which is still not verified—and if he is still alive, I think he would have surfaced before now.’
Sophia shook her head. ‘If it is a scheme, it is very ingenious, and Mademoiselle de Cressy must be very bold to attempt to carry it off.’
‘Or very greedy.’
‘Or very desperate.’ As she had been. Desperate almost beyond reason, and utterly heedless of the consequences. Sophia’s stomach churned at the memory, that constant feeling of panic as she searched for a solution, any solution to her own dilemma.
‘Sophia?’ Jean-Luc lifted his hand from hers as soon as she opened her eyes. ‘You look as if you are about to faint. Can I get you some water?’
‘No.’ She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to disguise the deep, calming breaths she was being forced to take. Never again. That was why she was here, wasn’t it? Never again. She could not afford to draw parallels between herself and this Juliette de Cressy, must not allow herself to imagine that they had anything in common. More than anything, she must not allow any sympathy for the woman to jeopardise her own future. ‘I’m fine,’ she said thinly. ‘Perfectly fine. So, where do we go from here?’
He looked unconvinced by her smile, but to her relief, he did not question her further. ‘Establish you as my wife, first and foremost. Introduce you to Mademoiselle de Cressy, which will be in in the presence of Maxime. Try to verify the existence of the lost heir. Try to verify the marriage contract. I have a very long list of tasks, which I will not bore you with.’
‘I won’t be bored. I’d like to help.’
He looked startled. ‘Your role is to play my wife.’
‘Doesn’t a wife help her husband? What do you envisage me doing, if not that?’
Jean-Luc shrugged in a peculiarly Gallic manner. ‘What does a wife do? I have never been married, perhaps you can tell me.’
Almost, she fell for the trap he had laid, but she caught herself just in time, and smiled blandly. ‘Why don’t you let me think about that, come up with a plan of my own, which we can discuss.’
He laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. ‘Very well. I have made arrangements for you to visit the modiste to select your trousseau tomorrow. There will be time before that for me to introduce you to the household. The day after that, a tour of the hôtel. And after that, I am happy to hear your ideas. I do have a very competent housekeeper though, I’m not expecting you to burden yourself with household matters.’
‘At the very least she will expect to take her instructions from me.’
‘Do you know enough of such things to instruct her?’
‘I would not offer if I did not.’
He leaned forward, resting his head on his hand to study her. ‘I was expecting The Procurer to send me an actress.’
‘I’m sure that there are some actresses capable of managing a household.’
‘You are not an actress.’
She rested her chin on her hand, meeting his gaze, reflecting the half-smile that played on his lips. ‘A better one than you, Jean-Luc, for your motives are quite transparent.’
‘But I’m right, am I not? You are not an actress?’
‘I have never been on the stage.’
‘No, I thought this morning, when I first caught sight of you, that your beauty was too ethereal for the stage.’
She could feel herself blushing. She ought to change the subject, to break eye contact, but she didn’t want to. ‘I’m tougher than I look.’
‘Of that I have no doubt. To come all the way to France, alone, even with the assurance of The Procurer’s contract, demonstrates that you are made of stern stuff. And now you offer to help me with my search for the truth, too.’ He reached over to cover her free hand with his. ‘Beautiful, strong and brave, and clever too. I am very glad to have you on my side, Sophia.’
For some reason she was finding it difficult to breathe. ‘We are both on the same side, Jean-Luc.’
‘I like the sound of that. I am not so arrogant as to imagine that I and only I can resolve this mess, Sophia. It’s true, I am accustomed to making all my own decisions, but one of the reasons they are sound is that I take account of other opinions. I would very much appreciate your help. Thank you.’
‘Thank you.’ No man had been interested in her opinions before. No man had been interested in her mind at all. That’s why she was feeling this strange way, light-headed, drawn to him, even enjoying the touch of his hand on hers. Until he withdrew it, broke eye contact, and sat up straight.
‘We are agreed then. However, before we begin the difficult task of proving that Mademoiselle de Cressy’s story is without foundation, there is the small matter of convincing Mademoiselle de Cressy that we are married.’
