The Sheik's Son(23)

Sebastian took the reference in stride and smiled. He looked very handsome in a dark merlot-colored coat and brown breeches with a white waistcoat. The colors brought out his handsome features and the wool fabrics set him apart from the dandies in the room dressed in silks and pastels.

His dark brown hair was clubbed and he wore no powder or beauty mark on his face. In fact, she could no more imagine Sebastian with a beauty mark than she could her father. He was a masculine man.

“While you, Mademoiselle Sophie, are certainly aware that the green of your dress brings out your eyes and complements your hair very well,” he said, speaking lowly.

Sophie blushed under the secretary’s scrutiny and tried to bite her tongue with a tart reply. She chose to respond cordially. “You look well also.”

Sebastian did laugh this time at her compliment, which was almost not one.

“Thank you. I shall treasure those four words until I am in my grave.” He placed a hand upon his heart.

“You’re a strange one,” she returned.

“And you, Mademoiselle Sophie, argue like a parliamentarian with men older than your father and look like a painting of Venus,” he said quietly.

Sophie looked into Sebastian’s eyes and did not see a hint of mocking. She felt herself looking too long at him and turned her head.

Sebastian watched the firelight play across her features. She had a perfect oval face with hazel eyes and lush lips. But the auburn hair was something to behold and he wanted very badly to pull out her combs and sift his fingers through the silk tresses.

“These men don’t understand,” she explained, nodding in their direction.

“Yes. I heard the later part of your conversation,” he admitted.

“They expect women to marry whomever is chosen for them with no thought of love or affection,” Sophie complained.

“Love is a rare thing. Most marriages are arranged for convenience, money or family connections,” Sebastian told her.

“Yes. But things are changing and should change. And women should have a say. We aren’t chattel.”

“Change takes time.”

“Time!” Sophie scoffed.

“Yes, time. And there is a great pleasure to be found in marriage and with children. Love, or at least affection, can sometimes follow.”

“Pleasure for men, you mean,” Sophie returned.

“For women as well.”

“For women as well? Giving birth, which can last a day or more and they are in excruciating pain the entire time? Oftentimes the woman dies and the child is raised without a mother.”

“Not all women, Sophie.”

“While the men gallivant around town with whomever they choose like a dog in heat,” Sophie hissed. Her blood was up.

“Yes, some men are like that,” he agreed.

“Some men?” Her hazel eyes challenged him.

“Yes. But not all men. And as men and women, we each have our roles to play. You to marry, bear children and raise them. That is your role.”

“And yours?” Sophie asked suddenly, very irritated.

“To carry the seed for the child,” he said matter-of-factly. “To provide for them.”

“So you think like Monsieur Gerard? Women are to marry, carry and bear, and that is all?”

“Not exactly—” he began.

“You may be young and educated, and of course you are secretary to the duke. But you, monsieur, are nothing but a savage!”

She moved away from him quickly and was replaced by Andrew.

“Well, I think it’s safe to assume that’s one lovely that you won’t be bedding.” He smiled.

“Don’t bet on it,” Bash replied as he watched the lovely Sophie flounce out of the room.

***

“Do you miss Arabia?” Etienne asked Leila as they sat together on a small couch in the corner of the gambling room.

The room was filled with the smell of burning wax candles and the sound of porcelain gaming chips clicking together and people talking, but the two seemed to be in a world of their own.

“Yes. Certain things. I miss my mother and father, and I even miss the heat and the smell of it,” she added. “But France is another world entirely, and I like it very much.”

“We must see if Bash will allow you to attend some concerts and outings,” Etienne told her.

“I would like that very much, Monsieur Pousson.”

“Please call me Etienne.”

“Etienne.” Leila spoke his name quietly and looked away from his gaze.

Etienne watched the long curve of her neck and ached to press his mouth to it before he reminded himself to maintain a distance from her. She was, after all, his best friend’s sister and anything beyond the boundaries of friendship was not to be considered.