It was low and husky, the kind of voice that was accustomed to drawing and holding the attention of men. With it came a perfume that was heady and suggestive of shadows, wine, and rose petals. There was a spice to it that was unusual.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, madame,” Keaton replied, careful not to tilt his head in her direction, considering how close she was standing and how the interaction might be perceived by a clueless bystander.
“No, you have not,” the voice chuckled, “I amAntoinette de Marigne, my father is the former Duke of Marigne. Before those beastly revolutionaries stole everything from us. We were lucky to escape to England and to be welcomed by your King and embraced by your society. My, but she is quite the dancer, isn’t she?”
“I would not know,” Keaton stated, matter-of-factly.
“Such grace and fluidity. Countless are the men tripping over their own feet for they are watching her instead of where they are standing. It is all rather comical.”
“A potent description.”
“A man should know if his wife is drawing eyes.”
“I know she is. That is a given.”
“And it does not bother you?”
“Why should it?”
Again, that sultry chuckle and the perfume grew stronger, as though Madame de Marigne had somehow stepped closer still.
“I would feel offended if my husband were to express no anger at my being pawed at by the eyes of other men. But perhaps, you know that you are safe.”
“I do.”
“Evidently. I hear whispers that your marriage was arranged at very short notice.”
Keaton turned his head in her direction for the first time at those words, knowing that his blind stare unsettled most.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“Nothing at all. But maybe that is why you are safe. Because the marriage is so new and so unexpected, that true feeling has not yet developed.”
“And what, pray tell, gives you cause to say these things?” he pressed.
“I simply observe. As I said, you and your wife make a beautiful pair. Almost as though you were genuine.”
“Almostas though we were genuine? Implying there is something false about us. Or about our marriage?” he snapped.
“Forgive me, I misspoke. My English is not perfect. I meant to say genuinely. As though you were genuinely in love.”
“Weare.”
A heartbeat of silence followed.
“Then I am disappointed to hear it.”
He felt a light touch on his arm, the whisper of breath as she moved away. He flinched at the touch, unable to control the instinctive reaction.
“There you are, Westvale. Your wife delivered back to you safe and sound,” Bath announced as the music came to an end.
Georgia returned to his senses, light and delicate compared to the heady sensualism of the Frenchwoman.
“Who was that?” Georgia asked, too innocently.
“Madame de Marigne. Her father was a refugee from the revolution,” Keaton replied, lost in thought at the lady’s earlier sentiments.
“She stood very close to you. Could she not hear you over the music?” Georgia continued with an awkward chuckle.
