‘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,’ Jean-Luc said.
Sophia sighed theatrically. ‘You have forgotten my passion for the culinary arts.’
‘In my passion for you,’ he replied fervently, ‘I forget everything else.’
He was almost as accomplished an actor as she. If she did not know better, she would think the heavy-lidded, heated look he gave her was genuine. She could feel her own cheeks flushing, and reminded herself that she did know better. ‘Have a care, my love,’ she chastised, ‘we are not alone.’
Jean-Luc responded by raising his glass. ‘I am counting the moments until we are.’
‘Then it would be prudent to have some sustenance first,’ Sophia said, completely flustered. ‘May I have some snails please. I find them a great delicacy.’
He laughed at that, a low rumble of genuine amusement as he handed her the platter. ‘An English woman who likes snails. I truly have captured a prize.’
‘These are not just any old snails, these are escargot Dijonnaise.’ Sophia inhaled the delicate aroma with her eyes closed. ‘A red-wine reduction, with shallots and bone marrow, garlic and truffles. You are very fortunate to have such an accomplished chef.’
Jean-Luc helped himself to the remainder of the snails, popping one into his mouth. ‘We are fortunate,’ he corrected.
‘We are. Please pass on our compliments to...?’
‘Monsieur le Blanc,’ the butler informed her graciously. ‘I will indeed, madame.’
‘So it seems I have married a gourmand,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘Would you like to sample some of this veal?’
‘I’d prefer the rabbit, please. I would not describe myself as a gourmand, but I am very fond of cooking. Though of late I have not—not had the opportunity to indulge my passion.’ The truth 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