Illusion. Emily French
non. You knew nothing of this arrangement.” Madame Bertine shrugged off Sophy’s vehemence dismissively, then changed the subject altogether. “You should wear red, ma chérie. It would suit you. You have such lovely skin.”
Sophy glanced at the woman suspiciously for any signs of mockery. Seeing none, she sighed. “I am in mourning, Madame Bertine.” She touched her black silk gown lightly. “Black is a cold, dignified color. One to gain respect in a man, not love. It’s not a color to entice or excite.”
“What an extraordinary girl you are. With your dramatic coloring, and dressed accordingly, you could entice les hommes like bees to a flower.”
Sophy fought the urge to throw back her head and laugh hysterically at this absurd conversation. “I already have a husband.”
A husband whose heart belonged to his business. If only...
Madame Bertine nodded slowly, as if her thoughts were not really on Sophy’s reply. She was silent for a long while. “Red is a very bold color. It stands for something. It makes a statement.” She lost the thoughtful look. “I associate it with the strong emotions, passion, anger, desire, l’amour.”
Sophy felt a lump form at the back of her throat. She swallowed. Fixed her eyes on her wedding ring as a focus.
“I do not know that a marriage of convenience, a business arrangement, requires strong emotions. Though I do like heads to turn when I enter a room.”
No, only one. Seth’s head. If I were in a daring low-cut red satin dress, then he might take me in his arms, press his lips to mine, stir again those strange, fluttering sensations. If only...
“If you want a man to long for you, find yourself a motif. One he will associate only with you. When he sees it, even if you are far away, he will think of you.”
Madame suddenly became interested in the fringe of her shawl. She gave a small sound that might have been a sob. “I surround myself with ‘earts. The ’eart ’as always connoted affection.”
Sophy’s eyes widened as a sudden realization struck her, igniting a flame of suspicion in her mind. She gave Madame Bertine an astute look.
Father’s lacquered cigar box had an arched floral crest pierced with hearts! How could she have been so blind? She tried to suppress her inner excitement, but her high color belied her outward calm.
“Were you my father’s lover?”
Madame Bertine gave another Gallic shrug, and straightened the rug over her knees. “I’ave been the lover of many men, my child. Nicholas van ’Outen was but one of them.”
“But he must have meant more than the others. He bought this house. You live in it!”
“Ah, mais oui. Marie-Simone catered for ‘is needs.” Her eyes met Sophy’s with a suddenly troubled expression. “Nicholas van ’Outen was an honorable man. He would not jeopardize his social standing and risk gossip by taking a mistress while ‘e ’ad a daughter at ‘ome. So ’e compromised ‘is principles and set me up in a business ’ere in Greene Street.”
She laughed gaily as Sophy looked puzzled.
“I see you do not know what I am talking about. It does not matter, ma fillette. Follow the dictates of your ’eart, rather than the logic of the mind, and you will win the prize.”
Sophy closed her eyes, expelling a long breath. She clasped her hands together and defied the logic of her mind. “Madame, could you help me? Could you teach me how to win my husband’s affection?”
Chapter Four
“In spite of Lincoln’s death, there seem to have been...”
Seth let Richard Carlton’s voice wash over him as he idly surveyed the scene below. Suddenly, his idleness vanished. His fingers dug into the polished sill. Surely that was Sophy!
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He would recognize that distinctive walk anywhere. A skip, then a hop. There was nothing sedate about his wife. She bounced. Like an excited pixie.
“—the meaning of freedom remains unresolved....”
Seth craned his neck, searching the crowded street for another glimpse of the woman. A tantalizing swirl of skirts and then she was gone.
Frowning, Seth stared up at the piling masses of clouds, then down at the slowly moving line of carriages. He was sure it had been Sophy. What the hell was she doing in Greene Street?
“—nothing but a ceaseless round of parties these past seven months celebrating the end of the war. Do you agree, Seth?”
“Definitely. Richard, I’m sorry, but I must go. Just remembered something important I must do. I’ll have a look at the inventory lists another time.”
Seth did not wait for Richard to call a servant. He had collected his walking stick and bowler hat and was clattering down the stairs before the agent had a chance to reply. At street level, he realized how importunate he must have appeared. He glanced again at the ominous clouds, and his mouth thinned.
Greene Street was definitely not a place for an innocent young woman. Even Bishop Simpson proclaimed there were as many whores in the vicinity as there were Methodists!
Could Sophy have seemed so untouched, so innocent, if she was indulging in an illicit affair? He couldn’t—didn’t want to — believe it. Headstrong and spoiled, perhaps, but he knew his wife was fiercely loyal. So what was she doing in the area?
Sophy ran downstairs light-footed and flung open the door of the dining parlor. All round the room the gaslights were blazing, and the table was set with an astounding array of crystal and silver. In the center of a simple floral decoration burned one scarlet candle.
Her mouth curled. Seth would soon be home. She felt excited and no longer afraid. It was as if she had shed the last shrinking of anxiety about the future like a discarded skin and was now emerging with wings. A conqueror about to discover a new and unknown land.
There was a wild elation at the knowledge of the marriage act as explained by Madame Bertine. Exhilarated, Sophy spun in a pirouette. As though released by a spring, her wide-skirted gown of stiff corded black silk followed her body’s movement.
The mere contemplation of such delight was too much for her to face just now. She had to push it away from her, hold it off like some dazzling dream that she must not think of yet, Now there was dinner to consider. Now she must join the company in the drawing room.
The cold drizzle had started during the ride back to the house on Fifth Avenue and, an hour later, with the rising of the wind, it was battering at the window of the large drawing room. A maid had just drawn the heavy brocade drapes when Seth came into the room.
A faint chill washed over Sophy at the grim expression on his face. His brows were straight dark slashes in a face so pallid that it might have been hewn from marble. The glance he swept her felt like iced water as the magnificent blue eyes glimmered with strong emotion.
Concentrating almost fiercely upon his wife, he seemed unmindful of anyone else in the room. The silence stretched, broken only by the tap of his cane as he came to her, dragging one leg and leaning heavily on his stick.
The clear shining of the wall sconces seemed to gather about his shapely head in a nimbus of light. The brilliance of it was entangled in the piratical darkness of his hair and there seemed sparks in his jewel-bright eyes.
Forehead furrowed, Sophy stood staring at him through her mothwing lashes. There is nothing wrong, she repeated over and over to herself. Why then was her heart beating so madly that it constricted her breathing?
Their eyes locked.
Seth studied her face with the innate fierceness with which he had applied himself to the preservation of the Union. Abruptly, he felt idiotic, like a madman trapped in the nightmares of his own mind.
He