She didn’t like doubting herself; it wasn’t like her to be such a poor judge of character. She heard nothing of the sermon, but rather watched the priest with blind eyes, considering her own tactics and wondering where she had gone wrong. Perhaps she’d been too cold, too challenging. Perhaps he had less of the hunter in him than she’d anticipated. Or perhaps it was merely something as simple as his mother having higher sights set for the boy, though she would still expect him to attend church.
Belinda exited the cathedral with the crowd, casting a judging eye at the morning sun. It was not yet noon and carried little of the day’s heat with it. She stepped out of the line of traffic to shake open a parasol, grateful for the reduction in glare the moment she set it over her shoulder. Certainly Marius’s mother would not forbid him worship entirely. She would try a final time, at the afternoon gathering, and accept disappointment and defeat if he were not there. She would find another mark, but it galled her. What gossip had told her of Marius Poulin had made him seem the perfect catch, and she was unaccustomed to having to try more than once to set her line.
Arrogance, she admitted to herself, the thought bringing a small smile to her face. Arrogance served her well; it gave her the confidence to gain the attraction of nearly any man, from soldier to noble. Confidence made up for lack of beauty; few people understood that as thoroughly as she did. And beauty was its own handicap. It was safer to slip through courts and intrigues as a pretty woman rather than as a beautiful one. Beauty, like that with which her mother was bestowed, would be remembered where mere prettiness would not. Of course—Belinda found herself smiling again, and men smiled back at her—of course, Lorraine had power as well, which made even the most unattractive of women beautiful. But it, too, carried its price. Power meant a lifetime of political bargains. Lorraine’s choice was the power of solitude, her beauty aging and fading as she played one suitor against another, knowing none of them held love in his heart for her. Even desire was questionable, except desire for the throne she sat on. Not for the first time, Belinda wondered if Lorraine entirely trusted the feelings Robert Drake harbored for her. More, Belinda wondered if she should. He had never pursued her hand in marriage, choosing never to threaten her autonomy or power. If anything kept them together, it was that, Belinda thought. Robert was willing to accept a more subtle power, to let a woman sit above him. He was an unusual man, and for that Belinda felt a small, startling surge of pride.
Her mood restored, she shook herself and began down the cathedral steps, still smiling. Confidence had failed her, this time. It was no doubt good for her to lose one once in a while. It reminded her that she was only human.
“Mademoiselle?” The pleasant male tenor came from behind her. Belinda straightened, her smile turning pure with recognition before she schooled her features into calm curiosity and turned. Only human, perhaps, but not so poor a judge of character after all.
“Marius Poulin.” She offered her hand, a delicate arch to her fingers, trusting he would curve his hand beneath hers. He did, bowing very slightly over her hand. As he came to full height again he lifted his eyebrows in question, the faintest pressure on her fingers. She inclined her head as slightly as he’d bowed, and he stepped forward, turning to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm. “I thought,” Belinda said, “that perhaps you had abandoned me.”
“Not at all. I’ve spent the past ten days cloistered in my garret, beating my brow and rending my breast, searching for a way to undo what damage my careless words had done to our burgeoning relationship.” His eyes lit with hope and humour, making Belinda smile. Perhaps Lutetia was good for her; smiling seemed to come almost as easily here as it did in Aria Magli. The silence and stillness within her retreated a little. Not far enough to leave her in danger of exposing herself, but enough that it took less conscious effort to act as the women around her did.
“Relationship,” she echoed, letting amusement warm her voice. She could see appreciation in his eyes, in the way his pupils