Chapter One #2
He was a d’Alency, related to the Noailles.
Sandrine gasped, and parted some of the concealing flower arrangement for another peek.
Of course she’d heard of that family. Ancient noblesse d’épée, they served the kings at Versailles, fought in wars, were cardinals and counts.
Everything her mother adored from their old home, their old world.
When Sandrine was a child, she’d often placed her dolls, dressed in gowns of her own design and carefully stitched together herself, into tales of adventure she could never imagine for herself, conjured from paintings she’d seen of France.
Battles, courtly halls made of gold, gardens filled with fountains and the scent of roses, people of unimaginable beauty and dignity and daring.
If she’d known of this d’Alency with the beauty of a god, he would have featured in those tales very heavily.
Oh, yes, she was certain now she would melt into a puddle on the parquet floor if he spoke to her. He was a dream-figure. She could never have conceived of a more romantic, heart-stopping tale in her old doll theatre.
He was not at all the sort who would think twice, or even once, about someone like her.
She was too petite, too pale, too shy, their families not of equal rank at all.
Yet she feared she would drift away entirely up into the clouds to dream of him.
She had a dizzying vision of suddenly rising off her feet, floating across the room to his side, transforming on the way to an elegant, fashionable beauty who would dazzle him with her glow…
She took another step to the side to try and get a better view.
As if he sensed her intense study, he suddenly glanced over in her direction.
Sandrine’s heart pounded, as if it would rise up in her throat and choke her, and her cheeks burned.
She started, and the brass flowerpot clattered, the flowers swaying precariously as if it would all topple over and seal her humiliation.
What if this was his image of her, not the elegant sophisticate she longed to be but the clumsy girl who knocked over flower arrangements?
She snatched at a branch of greenery and kept it from tumbling down. That pale, otherworldly gaze drifted over Sandrine entirely, and she dared take a breath. He hadn’t seen! She had a chance to collect herself and find a way to make another impression!
But then his attention snapped back to her, and his eyes narrowed, the dark, stern line of his brow lowered. In—disapproval? Disdain? She held her breath, waiting for that split-second of regard to pass over her, perhaps to the Giggling Girls. To her shock, it lingered.
His gaze flickered over her, down to the very tips of her satin slippers then back up to the pearl bandeau in the upswept waves of her chestnut-brown hair.
The very corner of his lips twisted, in a sort of smile that transformed the austere lines of his face once more into mischief, and might have seemed almost improper in someone else.
But not him. No, in him, it somehow seemed very different, an invitation to join in some secret mirth, some joke between only the two of them.
He gave her a small nod, and their hostess tapped his sleeve with her fan and drew his attention away.
Sandrine was utterly frozen in place, as if she had become the statue she imagined him.
She longed to laugh, to spin in a giddy circle, to feel everything, if only she could move.
She’d lost her precious hiding place, though.
The Giggling Girls had paused their exit to watch her, and worse, her mother had spotted her.
Marie-Claude hurried towards her, like a grand sailing ship on the ballroom sea, parting all before her in her topaz-coloured satin and flashing diamonds.
She took Sandrine’s arm in a firm, even pinching grip, as if she feared her daughter would slip away again.
Which was silly; Sandrine had become adept at hiding, but not yet at escaping after being seen.
Through a dazzling, albeit gritted smile, Marie-Claude drew her daughter back into the thick of the crowd.
‘There you are! I have been looking everywhere for you, chère fille,’ her mother said.
‘I have told you many times, you must not drift away to dream all the time. It was not an easy feat to gain the invitation to the Fleurieu ball; we must make the most of every moment. You are almost twenty now. It’s past time for a match, a fine marriage I have worked so hard to prepare you for now. You must remember that, Sandrine.’
‘I always remember that, Maman,’ she murmured. Of course she always remembered that. It was constantly before her. All the lessons, the governesses, the gowns and hats and jewels, they were to raise her family in the world.
‘Lord Everington wanted to dance with you, and was much disappointed you could not be found to accept. His title is not French, of course, but his mother is from Bordeaux, a very fine family.’