‘Can we do that? We don’t have any paperwork. What if she tries to verify our story while you are trying to prove her story wrong?’
‘My lawyer has informed her that we were married in England. As to paperwork, it hasn’t occurred to her to ask, perhaps because she doesn’t believe you exist.’
‘So, when do you plan to produce me as evidence?’
‘As soon as we can prove to ourselves that we can be convincing.’
Sophia pursed her lips. ‘You think we need some sort of dress rehearsal?’
He smiled at that. He really did have a very nice smile. It was easy to return it. ‘Tonight,’ Jean-Luc replied. ‘We will have dinner, just the two of us, with the attendant servants looking on. It will be a gentle introduction.’
‘You think so? In my experience, servants are the group most difficult to fool.’
‘Then we will know, after tonight, that if we can fool my household we can fool Paris society, and more importantly, Juliette de Cressy, yes?’
‘Yes.’ Was there a chance that Paris society would contain any visiting English society likely to recognise her? She could not possibly enquire, for to do so would be to betray herself. But The Procurer would not have sent her here if she had considered it a possibility, would she, for then she would have failed in meeting Jean-Luc’s terms, and The Procurer was reputedly infallible. She had to take confidence from that.
‘What is worrying you, Sophia?’
She gave herself a little shake. ‘Nothing. Save that we must concoct a love story, mustn’t we? People will ask how we met, won’t they, and how our whirlwind romance developed.’
‘Whirlwind romance,’ Jean-Luc repeated slowly. ‘I am not familiar with that phrase, but it is—yes, I like it. We will come up with a love story tonight worthy of your Lord Byron,’ he said, his eyes alight with mischief. ‘We dine at seven. I took the liberty of sending your maid out for an evening gown. I had no idea whether you would have anything suitable with you. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘There was no need. I do possess an evening gown, you know.’ Albeit a very shabby and venerable evening gown.
‘Don’t be offended, Sophia. Think of it as your stage costume,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘When you put it on, and not your own clothes, then it will help you, will it not, to play your part?’
How on earth had he guessed she had used that trick before? She had left her previous costumes behind in that house in Half Moon Street, but when she’d worn them—yes, it had been easier to pretend. ‘Thank you,’ Sophia said.
Jean-Luc got to his feet, holding out his hand. She took it. He bowed over it, kissing the air just above her fingertips. ‘À bientôt. I look forward to meeting my wife properly, for the first time.’
Chapter Three (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
The evening dress that Jean-Luc had thoughtfully provided was deceptively simple in its construction, consisting of a cream-silk underdress, and over it a very fine cream muslin cut in the latest fashion, the waist very high, the sleeves puffed, the skirts fuller than had been worn a few Seasons before. Gold-figured lace in a leafy design formed a panel in the centre of the skirt at the front and the back, with twisted gold and cream lace on the décolleté, and a matching trim on the hem.
‘Ça vous plaît, madame?’ the dresser asked Sophia, fussing with the bandeau which was tied around her hair.
‘C’est parfait,’ Sophia replied in her softly modulated French, twisting around in front of the mirror to take in the back view.
It was indeed perfect. The most expensive gown she had ever worn as well as the most chic. Madeleine, the dresser recently employed by Jean-Luc for his new wife, had excellent taste. She would have Madeleine accompany her, Sophia decided, when she visited the modiste tomorrow to select the remainder of her outfits. Or trousseau, as Jean-Luc had referred to it. She was extremely relieved that he was taking no hand in proceedings, though it was ludicrous to compare his taste with Hopkins’s, and even more ludicrous to compare the costumes, or their purpose.
And even more ludicrous again to compare the two men, Sophia chided herself. She must not allow the past to influence her present behaviour. Tonight, she had to prove to Jean-Luc that she could play as his loving bride. Sophia rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror, as she held out her wrists to allow Madeleine to button her long evening gloves. Playing the bride was one thing. It was the loving part that was more problematic.
