was, she had more or less lived on air since her return to England. She looked up to find Jean-Luc studying her once more. She wished he wouldn’t do that. She returned her attention to her plate, absentmindedly sipping on the dry white wine which had seamlessly replaced her champagne.
‘Paris has some excellent restaurants these days. We will sample some of them, if you wish?’ Jean-Luc smiled at her eager expression. ‘In my view, the best places to eat are the cafes, but the type of women who frequent them are not the sort I would wish my wife to mingle with. There is a place near Les Halles, where the oysters...’
Sophia continued to smile, but she no longer heard what he was saying. What would he think if he knew his faux wife was, in her previous life, exactly the sort of woman he would not wish her to mingle with? A cruel paradox. She cursed under her breath. Hadn’t she decided to leave that other life behind!
‘...a great many new restaurants opened in the last ten years,’ Jean-Luc was saying. ‘Run by chefs who once ruled the kitchens of the grandest houses, and who lost their livelihoods when their former employers lost their heads. Chez Noudet in the Palais Royal, for example.’
‘I had not thought—but I suppose many people depended for their livelihoods on the aristocrats who went to the guillotine.’
‘Absolument. My own—our own chef, Monsieur le Blanc, is one such case I am afraid. And this town house too is a victime of the Revolution, in a way. I purchased it four years ago, from the heirs of the noble owners. It had, like most of the abandoned hôtels particuliers here in St Germain and more especially across the river in Le Marais, been looted. Tomorrow, when I show you round properly, you will see there are still bullet marks in the walls of the courtyard. It may have been almost thirty years since the Bastille fell, but the scars of the Revolution are still there, if you know where to look.’
‘But now King Louis is back on the throne, surely things have changed?’
Jean-Luc shrugged. ‘Superficially, perhaps, but it is plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, I think. Some of us, like me, roll our sleeves up and get on with the business of trading, in an effort to restore our country’s finances—and in the process, the fine buildings of our city such as this one. And others, many of our so-called nobility, sit complacently on their rears and expect others to spoon feed them.’
Sophia was somewhat taken aback by this. Would her own heritage place her in the opposite camp to him? Or would her determination to make her own way in life on her own merits be her saving grace? It didn’t matter, she told herself, what Jean-Luc thought of her, provided she fulfilled her contract. But the assertion didn’t ring true. Despite herself, she found him intriguing, his opinions interesting, his determination to be only himself admirable. ‘Are they all so idle, these returning exiles?’ she asked. ‘Can none redeem themselves in your eyes?’
‘Oh, they do. A large part of my business depends upon their custom and patronage. The heirs of the ancien régime are some of my best customers and a valuable source of contacts and new clients throughout Europe. Unlike them, I do not distinguish between old money and new. I can be very charmant when I wish to be. As you know, mon amour.’
This last was said with a smouldering look, and accompanied by another kiss pressed to her palm. Sophia wanted to laugh, only she felt that she couldn’t breathe. Though she still wore her evening gloves, though his lips did not touch her skin, his kiss sent a frisson up her arm. The alarmingly visceral attraction made her feel all tangled up inside. It made her forget that she was playing a part. She looked down at her empty plate, at her full wine glass, with dismay. Lost in their conversation, she didn’t recall what she had eaten, after the rabbit. She didn’t recall the wine changing from white to red. She didn’t recall the footmen clearing the table, bringing in a second course of fruit and ices and mousse.
‘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
