Chapter Eight #2
He watched her turn to the people gathered beside her, say something that made them laugh.
How she had blossomed. From a pretty, shy girl to a creature of sensual beauty and perfect poise, glowing with laughter.
Everyone in her circle turned towards her, listened to her, as flowers to the sun.
She was the centre of it all, the centre of that man’s close attention.
But Alain could only remember who she once had been, who they once were together.
The unexpected passion of their wedding night.
A familiar heated tightness took hold of him, so inconvenient, and he realised he still wanted her.
His own wife, after all this time! He’d wandered thousands of miles, seen pyramids and medieval ruins and oceans, to try to forget what had happened between them, and now one glimpse and he was lost again.
As if no time had passed at all. It was the same, the oval cameo of her face, the bright green eyes.
Older, more sharply carved, even more beautiful. Everything but her vanished.
He took another glass of champagne from a page’s tray and gulped it down, trying to douse that heat, that need to hold her, to smell her rosy perfume again, to feel her. No matter how close she was, that could not be again. He had hurt her too much, ruined too much.
She pressed her hand lightly to the man’s sleeve, making him lean close to listen to her. There was that cold jealousy again.
She suddenly glanced over, directly at Alain, and she, too, froze. Her laughter faded completely, her face turned snow-white. She swayed, and her companion caught her arm. He stared down at her with a concerned frown, spoke to her, and she shook her head.
Alain tried to vanish into the crowd, to leave her alone to her life as he’d done for so long, but it was all too late. She was walking towards him, slowly, implacably, with a measured, alluringly graceful sway that made her changeable silk skirts shimmer.
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. It was cool, polite, mask-like. How he missed the way she had used to smile, filled with joy and enthusiasm. Had he lost her that?
‘Sandrine,’ he said. It was the only word he seemed to know.
‘Alain,’ she said quietly. Her voice was lower, that French accent stronger at its edges. But her perfume was the same, rosy and summery. ‘I am surprised to see you here. Bath must be so—prosaic after your travels.’
He was startled. ‘You know of my travels?’
‘Of course! Did you not know that they speak of you in the gossip papers? The dashing comte and his thrilling adventures! I have read of it.’
‘Have you?’
‘Of course. I am as curious about the lands you’ve visited as anyone else. Alas, I have only travelled to Paris lately! Your travels do sound thrilling.’ But her voice was cool, her expression distant, as if nothing he did could ever thrill her at all.
‘Thrilling?’ Alain managed to laugh. ‘It was mostly days of tedium and then ten minutes of danger. But I did see some beautiful sites.’ None as beautiful as Sandrine. He could still not believe she was really there, close enough to touch.
She glanced past him, seeming distracted. ‘I should like to hear more of it. I always thought you would do something extraordinary.’
‘Did you think so?’ he asked hoarsely. Had she thought of him over the years, missed him at all? He wanted to ask, to demand she tell him, but he also did not really want to know. She could very well have never thought of him at all. But there was a tension just beneath her coolness.
‘How could I not have?’
Her friends were watching them with avid curiosity on their faces. The man who had stood with her seemed taut with anger. She made no move to draw him closer to them, to introduce them. What could they say to each other, anyway? How could they ever enter each other’s world now?
Alain sensed their moment was drawing short. ‘Can I meet with you alone, Sandrine?’ he said quietly, suddenly rather desperate not to lose her again.
A frown flickered over her brow. She opened her rosy-gold lips, as if she would refuse.
Alain dared to take a step closer, to even brush his hand against hers, under cover of a silken fold of her skirt.
She shifted, moved away, her glance falling, and he felt that old heightened awareness of flirtation, pursuit, come over him. But this was Sandrine.
‘Please,’ he whispered.
Her gaze flew up, and she stared steadily into his eyes. Finally, she nodded. ‘Very well. Shall we walk in Sydney Gardens tomorrow? It is quieter this time of year than the Pump Room would be.’
‘Thank you,’ he said simply. He had a day to discover what to say, what would begin to make it up to her. But really, what could possibly make up for what he had done to her? He only knew the burning need to see her again, to discover the Sandrine he had once known, and hoped was still there.
He gave her a bow, resisting the urge to take her hand, to press a kiss to her fingers, breathe in deeply of that perfume.
He had to move slowly, carefully, not startle her away.
