From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

by Marguerite Kaye

‘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 o
f 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, bu
t 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.’