‘My sister,’ Maxime Sainte-Juste said, ‘will I am sure be most happy to make your acquaintance, and to show you the city. She is about your age, mademoiselle, and a most respectable young woman. As to your lodgings, I am sure that my mother will be able to recommend—’ Sensing his employer’s astonishment, he broke off. ‘But we can discuss the matter later. I can see that Monsieur Bauduin is anxious to be away.’
‘Monsieur Bauduin, it appears, can happily leave matters in your hands, Maxime,’ Jean-Luc said, giving his friend a quizzical look. ‘But you are quite right, I have a great many things to attend to, not least presenting my wife to Parisian society.’ He bowed briefly over Juliette’s outstretched hand. ‘Your servant, mademoiselle.’
‘Goodbye, mademoiselle.’ Sophia dropped a curtsy.
‘I am truly sorry,’ Juliette said, returning the curtsy. ‘If I had any other option, believe me, I would pursue it. I have no desire to ruin your life.’
* * *
‘Which proves,’ Sophia said to Jean-Luc as they settled into the waiting carriage, ‘if nothing else, that she truly does believe her story, and more worryingly, is convinced that any evidence you produce will support it, rather than discredit it.’
‘All it proves is that she is deluded.’ Jean-Luc took her hand. ‘Though I do believe that she is now in no doubt of our marriage and our feelings for each other.’
‘Yes, but it hasn’t made any difference.’
‘I didn’t expect it to, not really.’
‘Jean-Luc, you don’t think her claim might have substance?’
‘I don’t think for a moment that I am a duke.’
‘But?’
He shrugged, but it was unconvincing. ‘Why do I know so little of my true heritage? Why did it never occur to me to ask questions of my parents when they were still alive?’
‘Because you had no reason to.’
‘Until Mademoiselle de Cressy came along,’ he said wryly. ‘And now, not only am I plagued with having to prove I am not a duke, she has inadvertently plagued me with doubts about who I really am. I always thought my parents were simply very private people, content in their own company, you know? But looking back, I wonder if there was more to it? Were they hiding something?’ He sighed impatiently. ‘It is driving me mad, the questions I should have asked them and now cannot.’
‘But not so mad that you are imagining yourself the Duc de Montendre?’
He laughed. ‘No. Mademoiselle de Cressy is—how do you say it, barking at the wrong tree?’
‘Maybe so, but she is utterly convinced it is the right one.’
‘She is also now convinced that we are married, and that we are madly in love.’
‘That is very true.’ Sophia leaned back on the squabs with a sigh. The parallels between Juliette and herself could not be ignored. Though Juliette’s papa had loved his daughter, ultimately it had made no difference. She was left quite alone and without practical resources. For both of them, marriage was the obvious solution. Ironically, marriage was not a solution for either of them. Despite the shame and degradation Sophia had suffered, she had not once regretted her decision to forgo matrimony in favour of the less formal contract she had entered into. That, at least, she had been free to terminate when it had served its purpose. She shuddered to think of the alternative, which would have bound her for the rest of her life.
‘I can see the wheels turning in your mind. What are you thinking?’
She opened her eyes to discover Jean-Luc resting his head beside hers. ‘Poor Juliette,’ Sophia said. ‘You won’t understand, but when she said she had no option but to press her claim, she spoke something close to the truth. Women in her position are reared only to be wives. Without a proper education, without any marketable skill, they have so few resources, only their body, their blood, their pedigree to barter with. You must not blame her for being so persistent, Jean-Luc.’
‘I don’t. When I said that I sympathise, I meant it. It does not square particularly well with my conscience to deceive her as we are doing, but she has given me no option. I will not solve her predicament by surrendering my own freedom.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. Such a marriage, resented from the very beginning, would be doomed to failure. But the alternative for Juliette, to sell herself to a different kind of bidder...’
‘It won’t come to that! Whether or not she is the daughter of the Comte, as she claims, she is clearly gently bred. Women like that do not become courtesans, if that is what you meant. She is young, she is beautiful, she will find another man to marry her—with or without the dowry which I still intend to pay her. Though whether she will accept...’
