He dipped his head, blotting out the sun. And then in full view of the passers-by, he kissed her gently on the lips.’
It was the softest of kisses. Just the merest whisper of his lips on hers, but it made her head spin, forced her to cling to him, lest her knees give way, for she felt as if her bones had melted. And then the sound of an admiring whistle pierced the air, and it was over. Jean-Luc let her go, looking somewhat sheepish. ‘Believe it or not, I have never done that in public before.’
‘Believe it or not, neither have I. Shall we carry on walking, before we attract a full-blown round of applause?’
‘We can go through the palace entrance here into the central courtyard, if you like. From there you can get a sense of the vast scale of the palace and the Louvre.’
‘As you wish,’ Sophia said compliantly. Unquestioning deferral was one of the earliest lessons Hopkins had inculcated in her. But she was no longer Hopkins’s creature, and Jean-Luc did not deserve to be mentioned in the same breath, even if it was only in her thoughts. ‘Actually,’ she amended, ‘I’d much prefer to see more of your beautiful city.’
‘Your wish is my command.’
Jean-Luc smiled. By expressing her own wishes she had pleased him. Which was, Sophia thought as she allowed him to help her into the carriage, a truly novel experience.
* * *
The quay they drove along was very busy, forcing Jean-Luc to concentrate on his driving as they made slow progress, the Seine in contrast running at speed on their left, a muddy brown colour with grey choppy waves, and like the Thames, crowded with boats, barges and sculls. Despite this fascinating vista, Sophia was drawn to the view directly beside her of her erstwhile husband, his perfect profile, his disturbingly attractive person.
Very attractive, and very disturbing. She could easily have avoided kissing him, but she had not wished to. She, who had never in her life wished for such a thing had astonishingly, wanted Jean-Luc to kiss her. It was the way he looked at her. It was not lascivious. It was not covetous. It was not even that horrible, assessing kind of look of one weighing the odds as to her likely receptiveness, which she had always found revolting. It was a different kind of look altogether. As if he saw her—not the exterior which was her fortune and her misfortune, but the person inside. No man had ever looked at her in that way before. No man had ever made her feel this way before either. Tangled up inside, confused. Edgy, though not nervous but—anxious? No, not that either. Jumpy? She couldn’t describe it. It was like looking forward to something while at the same time worrying it might not happen.
‘The Place Louis Quinze,’ Jean-Luc said, rousing her from her reverie and indicating a huge open space, dominated at the far end by two palaces. ‘Or if you like, the Place de la Concorde, though you probably know it better as the Place de la Révolution.’
Sophia gazed at the innocuous civic space in horror. ‘This is where the King was guillotined, and Queen Marie Antoinette?’
‘And in the end Robespierre too, the man responsible for so much of the bloodshed—or at least the man who is most often blamed. Legend has it that for years afterwards, animals refused to cross the exact spot where the guillotine once stood.’
Sophia shuddered. ‘I’m not surprised. Do you think this is where the Duc and Duchesse de Montendre met their end?’
His eyes were fixed on the place. She thought he had not heard her, but the tightening around his mouth betrayed him. ‘It is probable.’
A tiny shake of the head followed, a dismissal of whatever grim thoughts had momentarily possessed him. ‘We are heading into the Champs-élysées now. Some of the biggest of the noble palaces are near here, over on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. They put my humble little hôtel to shame, but you can’t see anything, they are all hidden behind imposing walls. One of them, I believe, belonged to the Montendre family. I have yet to ascertain which, since so many have changed hands in the last few years.’
‘Oh, so you have already started your investigations? ‘
‘A tentative start, not much more. Tell me,’ Jean-Luc said, nodding at the road ahead, ‘what do you think of that?’
‘I have no idea,’ Sophia said, eyeing the huge construction. ‘What is it?’
‘The new Arc de Triomphe. It was to be Napoleon’s biggest tribute to himself. As you can see, he didn’t get to finish it.’
‘Are there any plans to complete it?’
