From Courtesan To Convenient Wife. Marguerite Kaye
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.’
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,’