‘That is very generous of you.’
Jean-Luc shrugged. ‘It’s not. I can afford it.’
But he did not have to, Sophia thought. An honourable man. She smiled at him. ‘She is very beautiful, quite exquisite in fact, and as you said, obviously gently bred. Were you the Duc de Montendre, she would be the perfect wife for you.’
‘Well, I’m not. I’m Jean-Luc Bauduin, and the perfect wife for me is sitting right beside me. Thank you, ma belle, but I have had enough of Mademoiselle de Cressy for the moment. May I say that Madame Bauduin played her part to perfection.’
‘Thank you. As did Monsieur Bauduin, which made my part considerably easier. There were times when I really believed you.’
He laughed. ‘I almost convinced myself.
‘We were good, weren’t we?’
‘Better than that. We were excellent.’
Their foreheads were almost touching as they rested on the squabs, his mouth only inches from hers. She felt that odd fluttering tension in her belly that she couldn’t find a name for. She wanted him to kiss her. She knew, from that slumberous look in his dark brown eyes, that he wanted to kiss her, though he would not make the first move. Was there anything wrong with a kiss? There was a great deal right with it, she had learned yesterday. And no harm, not really. Compared to all the other physical intimacies she had been forced to endure, quite innocent. Innocently pleasurable, in fact, she reasoned.
‘We were so good,’ Sophia said, ‘that were I really your wife, and were you really my husband, I think you might kiss me right now, don’t you?’
‘I think I might.’
She smiled. ‘Then I think you should. In the name of authenticity.’
‘In the name of veracity, I should tell you that I don’t give a damn about authenticity. I simply want to kiss you, Sophia.’
‘I’m not sure that I much care why you do, Jean-Luc. I just wish that you would.’
‘Then it will be my pleasure,’ he said. And did.
Kisses like before. Sweet kisses. Kisses that were safe, because they were only kisses, and because he had promised they would never be anything more. Safe kisses which felt dangerous in a dizzying way, as if she was on a precipice looking down. She knew she would not fall, but there was delight in imagining the thrill of tumbling into the abyss. That’s what those kisses did. Kisses that took no liberties, and so she was free to return them. And when she did, and the kisses took on a more dangerous note, Jean-Luc stopped kissing her, releasing her before she even knew she needed to be released. Then she rested her head contentedly against his shoulder, feeling safe, for the first time in her life.
Chapter Seven
The next week was spent paying social calls in response to the flurry of invitations which, as Jean-Luc had predicted, poured in following the announcement of their marriage. His friends, business colleagues and acquaintances had all read the announcement of their nuptials in the newspaper. They were, to a man and woman, astounded to discover he was married. They could all, having now had the pleasure of meeting his English wife, understand perfectly his desire to renounce his bachelordom. After another exhausting round of visits earlier that day, Jean-Luc had declared that they ha
d earned a treat, in the form of a night on the town.
Their destination was on the other side of the river in Le Marais, an area which had, before the Revolution, been popular with the nobility but which was now, he informed Sophia, notoriously unsafe and awash with unsavoury characters. ‘Welcome to the Boulevard du Crime,’ he announced as their carriage came to a halt. ‘Named for the number of farces and melodramas performed here nightly, and not for the criminal activities which take place in the surrounding area.’
The wide boulevard was crammed with jostling carriages, lined with theatres from which lights and braziers blazed, the pavements awash with milling people from all walks of life. ‘Goodness,’ Sophia said, clutching his arm, ‘it is busier than Drury Lane.’
There were hawkers selling nosegays, oysters, wine, cherries and a pale, potent spirit from the south which Jean-Luc informed her was called pastis. Outside each of the theatres, actors touted their shows, their cries and competitive banter adding to the general hubbub. Some people were strolling idly, enjoying the raucous atmosphere, while others were studiously examining the bills of fayre each theatre had to offer. There were groups of men in formal evening dress standing alongside groups of men still in their working clothes. There were courting couples in their Sunday best, oblivious to the hive of activity, with eyes only for each other. Women, in the tawdry plumage that formed the uniform of the street walkers called out their wares in competition with the other hawkers.
