“And made an offer for the company, no doubt,” Gregoire said, laughing.

“Yes, he did.”

He spun on his heels, staring. “What?”

“He said he had a proposition for me. But I told him the answer was no,” Sophie reassured him. “I told him to talk to you.”

Lazard poured boiling water into an earthenware teapot. “What did he say to that?”

“He informed me that you ‘did not have the interests of our shareholders at heart,’ ” Sophie said. “Pompous ass.”

Gregoire, she could see, took this badly. His hands were trembling as he set out cups and saucers.

“He’s an oaf,” Lazard spat. “An interfering fool.”

“Don’t worry,” Sophie said. “I didn’t believe him for a second.”

Gregoire took a deep breath, then two, then came back beside her and set down the cup.

“Sugar?” he said.

She shook her head, and he caught her hand and kissed it again, more passionately this time. It made Sophie wriggle just a little.

“Gregoire . . .” she said, faintly. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I need more time . . . it’s been so long.”

That sounded like an excuse. Even to her. Sophie flashed on Pierre, and her squirming distaste whenever he came to her bed, peeled back the covers, and lay down next to her, where she stayed still and fearful, gritting her teeth and hoping he’d soon be done.

Gregoire smiled softly, then reached up and traced a smooth fingertip along the line of her neck.

“Don’t worry, darling, I know you are religious.” He stood up, to Sophie’s relief. “I think it’s charming,” he said. “A beautiful woman is not always so virtuous. . . .”

She looked down. She wasn’t some kind of saint, if that’s what he thought.

“Stay there a moment, my darling,” he said, and disappeared into his bedroom. Sophie sipped her tea and tried to calm herself. She had to get used to a man’s touch, that was all it was. No need to be afraid. He was hardly going to jump on her right now.

Gregoire reappeared and crossed the room towards her. Then, taking her hand again, he knelt at her feet. Sophie stared as he produced a little red box.

“It isn’t Massot,” he murmured. “I hope you don’t mind. . . . I want to have fresh memories, just for us. It’s Cartier.”

He flicked open the box. It was a huge, very fine diamond, oval cut and set in platinum; expensive but boring. No, classic, Sophie instantly corrected herself.

“It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed dutifully.

“I hope before long to change your name, as well as your jewels,” Gregoire said. “I was going to wait, but why should we wait? Sophie—you know I love you; will you marry me?”