From Courtesan to Convenient Wife

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘It was magical,’ she was saying now, clasping her hands together at her breast. ‘To see the perfection of the human body, such control, such shapes as they made together. I could have watched them for ever, they were so—so, beautiful, they made me feel so—’ She broke off with an embarrassed laugh. ‘What I’m trying to say is thank you.’

  ‘There is no need to thank me, ma belle, your pleasure is my pleasure.’ She smiled at him uncertainly. ‘I mean you,’ Jean-Luc hastened to reassure her. ‘I wanted to please you, not my wife.’ Though the boundaries between the two, the real Sophia and the part she was playing, were becoming increasingly blurred in his mind.

  ‘It was a lovely thing to do and I’m very grateful but there was no need to.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I wanted to.’

  ‘Oh.’ She reached out to touch him, her hand resting fleetingly, disturbingly, on his knee. ‘It was a—a pleasure, to watch them perform. It should have been shocking, they were all but naked, but it was...’

  ‘Exciting?’

  She blushed delightfully, nodding. ‘Each time she flew through the air, there was a moment when I thought he wasn’t going to catch her, a moment when she might fall, though she must know she would not. I was holding my breath every time.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You were watching me? But you must have missed...’

  ‘I saw the entire performance reflected in your face. I assure you, I missed nothing. You were every bit as exciting to watch as the Flying Vengarovs.’

  ‘It was like kissing,’ she said softly, under her breath. ‘That feeling. I’ve been trying to find words for it ever since we first—and that’s what it was like.’

  She smiled at him, and blood surged to his groin. A smile, that’s all it was. He shifted on the sofa, preparing to get to his feet. ‘It’s late.’

  Her face fell. ‘Of course. We’ve probably had quite enough excitement for one day.’

  ‘Sophia, it is more excitement that I am trying to avoid! I have no wish to break our agreement. If only you had not mentioned kissing...’

  ‘But I did.’ She shifted on the sofa, leaning towards him. ‘Would it be wrong of us to kiss goodnight? As your wife...’

  ‘No.’ He eased himself away from her distracting presence. ‘I want to kiss you, Sophia, and I won’t pretend it is part of our act.’

  He made to get to his feet, but she stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t go just yet.’

  ‘Sophia, what I’m trying to say is that you are a temptation I am finding increasingly difficult to resist.’

  * * *

  ‘You don’t have to resist.’ Sophia knew she was blushing, but she forced herself to hold Jean-Luc’s gaze, her heart thumping at her boldness, the tension she would rather not name knotting in her belly. It was her own fault that he hesitated. He was playing by her rules. ‘A kiss is not temptation,’ she said, ‘it is simply a kiss.’

  Jean-Luc’s smile had a sinful twist to it. ‘Simply a kiss.’ He pulled her into his arms. ‘Ma belle, I hate to contradict you, but I am fairly certain that there is no such thing.’

  His mouth covered hers and her lids drifted closed as their lips met and the sweet, aching feeling that she could easily become addicted to flooded her veins. They kissed. Feathery kisses mirrored by the feathery touch of his hands on her bare arms, sending little frissons of delight shivering through her. Then deeper kisses, lips clinging, and her hands crept up around his neck, her fingers curling into the silky softness of his hair. Heat spread through her body as their kisses merged one into another, and she sank back on to the sofa, pulling him with her. Deeper kisses, and his tongue touched hers, sending a shock through her that made her nipples tingle and tighten. She followed his lead, sliding her tongue into his mouth, registering the answering sharp intake of his breath, the way his hands tightened on her arms, leaving her in no doubt of the pleasure she gave.

  They were only kisses. Simply kisses. Nothing more. And so a complete delight. She let her hand drift down his body, smoothing over the line of his back, enjoying the presence of him, muscular, taut, reassured by the layers of clothing between them and at the same time revelling in it, the heat of his body, the roughness of his cheek, the day’s growth of stubble rasping against her palm, the scent of his soap and his linen and the underlying, elusive Jean-Luc scent she could not even begin to describe.