* * *
They might be dining à deux, but when the footman threw open the double doors and announced her, Sophia felt as if she was walking on to a stage set. The room was quite magnificent, the pale green walls extravagantly adorned with plasterwork and cornicing gilded with gold. Two mirrors, hung opposite each other at either end of the long room, endlessly reflected the huge dining table and its array of silver and gold epergnes in the form of galleons sailing along the polished mahogany surface like an armada. A magnificent chandelier cast flickering shadows through two tall windows and out into the now dark courtyard.
Two place settings were laid at the far end of the table. A fire roared in the white marble hearth. Jean-Luc, austere in his black evening coat and breeches, set down the glass he had been drinking from, and came towards her. His hair was still damp from his bath, combed back from his forehead, almost blue-black in the candlelight. He was freshly shaved, his pristine shirt and cravat gleaming white against his skin. His waistcoat was also plain black, though the buttons were gold. He wore no other adornment, save his diamond pin, a gold fob, and the gold signet ring, but the very plainness of his attire let the man speak for himself, Sophia thought fancifully. A man with no need of ostentation. A man without pretension. A man who exuded confidence in himself. Looking at him, refusing to acknowledge the flicker of attraction which she determinedly attributed to nerves, Sophia concentrated on the other, much more important thing about Jean-Luc. He was a powerful and influential man, but he was not a man who would abuse that power. Her instincts told her so. She decided that in his case, she could trust them.
‘Ma chère.’ He took her hand, bowing over it, his kiss as it had been earlier, bestowed on the air above her fingers. ‘You look ravishing.’
He was waiting, Sophia realised, to take his cue from her. She smiled up at him, the practised smile of one dazzled. ‘Jean-Luc, chéri,’ she said breathlessly, ‘as ever, you flatter me.’ Catching his hand between hers, she allowed her lips to brush his fingertips in the most featherlight of kisses. It was entirely for the benefit of the three—no, she counted four footmen, and the butler, who were standing sentinel around the room, but the touch, voluntarily given, seemed to take Jean-Luc by surprise. He recovered quickly enough, enfolding her hands in his, pulling her towards him, smiling down at her besottedly in a manner she thought must be every bit as practised as her own.
‘I could not flatter you, no matter how hard I tried. The reality exceeds any compliment,’ he said. And then more softly, for her ears only: ‘Bravo, Sophia!’
He ushered her towards the table, releasing her hand only when the footman pulled her chair out for her. She thanked the man, though she knew it was the custom in such large households to pretend that servants were invisible, but this was one habit of her own she would not break, and so she thanked the butler too, when he poured her a flute of champagne, receiving a small, startled nod of acknowledgement.
The food began to arrive in a procession of silver salvers, each set down by a footman, the domed lid removed with a flourish by the butler, and the contents solemnly announced. Artichauts à la Grecque; rillettes; saumon fumé; escargot Dijonnaise; homard à la bordelaise; côtes de veau basilic; lapin Allemande; daube Avignonnaise; asperge gratin; salade Beaucaire...
Sophia’s mouth watered. ‘How did you know to order all my favourite foods?’ she teased.
Jean-Luc laughed, shaking his head. ‘The credit must go to my housekeeper.’
‘My housekeeper.’ Sophia laid her hand over his. ‘I look forward to meeting her tomorrow. From the little I have seen of my beautiful new home, I can tell she is most efficient, but there are certain aspects that I wish to attend to myself, to ensure your maximum comfort, chéri,’ Sophia simpered. ‘I intend to make you proud to have me as a wife.’
‘My love.’ Jean-Luc lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a theatrical kiss to her palm, his eyes dancing with laughter. ‘I have all the proof I need that you will be a perfect wife, now that you are here.’ He raised his champagne glass, touching it to hers. ‘To us.’
‘To us.’ The champagne was icy cold. The food looked absolutely delicious, her mouth was already watering. ‘I would like to start by sampling some artichoke, if you please, they look delicious. Are they from Brittany?’
Handing her the dish, Jean-Luc casting an enquiring look at his butler, who bowed and informed him that Madame Bauduin was quite correct, that these were the first of the season.
‘I had no idea you were a horticulturist, my little cabbage,’ Jean-Luc said.
