The Problem with Josephine

Lucy Ashford

Napoleon and Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria, 1810

It’s springtime in Paris and Emperor Napoleon is about to marry Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria. All around the city Napoleon’s courtiers are preparing for the spectacularly lavish wedding. Everything must be just right…

Ordered to remove all portraits of Josephine, the Emperor’s first wife, seamstress Sophie has to track down a talented artist called Jacques. He promises to carry out the commission, but only in return for a kiss for every hour he works…

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Author Note

About the Author

Chapter One

Paris, March 1810

‘This wedding is going to be…’ The Emperor Napoleon paused. His courtiers froze. ‘This wedding is going to be absolutely perfect,’ Napoleon went on at last. ‘In every way!’

With his strident voice still echoing all around the great hall of the palace, the emperor of half of Europe fussily started pulling on his gloves.

‘The wedding. Perfect. Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. Sire…’ Eager bows were being swept by the assembled servants: the stewards and the butler, the housekeeper and the Groom of the Chambers. Napoleon Bonaparte fixed them one last time with his eagle eyes, then strode purposefully out of the Tuileries Palace in a flurry of grooms and footmen to his waiting carriage.

Meanwhile, up in the shadowy gallery, a whispered admonition could be heard.

‘Fleur, do try to stop sniffling,’ pleaded Sophie. ‘It’s a wonder the emperor didn’t hear you!’

Eighteen-year-old Fleur dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Mam’selle Sophie. But it’s just so romantic! To think that our emperor’s riding off to Austria to claim his bride, who’s the same age as me. And in two weeks, she’ll be here for the wedding!’

‘Indeed, and we’ve got plenty to do before then,’ promised Sophie. ‘The new empress’s rooms to be made ready, for one thing.’ Sophie, as the senior seamstress, had told little Fleur they could leave their work for just a few moments, to watch the emperor’s departure. But now she rather wished she hadn’t. For when Napoleon said ‘perfect,’ he meant it.

Fleur chattered all the way back to the bride-to-be’s chambers. ‘As soon as my darling Henri is back from the war, then we will be married too! Not that ours will be a grand affair, Mam’selle Sophie, but, oh, doesn’t everyone love a wedding?’

Sophie was already threading her needle, and picking up a section of the pink silk draperies they were embroidering for the four-poster bed. And she was thinking, with a heavy heart, Love a wedding? Not me. In fact, I’m positively dreading this one!

Only two weeks, and the Emperor Napoleon would be marrying the Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria in celebrations that were to be the envy of the world.

But there was one problem. And it was up to her, Sophie, to solve it, or her beloved papa would be utterly ruined.

Three hours later Sophie was hurrying through the crowded arcades of the Palais-Royal, home to drinkers, gamblers and prostitutes.

A gaudily dressed whore brushed past and cackled, ‘You’ll never get custom dressed like that, love.’

A man grabbed Sophie’s arm, leering. ‘Oh, I don’t know, she’s quite pretty under that drab cloak.…’

‘Get off me,’ Sophie warned. His visage was hideous: his front teeth were missing—not unusual, because quite a few citizens had knocked out their own front teeth so they weren’t forced into the army.

Fleur had explained it to her. ‘They can’t rip open the cartridge without any teeth, you see? But my Henri, he’s brave—he wouldn’t do a thing like that. Oh, I cannot wait to be his wife!’

Sophie shoved the half-drunk man away. Weddings, weddings. She pressed on to the corner where the Paris artists gathered, some of them with their easels set up, others with their pictures spread out for passing trade. Here goes.

‘Can you help me?’ she asked the nearest of them. ‘I’m looking for an artist called Jacques.’

He roared with laughter. ‘Jacques what? There’ll be thousands of artists named Jacques in Paris, love!’

‘If you’ll give me a chance to finish, he’s from a place called Claremont!’ Sophie’s voice by now was rather desperate. ‘I heard he was wonderful at portraits, and I heard he was cheap!’

‘That,’ drawled a masculine voice just behind her, ‘depends on what the commission is. And who is paying.’

She whirled round. A man stood there, looking down at her, and she felt her throat go rather dry. He was in his late twenties, and his dark, overlong hair and clothes were those of a devil-may-care artist. But his bearing, his composure, spoke of something altogether different—of arrogance, even. His features were clean-shaven, and striking; his mouth was sensual, his eyes dark as his hair.

She drew a deep breath. ‘Are you Jacques the painter from Claremont?’

‘My name is Jacques, I come from Claremont, and portraits are my speciality.’

‘Then, Jacques—’ Sophie summoned the hauteur she had learned in the palace ‘—I may have a proposition for you. But first I require proof of your talent!’