Jean-Luc laughed sardonically. ‘I doubt it’s a priority for the King, and as for the people—Paris has far too many other urgent needs.’ He drove in silence as they travelled the short distance towards the abandoned mass of stone covered in scaffolding, and once again pulled over. ‘The Russian forces camped here during the occupation. Those were very dark days for Paris—to have foreigners claim our city—desperate times. It is a relief to finally put them behind us.’
‘You really do love this city, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Though I have houses in London, Lisbon and Madrid, though I was raised in the south-west, it is Paris which is my home. I felt it here,’ he said, touching his heart, ‘from the first time I set foot here.’ He consulted his watch, barking in annoyance. ‘I’m sorry, but I must take you back now. I have urgent business to attend to.’
‘Of course. We are supposed to be married, I would not expect my husband to sacrifice his business for me.’
‘Then you will find that your expectations are aimed far too low. If I did not abandon my business—at least temporarily—for such a lovely wife, then I would be a fool. This meeting I have arranged, is to hand over some responsibilities to my secretary. Something which he believes long overdue, and will be delighted to accept.’
‘But you must not—for my sake, you must not...’
‘But I must. For my sake as much as yours, ma belle. Mademoiselle de Cressy must be utterly convinced of the veracity of our union. I promise you, Sophia, it will be no hardship at all to be seen to devote myself to you.’
The look he gave her made her skin heat. It made her pulses jump. He was a very good actor, she reminded herself. Was he acting? ‘And I, to you,’ Sophia said, allowing herself the briefest of caress, her gloved hand on his cheek, her fingers fluttering along his jaw. He inhaled sharply. Was he going to kiss her again? She didn’t care if he was acting or not. She wanted his mouth on hers. A kiss. Such a simple thing to desire, wasn’t it?
He caught her hand. He pulled her closer. ‘Sophia?’
Her hesitation was fatal. He sat up. Why had he asked her! If he had simply kissed her! She was well and truly hoist by her own petard and now it was too late to change her mind. When her body had stopped this strange clamouring, she would be glad she had not. ‘There is a gap in the traffic,’ she said, pointing sightlessly and stupidly, for Jean-Luc had proved himself an excellent driver.
But though he drew her a look—one of those looks—he said nothing, merely picked up the reins and carefully edged back out on to the thoroughfare.
Chapter Five
Jean-Luc’s business meeting kept him away from the hôtel until long after dinner, and in the morning he left apologies for his absence once more. Deciding that she had better make a start on assuming her role as chatelaine, Sophia arranged to meet with the housekeeper for the long overdue tour of her new abode, then took a simple breakfast in her bedchamber of coffee and buttered baguette while she compiled her own list of domestic tasks. Jean-Luc was not the only one with a methodical mind.
Just as she was perusing her limited wardrobe, Madeleine burst into the room followed by a small army of maids bearing a very large number of boxes. ‘Your trousseau has arrived, Madame Bauduin,’ she announced.
Sophia looked on aghast as the boxes began to pile up in the bedchamber. Madeleine, with an uncanny knack for divining the contents of each box, directed gowns, hats, shoes, undergarments and overgarments into separate piles. ‘Now, madame, we w
ill select a gown for you to wear this morning, and then I will have all this put away—unless you wish to inspect...’
‘No! There is no need.’ She had no ambition at all to see this mountain of unnecessary expenditure spread out for her delectation and delight. She couldn’t imagine what Jean-Luc would think when faced with the bills. ‘Not at the moment,’ she said more temperately, realising that she had spoken sharply. ‘I have promised to spend the morning with Madame Lambert. Madeleine...’
‘Oui, madame?’
‘How many gowns, exactly, did you order in the end?’
Her dresser frowned as she did a quick mental tally. ‘Morning gowns, seven, and the same of afternoon dresses. Promenade dresses, four and four walking dresses. Evening gowns, six, I think.’
‘Twenty-eight dresses?’ Sophia said faintly.
