Marguerite Kaye - From Courtesan To Convenient Wife

‘Will you be so very charmant, as to serve me some of that lemon sorbet?’ Sophia asked, extricating her hand. ‘And perhaps you should have some too?’

‘But yes, you are right, something cooling is what is required. In your presence...’ Jean-Luc placed his hand over his heart. ‘I burn like a moth drawn inexorably to the flame.’

Sophia bit back her laughter. ‘Then perhaps you should not come any nearer. I have no desire to cause you pain.’

‘Indeed, that I do believe. For when you agreed to marry me, ma chère, did you not prevent my heart from breaking?’

The soulful look he gave her was too much. Sophia chuckled. ‘Enough,’ she exclaimed in English. ‘I am not sure whether you are aping Lord Byron or one of his creations, but...’

‘You think this is a performance! Madame, you stab me to the heart.’

‘I will, with this cake slice, if you do not stop. It is the most lamentable—oh!’ Sophia covered her mouth, casting a horrified glance over her shoulder, where the butler was making a show of arranging several decanters on a tray. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she mouthed, ‘I quite forgot.’

He smiled at her warmly, his voice too low for any of the servants to hear. ‘And so made your performance all the more believable. You have a most infectious laugh, though you do not have call to use it very often, hein? And now I have made you sad, by saying so. I’m sorry.’

Sophia tried to shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ With years of practice of shielding her emotions, both from those she loathed and the person she loved most, she found it unsettling that this man, almost a stranger, seemed able to read her thoughts. She ate a spoonful of lemon sorbet. ‘This is delicious.’

‘And so the performance resumes,’ Jean-Luc said under his breath, before turning to dismiss the servants, telling the butler to leave the clearing up until the morning. ‘Now,’ he said, as the door closed behind the last footman, ‘you may relax. If that is possible, in my company. I merely made a comment, based on a supposition. I was not attempting to pry into your affairs.’

Sophia pushed her sorbet aside. ‘I am perfectly relaxed. It is better that you know nothing of me or my past. Then you will not confuse me with the creature you have brought me here to play.’

‘Sophistry, Sophia?’

Which it was. ‘Talking of which,’ she said, ignoring him, ‘we said we would agree our cover story. How we came to meet, I mean, and fall headlong in love.’

* * *

‘Our whirlwind romance.’ A cursory glance at her, Jean-Luc thought, getting up to pour himself a brandy, would be sufficient for any man to understand perfectly why he would wish to marry her. In her travelling dress, he had thought her slender, but her figure, revealed by the flimsy fabric of the evening gown, was certainly not lacking in curves. She was the kind of enigma that unwittingly brought out the most primal instincts in men: innocent yet sensual; fragile yet resilient; a woman who yearned to be protected, and one who desired nothing but to be left entirely alone. Was it unwitting? Impossible, surely, for any woman to be so accomplished an actress.

‘Would you care to join me?’ he asked, holding the decanter aloft, unsurprised when she shook her head. A woman who liked to keep a clear head. And who was, he told himself, simply doing the job she had been brought here to do. It was not her fault that he was distracted by her. Though one would have to be made of stone not to be.

Jean-Luc set his brandy impatiently aside and resumed his seat. He had his faults, but woolly thinking was not one of them. ‘Let us plot the arc of our romance. Obviously, we met in England,’ he said. ‘Fortunately, I was there on business in February for a few weeks. It was not long after I returned, at the beginning of April, that Juliette de Cressy found her way to my doorstep.’

‘So we met and married in the space of a few weeks,’ Sophia said.

‘We met and fell deeply in love and married,’ Jean-Luc corrected her. ‘It was a coup de foudre, for both of us. One look was enough.’

‘You don’t really believe that can happen? That one would decide to bind oneself for ever to a complete stranger, on the basis of a—a heated glance, without knowing anything of them, or of their intentions?’

It was, in fact, a notion he had always derided, but the scorn in her voice made Jean-Luc contrary. ‘Doesn’t love triumph over all?’

‘Love does not put food on the table, any more than it puts a roof over one’s head. In fact, in my opinion, love is the flimsiest possible reason for anyone to marry.’

‘What would you consider more sound reasons?’

‘It is a matter of quid pro quo, isn’t it?’ Sophia answered, as if this was perfectly obvious. ‘Pedigree, wealth, position, influence, these are the bulwarks of marriage contracts. Where there is a fair exchange, then affection may flourish, but there are so very few fair exchanges, aren’t there, and in most cases, it is the women who has least to offer, and so must sacrifice the most.’

She was staring off into the distance, having almost forgotten that he was there. ‘And even then,’ she continued coldly, ‘it is often not enough. Lies are offered in exchange for promises. Could any such marriage flourish? No,’ she concluded firmly. ‘No. It is best that it does not even begin. No matter what the consequences.’

Could she be referring to herself? Fascinated, Jean-Luc had a hundred questions he was burning to ask and frustratingly, he could not ask any of them. ‘Fortunately, we do not have to concern ourselves with that, since our marriage is entirely fictitious,’ he pointed out instead.

Sophia blinked. ‘You’re right. It is just that, a figment of our imagination. They say everyone loves a romance, don’t they? Why should they question ours?’ She pursed her lips. ‘So, we met in England. I expect you bumped into me when you were shopping for some shirts, and I was looking to match some ribbons for a new hat. I dropped my packages. You picked them up. Our eyes met, and we knew, yes?’

Her smile was as brittle as the spun sugar which decorated the honey cake. Jean-Luc returned it, like for like. ‘I took you to tea,’ he said, ‘and then the next day for a carriage ride in Hyde Park, and we met every day after that. A week before I was due to return to Paris, I realised that I could not return without you, and so I proposed on the spot.’

‘And I accepted with alacrity, and we were married by special licence—that is something one can easily accomplish, if you have sufficient funds,’ Sophia added, her smile turning bitter. ‘But I could not travel with you immediately, because I had...’ She faltered. ‘Why could I not come with you?’

‘Perhaps you had family, loose ends to tie up?’

‘No, none. Recently I have lived alone.’ She blushed. ‘Oh, you meant did the Sophia who married you live alone. No, she wouldn’t have, would she, a genteel unmarried woman like that? She would have had a companion of some sort.’

Which made him wonder what sort of woman that made Sophia, if not a woman like that? She had been completely confident with his servants, and quite at home taking this long, elaborate dinner. Her manners, her general air of refinement, were completely natural, the product of good breeding and habit. His butler had taken to her at once, and like his chef, Fournier was another of the aristocracy’s old retainers. Who was she? He itched to ask, but it would be futile. Subtlety was the key to extracting any information from the real Sophia. For now, he must concentrate on the fictional one. ‘So, this companion of yours, she has to be settled elsewhere, then?’

‘In the country,’ Sophia said, nodding. ‘In a cottage of her own, in the village where she grew up. I could do that for her. As the wife of a wealthy man, it would be the least I could do. And I’d want to make sure she was comfortable too, wouldn’t I, since she had been my companion for so long? So I remained in England, counting the days until we were reunited.’