She watched him with the wariness and delicacy of a forest creature on the verge of fleeing. He knew how to bide his time.
She swirled around, graceful and light, and glided back to her friends. The man she was with took her arm, leaned close to speak in her ear. Alain felt a stab of cold, unfathomable jealousy. She just shook her head and gave a small smile.
‘That is her, isn’t it? Madame Dumas?’ Francoise said, bouncing up to his side. ‘I saw you talking to her! Do you know her? From before?’
Alain took his sister’s arm and led her towards the staircase. ‘It turns out that I did once know her, yes.’ He decided he had to be honest. Soon enough there would be no hiding the truth from Francoise. ‘She was once known as Sandrine Jaubert.’
Francoise gasped, her eyes as large as saucers. She stepped back, her gloved fingers clasped to her mouth. ‘Your—your wife? Oh, Alain! How…?’
‘We should not talk of it here,’ he said sternly.
‘I do not know very much. Don’t breathe a word of it to anyone yet.
It is clear she’s made a new life for herself here in Bath, and I owe her not to create a scandal that could jeopardise that.
’ A life as a renowned modiste. He would have imagined her an artist, painting her glorious canvases, but perhaps gowns and hats were her art now.
A disguise. It seemed to work; people gravitated towards her here, just as he once had. As he still did.
Francoise nodded, but her eyes were still huge with curiosity. ‘Of course. I just…’
Alain’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just what?’
‘I am not planning a mischief, I promise! It is just, since we know her, do you think I could persuade her to make me a gown after all?’
Alain sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed patience. ‘You are utterly incorrigible.’
‘It must run in the family.’
Why was he here? Why was he here?
Sandrine tried to laugh and talk as if she were having a grand time as she settled into her red velvet seat in Mary’s box. To wave her fan, gossip about the play, the crowd around them, for after all it was that crowd that kept her salon so busy. They could never, ever find out the truth.
Yet she was constantly, achingly aware of Alain in a smaller box near theirs.
She did not see anything but him in the full theatre, as if a footlight glowed only on him.
He hadn’t grown stout or bald as some men did over the years.
He was even stronger, leaner, his skin sun-browned from his travels, his dark hair lighter.
He was always god-like handsome, of course, strong, beautiful, but now he was so much more.
The years, his travels, had hardened him, sharpened his youthful beauty.
Leaned back lazily in his chair, he was not looking at her but somehow she sensed he was fully aware of her.
It was as if a golden cord still bound them together across the distance.
She waved her fan a little faster. Once, as a silly girl, she’d fantasised that she loved him. Until he had shattered her heart. Until she knew he loved another, that he had simply needed the Jaubert fortune and Sandrine was the key to acquiring it.
She was no longer that girl.
At last, the footlights dimmed and he was cast somewhat into shadow.
She snapped her fan closed, and turned to face the stage, the scene of the famous Mrs Giddings making her entrance to tumultuous applause before she rushed towards her stage lover.
How she’d longed to do just that when she first saw Alain again!
So ridiculous. False drama and tears were much easier to think about, but she couldn’t quite focus on the play.
She fought to keep her dignity, the dignity she’d struggled so hard to find over the years.
That carapace of secrets, layers of masks she relied on to live her life.
She had a new existence now, reliant only on herself, and one glimpse of him sent it into tatters.
But it could change nothing. Would change nothing. She’d built her life; nothing could change it. She had long ago accepted what had happened between them, and it wasn’t different now.
Except that suddenly everything was different. Alain was back in her life.
And horrors, what if he saw Marie?
A cold rush of nausea rose up in her at that terrifying thought.
Her daughter! She’d protected Marie for so long, her most precious jewel, her baby.
Marie believed that her father travelled the world for work.
Sandrine had tried to write to Alain when she discovered she was pregnant from their wedding night, but he had already vanished on his constant travels, never staying in one place for long, and it didn’t seem right to put such news in brief messages to an attorney.
After long enough, she didn’t even know how to begin.
That fierce protectiveness that had arisen in her when Marie was placed in her arms was too strong.
And that old fear was still there. What if Alain took Marie away? Mon Dieu, at least Marie was not a boy, a future comte! But there was still danger.
And having come face to face with him again after so long, she saw now he held one further, savage danger. The danger to her own heart.