To Sketch a Sphinx - Rebecca Connolly Page 0,18
the time being. “Consider them marked.”
He smiled at her in return, and the strangest sense of unity filled her, despite the ache in her head, the fatigue in her limbs, and the general sense of being covered in dust from their travels. Even if the worst happened and they were tossed out, at least she would have him by her side.
Whether or not that was worth anything remained to be seen, but there was some solace in not facing this alone.
“Are you ready, Ange?” Pratt asked in a quiet voice, the blend of green and brown in his eyes seeming to swirl with a hidden depth to the question.
Or perhaps that was the endearment.
“More ready now than a moment ago,” Hal admitted as she allowed her arm to curl more fully into his. “Thank you.”
One of his brows lifted. “For…?”
Hal rolled her eyes. “I’ve never known you to be more amusing or agreeable than you have been in the last few days, and I can only imagine you are doing so in an effort to set me at ease. Or to rid me of my doubts. Whatever your reasons, I am appreciative.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. Perhaps your initial perceptions were incorrect, and now you are seeing the truth of me.”
“Perhaps…” She drew the word out, hesitation palpable. Then she pursed her lips. “And perhaps I am truly an opera dancer who trained in Italy and this entire excursion is only an opportunity to perform in Paris.”
Pratt only exhaled with more noise than he usually did. “I knew it.”
Hal bit her lip hard, fearing she might actually draw blood as she forcibly restrained laughter. A hum resembling a weak laugh escaped, but the rest remained within her chest, bouncing off her ribs and lungs until she feared she’d strain for her next breath.
The butler suddenly turned to his left and bowed. “Monsieur, madame, vos invités sont arrivés.”
“Help,” Hal squeaked, laughter still warring within her.
“Inhale…” Pratt instructed with a small smile, waiting for her to do so. “Exhale…”
She obeyed again, slowly, then nodded as the laughter faded, leaving only exhaustion behind.
Which had been there before her laughter, so she supposed all was well.
Nodding once more, Hal lifted her chin and turned to face the doorway to the next room, proceeding forward when the butler stepped back. Her fingers brushed absently against Pratt’s sleeve, and his free hand covered hers in an almost automatic response.
There was something quite sweet about that.
She turned her attention to the overdressed parlor they were entering, and the people within.
A taller gentleman with greying hair and a fairly trim, though admittedly sluggish, frame smiled with what appeared to be genuine warmth. He wore no jacket, only shirtsleeves and a vest, his cravat middling in flourishes, and there was something about the way his dark eyes crinkled that Hal instantly liked.
“Mon petit Ange,” he said in a newly booming voice. “Bienvenue, bienvenue!”
Hal smiled with more sincerity than she had intended, the impulse an involuntary one in the face of his good humor. “Monsieur le baron,” she greeted, curtseying with more perfection than she had ever managed in her entire life.
“Non,” he urged, coming to her quickly and taking both hands. “Non, ma petite, we shall not stand on ceremony here. No titles. Please, call me Jean, or de Rouvroy, if the formality pleases you.” He kissed both hands, then leaned in to kiss both cheeks.
“Merci,” Hal murmured, blushing just a little. She turned to indicate Pratt beside her. “This is my husband, Mr. Pratt.”
De Rouvroy looked at Pratt with an equally warm smile. “Monsieur, you are most welcome, to my home and to my family.”
Pratt bowed in return. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”
De Rouvroy nodded politely and turned back to Hal with a sigh. “Ma douce cousine. So much like your maman. Not the eyes, though. Dark eyes, she had.”
Hal returned his nod, still smiling. “She did, and I do not resemble her so much. I take after my father.”
“Ah, but the same esprit is there.” He grinned and tapped her cheek gently. “Juste là.” He exhaled with some unspoken emotion, then turned, brightening. “Allow me to introduce you to ma famille.”
A surprisingly young woman stood by an ornate divan, her gown too elegant for a day at home with family but flattering in the extreme. Where de Rouvroy was aging, albeit well, this woman could have sprung from the fountain of youth itself. She could not have been more than a year or two