  He dragged his mouth from hers, but before she could protest, there were more kisses. On her lids. On her cheeks. The line of her jaw. The lobe of her ear. Kisses where no one had kissed her before, where she hadn’t known kisses could be bestowed. Simply kisses, but they were making her restless now, sending her hands fluttering up and down his back, across the expanse of his shoulders, in search of something more. His hand skimmed down her body, brushing the side of her breast, and his mouth trailed kisses down her throat, to the swell of her breasts above the décolleté of her gown. She stiffened. He hesitated. She made no move, waiting. And then he kissed her again, his mouth gentle on her breasts, and his hand, cupping one of them through her gown, so gently, so carefully, that she knew she had only to move, to utter the tiniest word of protest, and he would stop.

  She knew he would stop if she asked, and so she did not protest. She knew he would stop, and so she didn’t want him to. Instead she surrendered to the sensation of his gentle caress, of his thumb, circling her nipple through her clothing, the delicious, delightful feeling of her nipple tightening, the tension connecting with the knot in her belly, sending new ripples of sensation through her. She bit her lip hard as an involuntary moan caught in her throat, and the echo of it, a noise which she had manufactured so often to order, threatened to rupture the mood. She opened her eyes, met Jean-Luc’s gaze, his lids heavy, his desire reflected in slashes of colour on his cheeks. Jean-Luc, this was Jean-Luc not that despised other.

  ‘Do you want me to stop, Sophia?’

  He could not have said anything more reassuring. She shook her head. She caught his face between her hands, kissing him, her tongue sweeping over his lower lip, her kiss urgent, demanding. It was returned fervently, urgently, and her eyes drifted closed once more, and she was lost in a dark, vibrant, sensual world of endless kisses. His hand on her breast jolted new sensations from her, making her arch against him, as if her body was searching for something, seeking some place high up, where she must cling and kiss and where her hands must find skin beneath his coat and his shirt, where she must feel the ripple of his muscle with no barrier between them. She was lost in his kisses now, her mouth clamouring for more, her body clamouring too in a different way, coiled tight as a ship’s rope. And then, before she knew what was happening, she unravelled, the tension inside her rent her apart, as if a knife had slashed through the ropes lashing her together, casting her adrift on a strange foreign sea.

  Sophia cried out, a wild sound, which she caught instantly, covering her mouth, pushing herself free of Jean-Luc, and catching the wave of pleasure rippling through her before it had time to crash again. Mortified, she concentrated on suppressing everything that her body was intent upon doing to her, frantically gathering all the pieces together, wrapping her arms around herself, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, all the time aware of Jean-Luc beside her, keeping his distance, making no attempt to touch her, but watching silently.

  She felt exposed. She felt both wildly elated, and at the same time on the verge of tears. She had always been able to hide her revulsion from Hopkins, why was it so difficult to hide these very different, utterly opposing feelings from Jean-Luc? She stumbled to her feet. ‘It’s late. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Sophia.’ He got to his feet, though he made no attempt to touch her. ‘There is nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said, though even to her own ears, the lie was clear enough. She crossed her arms. ‘You have made your point, Jean-Luc, if that is what you’r
e trying to say.’

  ‘My point?’ He looked genuinely perplexed, and then he swore. ‘Simply kisses. You think that I set out to prove you wrong? I had quite forgotten—Sophia, you cannot possibly be imagining that what you are feeling was one-sided? I assure you, I am every bit as aroused by our kisses as you are.’

  Her cheeks burned ‘I am not—you are not—you did not...’ She stuttered to a halt. He had not made any attempt to demonstrate his arousal to her. He had, in fact, made every effort to keep sufficient distance between her and that part of him.

  ‘You offered me kisses. I promised I would not take anything more than you offered.’

  An honourable man who had not taken, but who had given. ‘I’m sorry,’ Sophia said helplessly. ‘I didn’t know. I have never....’

  ‘That much is obvious,’ he said gently. ‘Your husband has a great deal to answer for.’

