you think?" Sandhurst queried, not bothering with his friend's question.
"I think you're a genius!" Jeremy exclaimed, his fair curls bobbing with the force of his nods. "I had no idea!"
"That's not what I mean," Sandhurst said slowly, his own gaze fixed on the series of drawings. "What do you think about the girl?"
"Oh! Well, she's beautiful! I've caught glimpses of her here and there, and I'd say that you've captured her looks with extraordinary accuracy." He paused, remembering their conversation in London, and chuckled. "She's certainly a far sight from what we imagined in England! No fourteen-year-old with spots, or a fat widow that the king longs to banish! In fact, I heard last night that Francois rather fancies her himself. I was talking to one of Anne d'Heilly's maids, and she thinks the king's mistress might be responsible for finding an English husband for Madame Tevoulere. She was worried that the girl might eventually come out of mourning and respond to Francois's advances...."
Sighing shortly, he arched an eyebrow. "Indeed? If that's the case, Anne may have complicated all our lives for nothing. It's doubtful that Micheline is capable of responding to anyone's advances."
"Oh!" Dumbfounded, Jeremy wondered if it was possible that the Marquess of Sandhurst could have just suffered his first rejection... at the hands of his betrothed. What irony! "Am I to assume that your outing in the woods—uh—took an unfavorable turn?"
He shot him a menacing look. "Oh, the meal was fine! I was beginning to rather like the chit! It was later, after she took a spill from her horse, and I, ah—comforted her."
"I see!"
"No, you don't. She liked it all well enough for a while. Perhaps too much! At that point she began reminding me that she's betrothed to another man."
"But that's you! I should think you'd be pleased!"
"Well, I'm not." Sandhurst tossed down the drawing he'd been staring at and began pacing. "How would you like to be put off in favor of a stranger?"
Jeremy was becoming confused. "But that's you!" he repeated.
"Micheline doesn't know that."
"Why don't you just tell her and put an end to this madness? We can take her home to England with us and everyone will live happily ever after."
"Absolutely not."
Shaking his head, Jeremy sat down on his meager bed. It all seemed perfectly simple to him, but as usual Sandhurst couldn't settle for the easy route.
"Have you decided, then, that you don't want to marry her?" he queried rather weakly.
"I'm certainly not in love with her, if that's what you mean."
"When did love become a prerequisite for marriage?"
"Perhaps it needn't be, but if I'm going to spend the rest of my life with one woman, it would be much more agreeable if we cared for each other. The thought of leaving my wife in the country while I enjoy a separate life in London is distasteful to me."
"I don't mean to pry, but would you mind telling me what you're going to do? You won't tell the girl who you are, you're not in love with her, she's being loyal to a stranger that she doesn't know is you...." Jeremy's voice trailed off as he began to sense what was ahead.
"I haven't decided," he muttered. "Perhaps I'll just wait for a bit and see what develops."
Jeremy nodded dolefully. His instincts suggested that Sandhurst might risk everything to discover if Micheline Tevoulere would fall in love with a penniless artist and choose him over an English nobleman. He sighed miserably, wondering how long it would take for this situation to resolve itself one way or another.
"You needn't moan and carry on, because it won't do any good," Sandhurst said edgily. "After all, this is a matter of principle."
Jeremy managed a rather sickly nod. "I was afraid of that...."
* * *
Wisps of steam drifted upward as Micheline reclined in her bath. Extending a slender, shapely leg, she soaped it leisurely, enjoying the faint lily-of-the-valley fragrance that enveloped her. The water was very hot; in fact, the serving girls who had filled the tub had warned her against getting in too soon, but she welcomed the heat. Her breasts, gleaming at the water line, were rosy, and she felt warm all over. How she wished she could wash away the memory of Andrew Selkirk's touch, but a slight, unsettling throb returned to her lips when she rembered his intoxicating kiss.
"Bonsoir!" Aimée called from the corridor. "May I come in?"
"Yes, of course." Micheline smiled, thinking that her friend, always full of energy and conversation,