Chapter Nine #2
He smiled, a wide, swift white grin of delight, the old, younger Alain emerging. To her shock, he reached up and gently skimmed one gloved fingertip over her cheek, leaving a trail of fire behind. ‘I see you still have your blush.’
She fell a step back, struggling not to reach up to scrub the sensation of his touch away—or hold it closer. ‘There is not usually time for such things as blushing.’
‘Too busy planning for Paris.’
‘Yes. I keep sketchbooks of ideas, save every penny.’
‘If I can help in any way…’
She shivered at the reminder of what had really always been between them: money. ‘No!’ she said, more sharply than she’d intended. ‘No, I am fine.’
‘Sandrine,’ he said quietly, the look he slanted down at her tender. ‘You helped my family when they were in desperate need. My parents were able to live their last years in comfort and peace. I owe you so very much. I have a large income now thanks to my own work…’
His tone was so earnest, almost hopeful, as if he longed to really repay her what could never be replaced.
She felt a softening towards him, against her will.
Alain had never been mean, not deliberately cruel, she knew that; he had been heedless, careless, young.
Maybe he still wanted to make that up to her in some way.
But she couldn’t let him. She had too much to lose if she allowed him back into her life now.
‘Don’t concern yourself, Alain, please. I am fine. ’
They walked on, side by side but so far apart. ‘I thought that you wished to be an artist. To paint. Your work was so exquisite.’
She flashed him a teasing, masking smile. ‘And gowns are not art? My clients would say different.’
He laughed wryly, a dark, rich, warm sound that still washed over her like an island ocean wave. She wished he wouldn’t do that; it made her remember too well the bright moments she had once spent with him, the hopes she’d held. ‘They must be indeed; they seem so transforming.’
‘For good or ill.’ She grimaced to think of some of her earliest designs, the garish colours, the overly lavish trimmings.
She had learned over the years what suited each woman, what flattered and flowed.
‘But yes, I did love painting. I’m surprised you remember that.
’ Yet once he had understood it so well.
She remembered he’d said it seemed as if painting was a part of her.
‘But proper art takes time, takes every ounce of patience and passion. I have many responsibilities.’
‘As do we all.’ They continued on their path. ‘Sandrine, surely you see that we can’t go on like this, since we have found each other again. I never should have let it go for so long.’
She studied him in confusion at the sudden, serious shift in his tone, the stiff set of his shoulders. She was frightened by it. ‘But why? We’ve done well enough thus far…’
‘Because we are married!’ he said, exasperated. He kicked at a loose bit of gravel with the tip of his polished boot. ‘That is why we cannot go on this way. I have not been a good or kind husband, I know that well. Not any sort of husband at all. It has haunted me.’
Her eyes widened in realisation. ‘And you need an heir. A little comte.’
His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. ‘I don’t care about such things. Only my parents did. Besides, there is only a crumbling chateau in France to inherit, and no one deserves that trouble. But we are married. We need to talk about that.’
And that was the inescapable truth. Sandrine stared hard at the water beyond, the icy-white edges of it, unable to look at him. To let him see the secrets in her eyes. ‘What can we have to say about it after all these years?’ Except that one thing of greatest importance. Marie.
‘Exactly!’ he exclaimed. ‘Mostly, I must just apologise. Properly. Abjectly. At last.’
Sandrine wondered about his Danielle. His great love. Where was she now? Did he hope to find her again, to make things right with her once he had dealt with his folly of a marriage? ‘That is not necessary,’ she said, longing to escape from his overwhelming presence, from the park, from herself.
‘It is very necessary. Please, Sandrine, meet with me again. Somewhere we can be alone and talk.’
To be alone? Oh, how tempted she was! What a pull he still had on her!
It began to snow, a white, lacy flurry that caught on her lashes. The chill of it seemed to wake her up. ‘You can bring Francoise to my salon tomorrow. Then we shall see.’
His smile burst forth again, burning through the snow, burning through her armour. ‘Thank you! Francoise will be ecstatic. I am sure—no, I just hope—we can find a way to be friends again.’
Had they ever been friends? Sandrine remembered that was what he had once said he wanted, when she discovered he loved Danielle and needed only a convenient marriage. She hated how much that still hurt. ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I have an—an appointment.’
‘Let me escort you…’
She shook her head frantically. She just needed to get away, to think. ‘It is not far. I’m going to Mollands, to meet my friends Mary Campbell and Lord Charlecote.’
He frowned. ‘The man at the theatre.’
Sandrine was surprised he might know who he was. And—was that a hint of jealousy in his voice? She could hardly credit that. ‘Yes, he is a friend.’ She decided to tease him just a bit. ‘I am sure you have had friends these many years.’
His face turned rosy, and not from the cold. He scuffed his toe through the trace of snow on the ground. ‘That is not the same.’
She laughed. ‘Of course not. You are a man.’ And men had as much freedom as they wanted.
‘I have heard that Mrs Campbell and her sister run a matchmaking kind of business. Have they been trying to gain a new client in you, Sandrine?’
She laughed again, feeling rather delighted that he could possibly be jealous. Possibly see her in some new light. ‘They cannot, can they? I’m already married, and they only make respectable sorts of matches.’
She walked away, feeling the heat of his gaze watching her go.