Lord Everington was fifty, a widower with three children, and had almost no hair left atop his head. Sandrine fervently hoped her mother’s dreams of grandeur wouldn’t come at such a price.
Marie-Claude suddenly brightened. Sandrine never trusted that certain gleam in her mother’s eyes. It always meant some kind of trouble for her, such as talking to men like Everington. ‘But no matter now! I just saw the arrival of Monsieur d’Alency, heir to his father, the comte. Perfection indeed.’
There her mother was certainly not wrong.
He was lost to her view now as they made their way through the crowd, but she would never forget the glow of his eyes, the shadowed angles of his glorious face, the little smile he’d given her.
But she also remembered what the Giggling Girls had said—he had such rakish ways. ‘The one who gambles and races?’
‘Ah, you see! Even you have heard of him, from the depths of your paintboxes. His family is noblesse d’epee, back to Louis IX.’ And that was what her parents longed for the most. Ancient nobility.
Sandrine, though, knew she would want only him. Only to know the secrets behind those beautiful eyes, the heart under the rogue. ‘But we are tradesmen, Maman.’
Marie-Claude scowled and pinched her daughter’s arm just above her glove.
‘Ferme ta bouche! Not here in England. We are French. And we can help the d’Alencys, if they would let us.
They lost their lovely chateaus and fine jewels long ago.
’ She glanced at Sandrine, frowning a bit over her hair, not golden as it should be.
She smoothed her pearl-edged white muslin sleeve, straightened her necklace.
‘No matter the state of their finances, though, they will certainly care about the appearance and character of a young lady. Style and deportment are always of greatest importance in a French lady.’
‘That takes me quite out of their attention, then, Maman,’ Sandrine said.
Her looks and clothes were only barely above average, and she knew it well.
Though if her parents were to let her leave off the simple whites and pastels of a girl and dress herself as she really wanted to, it might be different.
Marie-Claude suddenly swung Sandrine around to face her, holding tight to her arm.
‘That is enough of that,’ she whispered fiercely.
‘I have worked far too hard for too long to see you ruin everything, Sandrine. I raised you to be a grand lady, to take a place in Society both here in London and once we can return to Paris. You owe me, owe your father.’ She narrowed her eyes as she studied her daughter carefully.
‘You are a pretty girl, a belle jeune fille. If you would just know that, remember that, and make the most of it. Smile. Flash your eyes, they are such a nice blue. Pay little compliments to gentlemen, be interested in their interests.’
Interested in cricket and cravats? Sandrine couldn’t quite make herself do that. Cravats, yes, of course; sport, no.
She thought of the beautiful Monsieur d’Alency. He must have many more deep thoughts than about cricket. ‘Surely I would have to be Aphrodite herself to gain such a man’s attentions,’ she whispered.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ her mother scoffed.
‘I told you, you are French. That is all that is needed.’ She reached out again and straightened Sandrine’s triple strand of creamy pearls fastened with diamonds and rubies, grander than what most debutantes had but still perfectly tasteful.
And perfectly expensive. ‘And you have a fine dowry, thanks to your papa and your grandmother. Do not forget that, either.’
As if Sandrine ever could forget that. Her parents’ house was filled with reminders in every painting on the silk-lined walls, every piece of porcelain and silver, every Aubusson rug, every slipper and fan and bracelet.
‘Now, come along, chérie. We haven’t much time.’ Marie-Claude spun Sandrine around and marched her forward again.
‘Time for what?’ What she really wanted to do was go home and get out her sketchbook, make an outline of that godlike face before she lost the details. It was nearly the hour she was allowed to depart.
‘Our hostess has agreed to introduce you to Monsieur d’Alency.’
Sandrine’s footsteps came to a skidding halt. She was to actually meet him? Stand close to him, look into his eyes, and be expected to say actual words? To be polite, interesting, elegant, to smile? That horrible hot-cold flush came down over her again, and she trembled. ‘Maman…’
Her mother frowned down at her. ‘What now?’
‘I’m not ready for such a thing,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what to say or do.’