‘Oui, madame. We can always order more if you are concerned that is insufficient for your needs?’
Sophia poured herself the dregs from the coffee pot and swallowed them. ‘I suspect it will be sufficient for the rest of my mortal days!’
* * *
Three hours later, Sophia entered the un-renovated wing of the hôtel alone. Though Madame Lambert had been very unforthcoming with her at first, by the end of the extensive tour of the house she was fairly certain that she had passed whatever examination the housekeeper had set her. The years managing house for her father had stood her in good stead—the early ones, at least, when there was still sufficient of Mama’s money left to allow her to keep the house as it had been when Mama was still alive. Even then, their London town house had been nothing compared to this. Modest, is how Jean-Luc had referred to it yesterday, and she supposed it was compared to those on the Right Bank, or even compared to some of the grander houses she had visited with her father, when he was obliged to bring her along as his dining companion. Though none of those London houses had the spectacular light, the effortless sense of space of this house. None had those tall windows, the doors which opened on to the courtyard which, in summer, brought the outdoors inside.
Sunshine. Blue sky. Paris was not so very far away from London, yet even here, the air was different, and in the south...
A tear tracked down her cheek unchecked. Felicity had loved that fierce southern sunshine. ‘I can feel it doing me good, heating my bones,’ she used to say. She had a way of tilting her face up, as if she was drinking in the sun’s rays, willing them to heal her. Her skin had become quite tanned. ‘No respectable man will offer for me now,’ she had said, laughing. ‘I look like a peasant girl.’
She was always teasing. Always talking as if there was a future, as if there would be a time when marriage might feature, when tanned skin would then be an issue. She had the ability to live only in the present. Only occasionally could Sophia see that it was not a talent, but a hard-learned lesson. Only occasionally did she catch a glimpse of the other Felicity, the little sister who was terrified, and who tried so hard never to show it. So much life. And then, abruptly, none.
Tears cascaded down Sophia’s cheeks. It was so unfair. So horribly unfair. She missed her dreadfully. It had been almost ten months now, but the pain felt so raw. She so rarely permitted herself to grieve. Since returning to England, all her efforts had been to survive without further compromising herself. Now here she was, on a beautiful day in a beautiful house in a beautiful city, and suddenly it overwhelmed her. With a sob, Sophia dropped her head on to her hands and gave way to a long overdue bout of tears.
* * *
It left her drained but oddly rejuvenated. She knew from experience that tears left no trace on her skin or eyes, a fortunate quirk of nature that had stood her in good stead many times in the past. She tucked her soggy handkerchief into the pocket of her gown. Enough tears! She had always prided herself on being firmly in control of her emotions. Those confrontations with her father had been very specific, always caused by the same contentious issue, and it had never been difficult to be anything other than patient with Felicity, who was adept at pretending all was well even when she was desperately unwell.
Jean-Luc would say that was a very English thing to do, but when it came to Felicity, Sophia’s only motive had ever been a desire not to upset her sister by not being equally stoic. Pretence had become second nature to her, something else which had stood her in very good stead during the travails of her initial downfall and then the long endurance test which was her—did one call it a career?
She had never considered using this term before, and it amused her, in a dark way. Her father’s career—his illustrious career, as he’d always referred to it—had brought his family to the brink of bankruptcy and left his daughters in abject poverty. Yet her choice of career—yes, she could, if she was so inclined, have labelled it illustrious with veracity. She had been successful. She had achieved what she needed to. It had been she who had instigated it on her own terms and ended it in the same way. Had she chosen to resume it on her return to London—ah, but she had not countenanced that. She would not live in shame ever again. Desperation had forced her down paths she would never have previously considered. The Procurer had provided a route to salvation.
She wandered over to the cracked mirror above the fireplace. The morning gown Madeleine had selected for her was an unusual colour of forest-green sprigged with white flowers, the hem weighted with white cotton lace. It was simply but beautifully cut, with a round neck and tightly fitting sleeves which tapered down to the wrist. It was not a colour which Sophia would have chosen, and as such, it quite transformed her. She was no longer any of her old selves, but someone quite new. Madame Bauduin was a confident woman, she decided, eyeing her reflection. Confident in her appearance. Confident in her ability to take up her new role. Confident in her husband’s affections.