He drew out of his pocket a small sketchbook and flicked it open with his strong lean artist’s hands. ‘See for yourself, mam’selle.’

On every page was a watercolour portrait. Each one glowed with life and detail.

‘Oh! They are beautiful,’ she breathed.

He looked amused. ‘So people say. Your proposition?’

She met his eyes steadily. ‘I happen to require some work done. On several portraits that need certain…adjustments.’

‘Adjustments?’ His dark eyebrows arched.

‘Yes!’ she declared. ‘But the work must be done discreetly, and I cannot afford to pay you much.…’

‘It sounds,’ said Jacques of Claremont, ‘as if you’re offering me a commission I could very easily turn down flat.’

He saw the colour rush to her cheeks, and he thought, Why, she is pretty. More than pretty. With those high cheekbones and those thick-lashed blue eyes, she could, if she chose, be a beauty.

But clearly she didn’t choose, with her hair scraped back in a spinster’s cap, and those faded clothes. And now she was nervously clasping her hands. ‘Please, I will do my best to make it worth your while. But if I could just show you what I require? In confidence?’

‘In confidence, of course,’ he agreed gravely. ‘Your name is?’

‘That doesn’t matter! May I show you—now—the work that needs to be done, monsieur?’

‘Of course.’ He saw her face brighten with hope. ‘And then,’ he went on, ‘I can tell you my price.’

Her face had fallen again, so expressive. She was lovely, he thought, quite lovely! She hesitated, then lifted those wide blue eyes almost in defiance. ‘Very well. Monsieur Jacques, we need to go to the Louvre.’

The Louvre Palace? Where the imperial wedding would take place, so very soon? Jacques blinked. He gave a bow. ‘Lead on, mademoiselle.’

As soon as Jacques had arrived in Paris, he’d quickly realised that the wedding dominated everything. The modistes and tailors were working every hour they could to keep up with the demand for finery from the rich. The mayor of Paris had hired all available artisans to work on the completion of the Arc de Triomphe, through which the imperial procession would pass on the great day. The military were constantly on parade, practising their ceremonial marches. Musicians were being sought from all quarters to fill the Champs-Élysées and the Tuileries gardens with melody during the celebrations. As he followed the well-spoken but rather desperate woman who was his guide along the rue de Rivoli towards the Louvre, Jacques noted with wonder that even Paris’s streets were being swept.

She pulled up before the great public entrance of the Louvre, where crowds of visitors hurried to and fro.

‘We’ll have to pay to get in today,’ he warned her. ‘Can’t your business wait till tomorrow, when the place is open to the public for free?’

She glanced up at him, agitated. ‘We cannot wait. Please, follow me.’ She hurried up to the curator guarding the door, who waved her through with a nod and a smile.

So she was known here, registered Jacques. Intriguing indeed.

Chapter Two

As she led him inside, Sophie’s heart was pounding rather frantically. Not just with the nature of her task—though that was formidable enough—but because she hadn’t imagined, for one minute, that he would be so very—what? So very masculine? Of course you knew he would be a man, you idiot! So very handsome, then. Most irritatingly handsome. And he was laughing at her, which wasn’t surprising in the least. Her heart thumped. He would laugh even more once he knew the tremendous mess she was in.

The Louvre’s interior was crowded, because a huge new mural of Napoleon’s victory at Marengo had just been put on display. Everywhere in here, there were reminders of Napoleon the conqueror, Napoleon the law-giver, Napoleon the emperor. And soon…Napoleon the bridegroom.

She paused momentarily at the entrance to the Long Gallery, a vast, vaulted hall which would hold more than a thousand guests for the wedding ceremony. ‘This is the way we must go,’ she told Jacques rather curtly.

He was still looking around. ‘Isn’t this the route the royal couple will take?’

She nodded tersely. Please. No more questions, not yet. Then, from amongst the crowds, a grey-haired curator came hurrying up to her. ‘Mam’selle Sophie! You’ll have come, of course, to report on the Marengo painting to your father. How is he?’

Jacques saw something tighten in her rather lovely face.

‘He is improving, Thierry, but—’ she glanced quickly at Jacques ‘—he is fretting about the wedding plans. He will not, unfortunately, be better in time for the ceremony.’ She was aware of Jacques watching her steadily. ‘I see the Marengo picture is a great success!’ she went on brightly. ‘Although really I expected it to be in the Salon Carré, with the other paintings of Napoleon’s victories.’

‘So did I, Mam’selle Sophie, but the Salon Carré is locked at present because, of course, it’s being prepared for the wedding ceremony itself.’ He spoke in hushed tones. ‘And the preparations have been thorough. For as you know, if anything were to offend our noble emperor—’ he swallowed nervously ‘—he would express his disapproval rather strongly.’

