From Courtesan To Convenient Wife. Marguerite Kaye
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