Her husband. Jean-Luc. It had become second nature for her to be on her guard with men, it should be a simple matter, especially since she had known him less than a week, but for some reason she was struggling. For a start, she felt as if she had known him for a great deal longer. The effect, she supposed, of how much he had been forced to tell her, but also the effect of how much he seemed to understand her, despite her resistance to telling him anything. And if she were being honest, she wasn’t so resistant. In fact, quite the opposite. She had found herself on several occasions wanting to confide in him. And twice now, she had wanted to kiss him.
Sophia shivered. Not in fear, but in anticipation. Twenty-six years old, and she had never been kissed. Not properly. There had been kisses, but they had been perfunctory to say the least, a token prelude to another act, with no interest in her response. Just as well, since she had none, other than the urge to shield her mouth with her hand. Jean-Luc’s almost kiss had not been token. It had been given—or not given!—in anticipation of nothing more than a kiss.
A kiss which made no demands. What would a kiss like that be like? She shivered again. No, not a shiver but a frisson. A word she’d never understood before. Frisson. Sophia closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself. She could almost feel the brush of his leg against hers. The scent of him, a clean scent, but with an undertone of—of Jean-Luc. His eyes would be dark with desire that she would pretend was not an act. His lids would be heavy, his lashes thick black, no man should have lashes so beautiful. His breath would be soft on her cheek. And his mouth...
‘Ah, here you are!’
Sophia jumped. Her eyes flew open. Heat flooded her cheeks. He could not literally read her thoughts, she reminded herself. ‘Jean-Luc. I did not expect...’
‘My apologies. It took more time than I anticipated, but I am pleased to say that my business affairs are now temporarily in the capable hands of my secretary. I am now, as they say, all yours.’
He strode towards her, his hands outstretched. It was perfectly natural to allow him to clasp hers. As for his smile, it would be a very beguiling smile, were she the type to be beguiled, which she was
not. Still, there was no harm in smiling back, was there, nor in proffering, as any newlywed wife in love with her husband would, a welcoming kiss.
‘Sophia?’
This time she did not hesitate. ‘Husband,’ she said, disingenuously, closing the gap between them. ‘It is lovely to see you.’ And then she stood on her tiptoes, and she kissed him.
* * *
The touch of her lips on his made all thoughts of resistance flee. Husband, she had called him, Jean-Luc thought hazily, so this was part of their charade, though there was no one around and—and he didn’t care. His senses were swimming at the nearness of her, at the light, fresh scent of her. And her mouth. Only then did he become aware that she was not actually kissing him, but simply pressing her lips to his. He could feel her breath, shallow and fast. Keeping one of her hands in his, he pulled her to him, wrapping his other arm around her waist, angling his head to kiss her properly. Her lips parted just a fraction. He kissed her, little darting kisses, all the way along her full top lip. She sighed, relaxing in his arms. He tried again, to kiss her properly. Her lips clung to his, but...
She was nervous, that was it. He slid his hand up her back, caressing the delicate skin on the nape of her neck, and fluttered more delicate kisses on her lips, until she followed his lead, giving fluttering, butterfly kisses in return. He caught one of them, his mouth moulded to hers, and moved gently. She followed his lead this time, opening to him, and he deepened the kiss just a little, ignoring the sudden clamour of his senses, the stirring of his erection, coaxing her into a response, concentrating on coaxing her a little bit more, and a little bit more, until she was kissing him, her free hand clutching at his shoulder for balance.
Her kisses were so delightful that Jean-Luc stopping thinking, losing himself in her embrace for a long, breathless moment, until the tiny gap between them became an agony to maintain, and the desire to deepen the kiss from desire to passion became almost irresistible. Almost.
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife Page 7