What she had dreaded had proved to be sheer joy. House Massot . . . everyone was friendly. Especially Judy Dean; that was lovely, having a friend she could count on. Sophie couldn’t quite penetrate the dense language of the reports and files Gregoire gave her, and he was so distracting; but then he had warned her—business was boring. He was so open with her, flooding her with paper and information, when really, she reflected guiltily, all she wanted to do was spend time with him.

Gregoire was not like her so-called friends who came to parties here, dining and dancing twice a month, every month, just as Pierre and Katherine had commanded: twenty of the best families of the arrondissement, faces she knew like the back of her hand, and she couldn’t really care less about any of them. Sophie was closer, by far, to the servants.

Yes, hers had been a life full of people, but only now was she starting to realize what a lonely one. Gregoire cared about her. Judy was fun. She’d had nobody . . .

Well, Fr. Sabin, the old priest in the village. He was a good friend. But, of course, he was also a priest. And seventy. Not like . . .

Gregoire was smiling at her. Sophie admired again the pale blue eyes, the blond hair, the rigorous bearing.

“You must have designed this room.”

“I did. How did you guess?”

“The rest of the place looks like a museum.”

“Thank you. At least you can touch things in it, though.”

“I’m glad of that,” he said quietly and deliberately. “That you can touch things.”

Sophie flushed deeper and felt a faint, almost imperceptible stirring in her belly and breasts. She looked away, confused.

“This room is full of life,” Gregoire said lightly, changing the subject. “And light. It had to be your work. I imagine it is very pleasant in the winter . . . I hate the dark.”

“Oh, me too,” Sophie cried. “That is exactly what I intended it for, so I could be outside yet still inside. When it’s too cold I walk around in here, and soak in all the light. It stops me from getting—”

She cut herself short. She didn’t want to say “depressed.”

“I feel exactly the same, all winter long. What is your expression, ‘great minds think alike’?”

“That’s it,” Sophie said, and they laughed.

“Ah, Madame,” he said, catching her hand. “I do so enjoy spending time with you. It makes it all worth it.”

“Luncheon is served,” said Bernarde, appearing with a tray of heavenly smelling food.

Sophie jumped away from Gregoire as though his touch were electric, but Bernarde smiled knowingly, and Sophie had to rhapsodize over the meal to cover her reaction. Gregoire didn’t seem to care; he gave her a long look, and Sophie could still feel her palm, damp where his touch had been, burning against her cool skin.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12