  ‘My husband?’

  ‘Arranged match or no, he should at least have tried to make it a pleasurable experience,’ Jean-Luc said tightly. ‘You may have been without experience, but that would almost certainly not have applied to him.’

  He thought she was married. Or had been married. When she’d told him that she was not innocent, that was what he had surmised. She didn’t know whether to be appalled or relieved. It didn’t matter, Sophia told herself. What he thought shouldn’t matter. But it did, and the sordid truth would appal him. It was kinder by far not to contradict him.

  ‘It really is late,’ Sophia said, pretending to yawn. ‘And we have an early start tomorrow.’ She forced a bright smile now. ‘It has taken a considerable effort for you to obtain permission for us to cross the hallowed portals of the Montendre town house. I want to be fresh in order to help you make the most of it.’

  ‘And you want me to discontinue this too painful conversation. As you wish, ma belle. I will bid you goodnight.’

  He looked hurt, but there was nothing she could do about that. ‘Bonne nuit,’ Sophia said, and turning on her heel, fighting the urge to flee, she left the room without a backward glance or another word.

  * * *

  Once alone, Jean-Luc retired to his study. Pouring himself a cognac, he leaned his head against the cool glass of the window. Light flickered through the curtains which had been drawn across Sophia’s window. He knew her well enough by now. Any attempt to force a confidence would result only in her retreating further. That brittle smile of hers betrayed her every time. Was it his fault that their kisses had got out of hand? He sighed, taking a deep draught of his very excellent brandy. He hadn’t intended them to, though he was forced to admit that he had, shamefully, wanted to prove a point. Which wasn’t like him. He took another, smaller sip of his cognac and dropped wearily on to the window seat, turning his back on that flickering reminder that his wife was in the process of undressing.

  His wife. Sophia had been here, playing that part for less than two weeks, but he felt as if she had been here much longer. He could not have said what it was she had done to change the already efficient running of the household, but there had been subtle changes. Dinners were less formal and more delicious. Breakfasts too, were more intimate affairs, taken not in the dining room but in a small parlour he didn’t remember ever using before, but which caught the morning sun. At breakfast they planned their day, the time to be spent both together and apart—for his business, and the painfully slow process of trying to negotiate entrance to the town house belonging to the Montendre family, occupied him for a proportion of every day. Tomorrow, if matters went as planned, they would finally breach those hallowed portals together. He and his wife.

  He had moved well beyond a passing interest in Sophia. He had desired her from the first, but he had very quickly come to enjoy her company. No, that was putting it too mildly. He relished her company. He looked forward to it. He wanted to please her. And those kisses—yes, he had been trying to prove a point. He wanted her to admit that they were not simply kisses. He wanted her to admit what he felt. That they meant something more.

  Even though there could be nothing more. Sophia was here to help him escape marriage yet ironically, Sophia was making him wonder whether marriage would be such a bad thing after all. Ridiculous! Jean-Luc drained his cognac. Absolutely ridiculous. He was frustrated, that was all. Though he did not like to think of himself as in any way a typical man, in this instance he was, wanting what he was told he could not have. Masculine pride was what motivated him, nothing more. He was certainly not falling in love with her. That was inconceivable, especially in such a short period of time. Now that was a preposterous notion!

  Sighing, he allowed himself to look out of the window again. Sophia’s bedchamber was in darkness. She was in bed. Asleep, or reflecting on what must surely be her first experience of pleasure? Could it be called pleasure, when she seemed to enjoy it so little? Maybe gratification was more appropriate. But that sounded too cold for what had been a shared sensual experience. Her response had clearly unsettled her. If only he’d known, he would have been more careful, but he had been so lost in the delight of arousing her, in watching her surrender to sensation, in wishing only to please her more and still more, that it hadn’t occurred to him that the climax would be new territory for her.