Sophia sighed theatrically. ‘You have forgotten my passion for the culinary arts.’
‘In my passion for you,’ he replied fervently, ‘I forget everything else.’
He was almost as accomplished an actor as she. If she did not know better, she would think the heavy-lidded, heated look he gave her was genuine. She could feel her own cheeks flushing, and reminded herself that she did know better. ‘Have a care, my love,’ she chastised, ‘we are not alone.’
Jean-Luc responded by raising his glass. ‘I am counting the moments until we are.’
‘Then it would be prudent to have some sustenance first,’ Sophia said, completely flustered. ‘May I have some snails please. I find them a great delicacy.’
He laughed at that, a low rumble of genuine amusement as he handed her the platter. ‘An English woman who likes snails. I truly have captured a prize.’
‘These are not just any old snails, these are escargot Dijonnaise.’ Sophia inhaled the delicate aroma with her eyes closed. ‘A red-wine reduction, with shallots and bone marrow, garlic and truffles. You are very fortunate to have such an accomplished chef.’
Jean-Luc helped himself to the remainder of the snails, popping one into his mouth. ‘We are fortunate,’ he corrected.
‘We are. Please pass on our compliments to...?’
‘Monsieur le Blanc,’ the butler informed her graciously. ‘I will indeed, madame.’
‘So it seems I have married a gourmand,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘Would you like to sample some of this veal?’
‘I’d prefer the rabbit, please. I would not describe myself as a gourmand, but I am very fond of cooking. Though of late I have not—not had the opportunity to indulge my passion.’ The truth was, she had more or less lived on air since her return to England. She looked up to find Jean-Luc studying her once more. She wished he wouldn’t do that. She returned her attention to her plate, absentmindedly sipping on the dry white wine which had seamlessly replaced her champagne.
‘Paris has some excellent restaurants these days. We will sample some of them, if you wish?’ Jean-Luc smiled at her eager expression. ‘In my view, the best places to eat are the cafes, but the type of women who frequent them are not the sort I would wish my wife to mingle with. There is a place near Les Halles, where the oysters...’
Sophia continued to smile, but she no longer heard what he was saying. What would he think if he knew his faux wife was, in her previous life, exactly the sort of woman he would not wish her to mingle with? A cruel paradox. She cursed under her breath. Hadn’t she decided to leave that other life behind!
‘...a great many new restaurants opened in the last ten years,’ Jean-Luc was saying. ‘Run by chefs who once ruled the kitchens of the grandest houses, and who lost their livelihoods when their former employers lost their heads. Chez Noudet in the Palais Royal, for example.’
‘I had not thought—but I suppose many people depended for their livelihoods on the aristocrats who went to the guillotine.’
‘Absolument. My own—our own chef, Monsieur le Blanc, is one such case I am afraid. And this town house too is a victime of the Revolution, in a way. I purchased it four years ago, from the heirs of the noble owners. It had, like most of the abandoned hôtels particuliers here in St Germain and more especially across the river in Le Marais, been looted. Tomorrow, when I show you round properly, you will see there are still bullet marks in the walls of the courtyard. It may have been almost thirty years since the Bastille fell, but the scars of the Revolution are still there, if you know where to look.’
‘But now King Louis is back on the throne, surely things have changed?’
Jean-Luc shrugged. ‘Superficially, perhaps, but it is plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, I think. Some of us, like me, roll our sleeves up and get on with the business of trading, in an effort to restore our country’s finances—and in the process, the fine buildings of our city such as this one. And others, many of our so-called nobility, sit complacently on their rears and expect others to spoon feed them.’
Sophia was somewhat taken aback by this. Would her own heritage place her in the opposite camp to him? Or would her determination to make her own way in life on her own merits be her saving grace? It didn’t matter, she told herself, what Jean-Luc thought of her, provided she fulfilled her contract. But the assertion didn’t ring true. Despite herself, she found him intriguing, his opinions interesting, his determination to be only himself admirable. ‘Are they all so idle, these returning exiles?’ she asked. ‘Can none redeem themselves in your eyes?’