‘Sophia, ma belle.’ There was a warning note in Jean-Luc’s voice. ‘Two gentlemen of my acquaintance approaching. Jacques, Marc, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to my wife. Monsieur Jacques Burnell, and Monsieur Marc le Brun are rivals in the wine trade.’
‘You flatter us, Jean-Luc,’ the younger man said, bowing low over Sophia’s hand. ‘No one rivals your husband in the wine business, Madame Bauduin.’
‘And now, it seems, none of us can rival him in the marital trade either,’ the other vintner said, making his bow. ‘Your husband has, as ever, picked the cream of the crop. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame Bauduin.’
‘We read the announcement of your marriage in the newspaper, didn’t we, Jacques? None of us could believe it, but now the reason is very clear. No wonder he kept quiet about you.’
‘You flatter me, monsieur.’
‘Not possible, madame. Do I detect a trace of an English accent?’
‘You do.’
‘We met when I was in London on business,’ Jean-Luc said. ‘In February, as you may recall, for I missed your wife’s birthday party, Marc.’
‘Ah yes, how could I forget. My sister was most upset, Madame Bauduin. She has a little soft spot for Jean-Luc. She will be your sworn enemy now.’
‘I should tell you, ma belle, that Marc’s sister is only six years old.’
‘And showing very early signs of excellent taste,’ Sophia said, casting her husband a melting look to which he responded by kissing her hand.
‘For pity’s sake, Jean-Luc, you will melt her glove. I hope you have had the sense to purchase a box with a curtain at the theatre, else you will be providing the show.’ Marc made Sophia another bow. ‘Madame, we must leave you or we will be late for our own show. I hope that you will allow my wife to do you the honour of calling on you? She will be delighted to be able to practise her English.’
‘I look forward to it, Monsieur le Brun.’
‘Alas, I do not have a wife to call upon you,’ Monsieur Burnell said. ‘But I dine tomorrow with the Corneilles, you will be there, I hope? Excellent. I look forward to it. Until then.’ He made his farewell bow, and the two sallied off in the direction of the Théâtre de la Gaîté.
‘You played the loving wife perfectly, as always,’ Jean-Luc said, taking her arm once more. ‘Now, hopefully we can relax and enjoy the show.’ He directed her towards the foyer of the smallest of the theatres on the boulevard. ‘I am hoping it will be a new experience for you.’
‘Théâtre des Funambules,’ Sophia read, frowning. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Theatre of Tightrope Walkers. You don’t know what that is?’ When she shook her head, he grinned. ‘Then you are in for a real treat.’
* * *
The tiny theatre was packed to the rafters. In the stalls, men were crammed in, standing shoulder to shoulder. Fortunately, Jean-Luc had secured one of the few boxes. As he helped her out of her evening cloak, Sophia was relieved to discover that she was not, as she had feared, overdressed. Though many in the audience were plainly garbed, a significant number were in evening clothes. Her own gown was of cerise-pink satin with an overdress of net, the hem and puff sleeves embellished with an embroidered design of black poppies. Her long gloves had been dyed to match the gown, an extravagance which Sophia would never have permitted herself but which, since Madeleine had taken it upon herself to order them for her, she guiltily treasured. They fitted so very perfectly, the soft leather encasing her arms like a second skin, that it was a pleasure to wear them. She couldn’t resist running her fingers up and down the length of her arm. Looking up, she caught Jean-Luc staring at her. ‘They are very nice gloves,’ Sophia said, embarrassed.
‘You certainly wear them beautifully, though I think you could make a hessian sack look fashionable.’
He took her hand, opening the two tiny pearl buttons which fastened the glove at her wrist, pressing a kiss to her pulse. For heaven’s sake, she thought, it was absurd, to catch her breath over such a fleeting touch. Then he kissed her again, a mere caress of a kiss, but his lips lingered just enough for him to sense the delightful frisson which rippled through her.
‘People are staring,’ Sophia cautioned. ‘Oh. That is why you are doing it.’
