‘And I you,’ she replied, turning her head into his chest as if to block out the pain of the past two hours.

Laurent stroked her hair gently and tried to think of something to distract Bel temporarily from her misery. ‘I was here this morning wondering what I would do with myself in a few days’ time when the sculpture of the dreaded dog is finished, when who should come to call but Madame Silveira and her daughter, Alessandra. The mother wishes for me to sculpt Alessandra as a gift for her twenty-first birthday.’

‘Alessandra Silveira? I know her,’ said Bel uneasily. ‘Her family are distant cousins of the Aires Cabrals and she came to my wedding. I remember her being very beautiful.’

‘Well, she is certainly more attractive than the chihuahua,’ Laurent agreed equably. ‘And inevitably there will be better conversation. She spoke to me today in good French,’ he added.

‘And she is unmarried, I believe,’ said Bel dully, a further clutch of fear tugging at her heart.

‘Indeed she is.’ Laurent continued to stroke Bel’s hair. ‘Perhaps her parents are hoping my sculpture can advertise her beauty and sophistication to a suitable husband.’

‘Or perhaps they might see a talented young French sculptor as an appropriate suitor,’ Bel shot back as she pulled away from him, her arms instinctively crossing protectively around herself.

‘Izabela!’ Laurent chided, watching her intently. ‘Please don’t tell me that you’re jealous?’

‘No, of course I’m not.’ Bel bit her lip. The thought of another woman sitting in front of Laurent day after day, just as she had once done in Boulogne-Billancourt, sent hot ripples of envy coursing through her. ‘But you can’t deny that you’ve been invited to many society soirées recently and have become quite the man about town?’

‘Yes, but I hardly think that I’m seen as a suitable match for any of the young ladies present. I am more of a novelty.’

‘Laurent, I can assure you that the very fact you are French and from the Old World in a town such as Rio, let alone with my mother-in-law’s patronage of your sculpture, makes you far more than a novelty,’ Bel countered firmly.

At this, Laurent threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, if you are right, I am happy for it,’ he responded eventually. ‘For as you know, in France, I and my band of artists are considered the bottom of the barrel. As I said to you once before, French mothers would prefer their daughters dead rather than shackled to a struggling artist.’

‘Well, I think you should understand that you are viewed differently here.’ Bel knew she was sounding churlish, but couldn’t help herself.

Laurent tipped his head to one side and surveyed her. ‘I understand that you are upset, chérie, especially given the bad news about your mother. But surely you can see that you’re being ridiculous? It is not I who has to run off back to a husband on the afternoons we do manage to meet. It is not I who still shares a bed every night with another. And it is not I who refuses to countenance any thought of changing the situation we currently find ourselves in. No, but it is I who must endure these things. I whose stomach churns every time I think of your husband making love to you. I who has to be available any time you click your fingers to say you might come to visit me. And I who must find something to fill the lonely hours I spend thinking of you without losing my mind!’