‘Oh, they do. A large part of my business depends upon their custom and patronage. The heirs of the ancien régime are some of my best customers and a valuable source of contacts and new clients throughout Europe. Unlike them, I do not distinguish between old money and new. I can be very charmant when I wish to be. As you know, mon amour.’
This last was said with a smouldering look, and accompanied by another kiss pressed to her palm. Sophia wanted to laugh, only she felt that she couldn’t breathe. Though she still wore her evening gloves, though his lips did not touch her skin, his kiss sent a frisson up her arm. The alarmingly visceral attraction made her feel all tangled up inside. It made her forget that she was playing a part. She looked down at her empty plate, at her full wine glass, with dismay. Lost in their conversation, she didn’t recall what she had eaten, after the rabbit. She didn’t recall the wine changing from white to red. She didn’t recall the footmen clearing the table, bringing in a second course of fruit and ices and mousse.
‘Will you be so very charmant, as to serve me some of that lemon sorbet?’ Sophia asked, extricating her hand. ‘And perhaps you should have some too?’
‘But yes, you are right, something cooling is what is required. In your presence...’ Jean-Luc placed his hand over his heart. ‘I burn like a moth drawn inexorably to the flame.’
Sophia bit back her laughter. ‘Then perhaps you should not come any nearer. I have no desire to cause you pain.’
‘Indeed, that I do believe. For when you agreed to marry me, ma chère, did you not prevent my heart from breaking?’
The soulful look he gave her was too much. Sophia chuckled. ‘Enough,’ she exclaimed in English. ‘I am not sure whether you are aping Lord Byron or one of his creations, but...’
‘You think this is a performance! Madame, you stab me to the heart.’
‘I will, with this cake slice, if you do not stop. It is the most lamentable—oh!’ Sophia covered her mouth, casting a horrified glance over her shoulder, where the butler was making a show of arranging several decanters on a tray. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mouthed, ‘I quite forgot.’
He smiled at her warmly, his voice too low for any of the servants to hear. ‘And so made your performance all the more believable. You have a most infectious laugh, though you do not have call to use it very often, hein? And now I have made you sad, by saying so. I’m sorry.’
Sophia tried to shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ With years of practice of shielding her emotions, both from those she loathed and the person she loved most, she found it unsettling that this man, almost a stranger, seemed able to read her thoughts. She ate a spoonful of lemon sorbet. ‘This is delicious.’
‘And so the performance resumes,’ Jean-Luc said under his breath, before turning to dismiss the servants, telling the butler to leave the clearing up until the morning. ‘Now,’ he said, as the door closed behind the last footman, ‘you may relax. If that is possible, in my company. I merely made a comment, based on a supposition. I was not attempting to pry into your affairs.’
Sophia pushed her sorbet aside. ‘I am perfectly relaxed. It is better that you know nothing of me or my past. Then you will not confuse me with the creature you have brought me here to play.’
‘Sophistry, Sophia?’
Which it was. ‘Talking of which,’ she said, ignoring him, ‘we said we would agree our cover story. How we came to meet, I mean, and fall headlong in love.’
* * *
‘Our whirlwind romance.’ A cursory glance at her, Jean-Luc thought, getting up to pour himself a brandy, would be sufficient for any man to understand perfectly why he would wish to marry her. In her travelling dress, he had thought her slender, but her figure, revealed by the flimsy fabric of the evening gown, was certainly not lacking in curves. She was the kind of enigma that unwittingly brought out the most primal instincts in men: innocent yet sensual; fragile yet resilient; a woman who yearned to be protected, and one who desired nothing but to be left entirely alone. Was it unwitting? Impossible, surely, for any woman to be so accomplished an actress.
‘Would you care to join me?’ he asked, holding the decanter aloft, unsurprised when she shook her head. A woman who liked to keep a clear head. And who was, he told himself, simply doing the job she had been brought here to do. It was not her fault that he was distracted by her. Though one would have to be made of stone not to be.