But he shook his head, smiling at her in a way that, oddly, made her stomach knot. ‘It is a happy coincidence that what I wish to do is what I ought to be doing Namely making love to my wife.’
‘Jean-Luc! One cannot make love in a public theatre.’
‘Sophia.’ The way he spoke her name was a caress. ‘Don’t you know there are any number of ways to make love?’
Any number, and she thought she had endured them all, but this was a completely new experience. Not a performance, but a duet. The way their eyes met. The latent heat in his gaze which heated her blood. The tingling of her skin where his lips touched her wrist, surely the most innocuous of places, yet her pulse leapt in response, her body inched closer to his until their knees were touching. His smile, such a wicked smile, seemed to connect directly to her insides. It made her light-headed, that smile, made her want something she could not name, or did not care to.
‘Sophia.’
He breathed her name again, his lips against her ear, the whisper of his breath on the nape of her neck another caress, so sweetly arousing. Arousing? He pressed another of those fluttering kisses to the skin behind her ear. And more, down her neck. And her hand lifted of its own accord to touch his cheek, and her mouth was already anticipating his kiss when there was a roar from the audience, and their private performance ended as the public performance got underway on the stage below.
* * *
‘Mesdames et messieurs,’ the Master of Ceremonies intoned from the stage, ‘tonight, at the Théâtre des Funambules we have for your delectation a very special performance, a farewell to the European stage from one of its most talented duos. Tonight, for one night only, it is my great privilege to present the most extraordinary, the most graceful and indeed the most flexible acrobatic performers in the civilised world. Prepare to be both astounded and amazed. I give you brother and sister, Alexandr and Katerina, the fabulous Flying Vengarovs.’
The shouting and cheering subsided. Clothing rustled as the audience settled back in their chairs in anticipation. Painted fans wafted faces hot from the heavy, still air of the tiny candlelit auditorium. Tension, as taut as the rope stretched between two poles on the
stage, was palpable. Sophia edged forward on her seat, leaning on the balcony of the box. Beside her, Jean-Luc also edged forward. She reached for his hand. His fingers twined with hers.
The Flying Vengarovs were a striking pair, he so tall, and she so tiny in comparison. Both wore long cloaks, hers dark blue and his jet black, studded with paste diamonds that sparkled and shimmered in the stage lights. There were paste diamonds in Katerina Vengarov’s burnished auburn hair too. The couple seemed to float across the floor together like a constellation of stars tracking across the night sky. For a long, tense moment, they simply stood together in front of their tightrope, facing the expectant crowd. Then they made their bows and dropped their cloaks.
There was a collective intake of breath. The male half of the duo was half-naked, wearing only a pair of tightly fitted knitted pantaloons. His muscled torso gleamed, his sculpted physique drawing a chorus of whistles as he flexed his arms, the gesture rippling through his chest and stomach muscles. Beside him, tiny in comparison, the female acrobat looked quite naked. Closer inspection allowed Sophia to discern that she was wearing a flesh-coloured tunic studded with more paste diamonds clinging to her perfectly proportioned body. The pair were positively indecent, but Sophia found herself excited. They had an exotic allure that set them quite apart from their audience, as if they came from quite another world. She gazed rapt, as the girl put her bare foot on her brother’s linked hands and he propelled her upwards on to the tightrope. He followed her, too quickly for Sophia to work out how he’d managed to leap so high, and the show began.
* * *
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Sophia said for the third time, ‘They seemed to fly through the air, as if they really did have wings. So graceful. So fluid. It was quite breathtaking.’
As was she, Jean-Luc thought, seating himself on the sofa beside her. They were back at the hôtel, sharing a nightcap in front of the fire in the small salon off the main dining room. Sophia had removed her precious gloves and had curled her feet up under her skirts. He had hardly been able to watch the Flying Vengarov duo for watching her, eyes wide with wonder, lips parted, her hand tightening in his, her breath held every time the brother released his sister to hurtle through the air. And every time he caught her safely, Sophia turned to him to share her relief and her joy, and he had been hard put not to kiss her on those pouted, parted, delightful lips, for his own sheer joy at being there with her.
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife Page 10