  Unwelcome territory? The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. One in the morning. The very morning in which he was to visit the Montendre town house, and perhaps finally obtain the evidence he needed to prove to Juliette de Cressy that he was not the man she wanted him to be. Though who he was—now that was a very different question. Not, however, one to ponder tonight. He should be asleep, so that he would be sharp, fully alert in the morning. He was wasting far too much time thinking about his wife, who was not his wife, and whom he would no longer require to be his wife, perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Which thought should make him happy. And not make him feel—no, he was not going to explore what it made him feel. He was going to bed. And to sleep. And he was not, most definitely not going to lie awake and think about the distracting, beautiful, intriguing woman lying alone in bed in the adjoining room.

  Chapter Eight

  To her surprise, Sophia had slept deeply, awaking as the morning light crept through a gap in the curtains, in a very different mood from the one in which she had fled from Jean-Luc the previous night. Pulling on a wrap, she padded over to the window and pulled the heavy curtains apart. The sky was changing from grey to pale blue, the few scattered clouds white and fluffy. She opened the window to lean out, relishing the welcoming kiss of the sun on her skin. It was going to be a lovely day.

  She closed her eyes, surprised to discover that her memory of the previous evening’s events was no longer tainted by embarrassment. Last night had been a revelation. Jean-Luc had been right, there was no such thing as simply a kiss. Until that shocking moment of release, she had been quite lost in those kisses and Jean-Luc’s touch and his taste. Her hands roving over his body, she had relished the effect she was having, because it was an echo of the effect he was having on her.

  Was that why it had happened? Startled, her eyes flew open. Last night, she had not set out to induce pleasure, but she had done, almost effortlessly. Last night, there had been none of the physical intimacies she had experienced before. They had been fully clothed, for heaven’s sake, and yet she had surrendered to the wave of passion, the surging crescendo, in a way she never had before. She was not an expensively purchased toy for Jean-Luc to play with. She was not a well-trained automaton, dutifully responding to his cues. He had given her no directions, and he had expected nothing from her. He would have ceased at the merest indication from her. He had not gone galloping off intent on his own journey to completion. It was she who had galloped off uncontrollably! It was perfectly natural, Jean-Luc had said. And in the bright, revealing light of this June morning, Sophia saw that he had spoken the truth.

  Hopkins, she supposed, had earned the right to affect indifference, having bo
ught her body to do with as he wished, requiring only that she appeared to enjoy what gave him pleasure. It should have been different with Frederick. He had professed to care, but in the end had proved he cared only for himself. His subsequent behaviour demonstrated that beyond doubt. She’d thought it was the province of the male, to take pleasure from the female. She’d assumed that every woman did as she had learnt to do, to simulate her enjoyment. And she’d been wrong.

  Though the circumstances, Sophia thought bitterly, until now had hardly been conducive. With both Frederick and Hopkins, she had been burdened by the bargains she had struck. She had knowingly sold herself twice, albeit the nature of the arrangements had been very different. Jean-Luc was also paying for her services, but on an entirely contrasting basis. He had no rights to her body. That was the enormous and very significant difference.

  Last night. Tension curled in her belly, an echo of what had happened. Her first ever climax, and she had smothered it. She didn’t want it to be her last. She was only twenty-six. When she left Paris, when she was no longer Jean-Luc’s wife, then she would be free to take a lover if she wished. She tried to picture him, this mythical, considerate man, but she could only picture Jean-Luc. She didn’t want another lover. She wanted him. Dare she dismantle the barriers she had been so determined to erect between them? What if she discovered it was a mistake? What if last night was unique? Could a yes become a no once more?

  ‘Bonjour, Madame Bauduin.’

  Madeleine’s appearance with her morning coffee saved Sophia from answering this tricky question. But Madeleine’s sidelong glances at the neat, undisturbed bedclothes as she poured the coffee and straightened the curtains made it clear that she was not the only one considering the subject. She knew that her dresser would not betray her to any of the other servants, just as she had assumed that Jean-Luc put similar trust in his valet, but it was clear that those two most personal of servants knew that their master and mistress were not sharing a marital bed. If she allowed Jean-Luc to make love to her it would enhance the charade of a happy marriage.