Jean-Luc set his brandy impatiently aside and resumed his seat. He had his faults, but woolly thinking was not one of them. ‘Let us plot the arc of our romance. Obviously, we met in England,’ he said. ‘Fortunately, I was there on business in February for a few weeks. It was not long after I returned, at the beginning of April, that Juliette de Cressy found her way to my doorstep.’
‘So we met and married in the space of a few weeks,’ Sophia said.
‘We met and fell deeply in love and married,’ Jean-Luc corrected her. ‘It was a coup de foudre, for both of us. One look was enough.’
‘You don’t really believe that can happen? That one would decide to bind oneself for ever to a complete stranger, on the basis of a—a heated glance, without knowing anything of them, or of their intentions?’
It was, in fact, a notion he had always derided, but the scorn in her voice made Jean-Luc contrary. ‘Doesn’t love triumph over all?’
‘Love does not put food on the table, any more than it puts a roof over one’s head. In fact, in my opinion, love is the flimsiest possible reason for anyone to marry.’
‘What would you consider more sound reasons?’
‘It is a matter of quid pro quo, isn’t it?’ Sophia answered, as if this was perfectly obvious. ‘Pedigree, wealth, position, influence, these are the bulwarks of marriage contracts. Where there is a fair exchange, then affection may flourish, but there are so very few fair exchanges, aren’t there, and in most cases, it is the women who has least to offer, and so must sacrifice the most.’
She was staring off into the distance, having almost forgotten that he was there. ‘And even then,’ she continued coldly, ‘it is often not enough. Lies are offered in exchange for promises. Could any such marriage flourish? No,’ she concluded firmly. ‘No. It is best that it does not even begin. No matter what the consequences.’
Could she be referring to herself? Fascinated, Jean-Luc had a hundred questions he was burning to ask and frustratingly, he could not ask any of them. ‘Fortunately, we do not have to concern ourselves with that, since our marriage is entirely fictitious,’ he pointed out instead.
Sophia blinked. ‘You’re right. It is just that, a figment of our imagination. They say everyone loves a romance, don’t they? Why should they question ours?’ She pursed her lips. ‘So, we met in England. I expect you bumped into me when you were shopping for some shirts, and I was looking to match some ribbons for a new hat. I dropped my packages. You picked them up. Our eyes met, and we knew, yes?’
Her smile was as brittle as the spun sugar which decorated the honey cake. Jean-Luc returned it, like for like. ‘I took you to tea,’ he said, ‘and then the next day for a carriage ride in Hyde Park, and we met every day after that. A week before I was due to return to Paris, I realised that I could not return without you, and so I proposed on the spot.’
‘And I accepted with alacrity, and we were married by special licence—that is something one can easily accomplish, if you have sufficient funds,’ Sophia added, her smile turning bitter. ‘But I could not travel with you immediately, because I had...’ She faltered. ‘Why could I not come with you?’
‘Perhaps you had family, loose ends to tie up?’
‘No, none. Recently I have lived alone.’ She blushed. ‘Oh, you meant did the Sophia who married you live alone. No, she wouldn’t have, would she, a genteel unmarried woman like that? She would have had a companion of some sort.’
Which made him wonder what sort of woman that made Sophia, if not a woman like that? She had been completely confident with his servants, and quite at home taking this long, elaborate dinner. Her manners, her general air of refinement, were completely natural, the product of good breeding and habit. His butler had taken to her at once, and like his chef, Fournier was another of the aristocracy’s old retainers. Who was she? He itched to ask, but it would be futile. Subtlety was the key to extracting any information from the real Sophia. For now, he must concentrate on the fictional one. ‘So, this companion of yours, she has to be settled elsewhere, then?’
‘In the country,’ Sophia said, nodding. ‘In a cottage of her own, in the village where she grew up. I could do that for her. As the wife of a wealthy man, it would be the least I could do. And I’d want to make sure she was comfortable too, wouldn’t I, since she had been my companion for so long? So I remained in England, counting the days until we were reunited.’
‘And I waited here in Paris, counting the days until you came.’
Sophia frowned. ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone though?’
‘I did, I told Maxime, my oldest friend. It would have been he who drew up the settlements. I wanted to keep you a secret, to unveil you in person, knowing that when they saw you, everyone would understand in a moment why I fell so madly in love with you.’
‘And your servants?’
‘Our servants,’ he reminded her. ‘Have known of your arrival from the day after I received confirmation of your appointment, from The Procurer, but they won’t have talked.’
‘You are very confident of that.’
‘I have every reason to be. I pay very well, and I do not suffer insubordination.’
‘So your intention then, is to present me to Mademoiselle de Cressy...’
‘As soon as possible, now that we have our story straight.’
She smiled tentatively. ‘Do you ever shop for your own shirts?’
He laughed, as much with relief that their story had lifted her mood, as at her acumen. ‘Never, if I can avoid it. What if I had business with Berry Brothers, the wine merchants in St James’s Street—a company I do have dealings with, as it happens. Walking back to my town house, I’d go along Bond Street, wouldn’t I, and that was when I bumped into you. There, does that work?’
‘I think so. Will you relate it?’
‘We shall tell it together, just as we did there.’ Jean-Luc grinned. ‘Although we’ll have to add in a few loving glances.’
She clasped her hands together at her breast and fluttered her lashes at him. ‘Cornflower blue, the ribbons I was trying to match. You said they were the colour of my eyes.’
He smiled. ‘Ah no, I would not have said that, for your eyes are no such colour. I was wondering to myself only this morning, what colour are they, those beautiful eyes of my beautiful wife, for I would not call it turquoise or cornflower or even azure.’
‘What then would you call it, my love?’
She was not laughing, but there was laughter in her eyes, just as there had been before, when she had forgotten to act. Heat prickled down his back and his belly contracted as desire caught him in its grip. ‘I have no name for the colour, but it is the blue of the Mediterranean in the south on one of those perfect days, when the sun is almost white in the sky, and the sea glitters, and the heat makes your skin tingle.’
Sophia nodded. ‘I know,’ she said softly.
He leaned closer. She smelled of flowers, like an English springtime after the rain, but at the same time he could swear there was an intoxicating heat emanating from her. ‘You want to dive in,’ he said, ‘to feel the cool lap of the waves soothe your burning skin.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘Like gossamer, that is how I always imagined it would be.’
Their knees were touching. He could sense the rise and fall of her breasts, only inches away from him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. ‘Gossamer,’ Jean-Luc repeated. ‘No, it is like silk. Like your hair,’ he said, his fingers brushing one long strand which had escaped her coiffure, then trailing down her cheek, her neck, to rest on her shoulder.
He heard her sharp intake of breath and waited, but she did not move. ‘Jean-Luc, is this still—are we acting?’
He could lie, but that would be a big mistake. No matter how beguiled he was by her, her scent, her curves, the allure of her mouth, he could not pretend in order to take advantage. ‘I am not,’ he said, releasing her. ‘Not any more. I forgot myself. Forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Sophia said, shaking out her skirts as she rose. ‘We immersed ourselves in our roles rather too enthusiastically, that is all.’
He chose not to contradict her. ‘You play yours to perfection. No one will doubt you. But it is very late, and we have a very full day tomorrow. Come, I will escort you to your chamber.’
He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, with her so tantalisingly close on the other side of the locked door. But at least tonight, it would be this astonishing creature who was to play his wife who would keep him awake, and not that other, deluded creature, the reason Sophia was here in the first place.
Chapter Four (#ub1360590-9119-57f8-8c4c-efbbc708e639)
The next morning Sophia joined Jean-Luc in the breakfast room, attended by Fournier the butler, who seemed to have taken a shine to her, and two footmen. Afterwards, Jean-Luc introduced his wife to the rest of the household, who were lined up in serried ranks in the entrance hall. She lost count of how many there were, but her determination to speak to everyone, down to the youngest scullery maid, met with Madame Lambert the housekeeper’s approval, as well as Jean-Luc’s.
The remainder of the day was spent acquiring her trousseau. Clothes had never held much interest for Sophia—a happy circumstance since, for most of her life, there had been little money to spend on them. She had refused to spend any of their meagre allowance on her previous trousseau, telling Felicity afterwards, in an attempt to make light of the situation, that she’d shown remarkably foresight. As to the silks lavished on her by Hopkins, she never considered those anything but garish costumes for the performance she was required to put on.
This latest, and hopefully last, part she would have to play required costumes too, but of a very different kind. Seated in the plush receiving room of one of Paris’s most exclusive modistes, aided and abetted with enthusiasm by Madeleine, her dresser, Sophia momentarily abandoned herself to the seductive delights of high fashion. Morning dresses, carriage dresses, promenade dresses, evening dresses and ball gowns were paraded in front of her, in a flutter of silk and satin and lace, crape and gauze, figured muslin, plain muslin, zephyr and sarcenet. There were under-dresses and over-dresses. There were nightgowns and peignoirs, chemises and petticoats of the finest cambric, silk stockings, corsets trimmed with satin and that latest fashion in undergarments, pantaloons. There were pelisses and coats and tippets and cloaks, boots and half-boots, sandals and shoes. There were pairs of gloves of every colour to suit every occasion, and so many bonnets that Sophia quite lost track of their various appellations and purposes.
‘No, I’ve seen a plethora,’ she said after several dizzying hours. ‘I require only a few dresses, perhaps one evening gown, certainly no ball gowns. There is no point—’ She broke off abruptly. Neither the modiste nor the dresser must suspect that her role as Jean-Luc’s wife was temporary. ‘What I mean is,’ she amended, ‘I would like time to consider my future needs, and will purchase today only what I require to see me through the next few weeks.’
‘But of course, a most sensible approach,’ the modiste said, smiling approvingly. ‘Might I suggest Madame Bauduin leaves it to her dresser and I to make the initial selection? Madame is very fortunate that she has the figure to carry off any garment.’
‘Yes. Thank you—though please, only the bare minimum for now,’ Sophia said, already wincing inwardly at the expense which Jean-Luc would be put to, despite the fact that he had insisted, before she set out this morning, that she considered only her requirements to dress as befitted his wife, and not the expense.
Entrusting Madeleine with the task, Sophia returned in the carriage to the hôtel, a brief and uncomfortable journey through the narrow streets, the view from the mud-spattered window giving her frustratingly little sense of the city she longed to explore. This would be her only chance to see Paris. Under the terms of their contract, she had agreed to disappear from both Jean-Luc’s life and his country when her task was completed. How would he explain his short-lived marriage? It was not her problem, she told herself as the carriage halted outside the gates of the town house and the footman folded down the steps. But she was curious none the less, and finding her husband waiting for her on the terrace, took the opportunity to ask him.
‘I will say that you have returned to England to nurse your former companion. Is that not a plausible explanation?’
‘Very plausible.’
‘Good! Then, when time has passed, I will say that you had come to the conclusion that you could not settle in France and wished to remain in England. It would mean painting you in an unfavourable light, though.’
‘Tell people whatever you wish. It cannot be any worse than—’
She broke off abruptly. What they say already. So obvious a conclusion to that sentence that there could be no possible alternative. But Jean-Luc did not finish it for her. Instead he pressed her hand, and there was something in those dark brown eyes, sympathy or pity or—whatever it was, it made her feel uncomfortable, so she looked away, fussing with the strings of her reticule.
‘Did you have successful shopping trip, ma mie?’
A finger under her chin gently forced her to meet his gaze. ‘It depends how you define successful. I suspect I have spent a great deal of your money.’ Which, she thought sardonically, was the goal of every woman in her former situation, though it was one she had never shared. One of the things, she suspected, that had kept her under Hopkins’s protection for so long, and had made him most reluctant to give her up. She had a much more precious use for his largesse.
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Marguerite Kaye
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Every woman wants to marry him…But what if he′s already taken?In this Matches Made in Scandal story Jean-Luc Bauduin, Parisian society’s most eligible bachelor, is determined only to take a wife of his choosing. And until that day comes he’ll ward off his admirers by hiring Lady Sophia Acton to wear his ring! The passion Jean-Luc shares with his convenient bride is enormously satisfying—until he discovers Sophia’s utterly scandalous past!