Napoleon was famous for his rages. Jacques noticed Mam’selle Sophie turning distinctly pale. But then that bright, forced smile was back on her face. ‘I’m sure, Thierry, I can tell my father that everything is exactly as it should be.’

‘You can indeed, Mam’selle Sophie! Pray give him my best wishes!’

She marched onwards and Jacques followed her, along the great gallery, past the throngs clustered round the new painting. Then the crowds thinned, and they were at the Salon Carré, where only a few candles could be seen burning dimly through the ornate wooden latticework of the great door. She looked at him almost in entreaty, he thought, an entreaty for silence; then she glanced round, reached in her pocket…and unlocked the door.

How the devil did she have the key? mused Jacques. Certainly she was in no mood for idle chatter. Instead she led him swiftly into this vaulted inner sanctum, where two gilded bronze thrones stood behind a magnificent carved altar.

All around the room were yet more paintings, of exquisite quality. She beckoned him in further, and hurriedly went to lock the door again.

‘You are rather taking my breath away, I must admit,’ he said. ‘Who exactly are you?’

She pushed back the hood of her cloak. That hideous spinster’s cap fell back also, and he saw that some of her tightly pinned dark hair had come loose and was twining round the slender column of her throat. He could also see that her waist was of hand-span slenderness, and her breasts were heaving rather agitatedly, indeed quite delightfully, beneath her tight, high-necked bodice.

‘I will be honest with you, Jacques.’

‘You are taking a risk,’ he said, ‘trusting a stranger.’

Her small chin jutted. ‘If you choose in any way to take advantage of my trust, I will call out, and say that I found you in here, intent on theft. Your punishment would not be light.’

His eyes glinted. ‘Please continue to trust me, Mam’selle Sophie.’

She flinched at his use of her name, but went on. ‘Very well. I am a servant—chief seamstress, in fact—at the Tuileries Palace. And my father is a deputy curator here.’ Her musical voice, he noted, was steady, but he could see the anxiety, the fear almost, that shadowed her lovely blue eyes.

‘I see,’ he said. ‘And both you and Thierry seem rather afraid of the emperor finding anything in here to provoke him on the day of his wedding. Is there any chance of that, mam’selle?’

She drew in a deep breath. ‘At this point, Monsieur Jacques, I must take you yet further into my confidence.’

‘Let me guess.’ The artist—Jacques—had been looking around calmly at all the treasures in here, but now he turned to her, his dark eyes steady. ‘You’re planning a daredevil robbery, aren’t you?’

‘Please do not be ridiculous!’ Sophie clasped her hands together tightly. Ever since she’d set eyes on this man, she’d felt awkward, self-conscious. And it was absurd! She was a twenty-three-year-old woman, and used to dealing with the haughty staff of the Tuileries, sometimes even the emperor himself! ‘There is no question of any wrongdoing whatsoever,’ she went on emphatically. ‘But the problem, such as it is, means that some work has to be done in here in utter secrecy. As I’ve said, if word of this gets out, then I am in trouble. But so are you, and I take it that you are probably in various sorts of trouble and penniless anyway, living as you do!’

She saw an answering flash of something else in his eyes then. Humour? Was he still finding all this amusing?

‘So,’ Sophie went on, fighting down the fresh thudding at her heart, ‘so, I will pay you what I can, which is not much. But my father, as deputy curator, has a certain amount of influence, and he will see, once our transaction is completed, that you get commissions in plenty. Do you agree, before I tell you what I require?’

His eyes flickered over her, lazily, yet in a way that somehow made her pulse race. What was he doing, looking at her like that? She tried to stubbornly outstare him, yet found herself utterly distracted by his implacably male figure, his hands, his mouth—oh, Lord, that impossibly wicked mouth, that surely was curling even now, in a smile of derision.…

She fixed her eyes rather desperately on the rakish stripes of his waistcoat. He drawled, ‘Promises are empty things. You said you will pay me what you can. I’d like to know how much.’

Her voice was a little unsteady now. ‘I cannot afford more than two hundred francs.’

He folded his arms. ‘That,’ he said with faintly concealed contempt, ‘is pitiable.’

‘It’s not much, I know!’ Her distress was open. ‘But the commissions—my father will make sure you become known, in circles you can only dream of, aristocratic circles!’

He folded his arms, and leaned his wide shoulders back against a gilded pillar that was crowned by a marble bust of Napoleon. Bother Napoleon, Sophie thought in a sudden outburst of fury, bother him!

‘An offer I can resist, believe me.’

‘Oh.’ Her disappointment made her almost crumple.

Then he shrugged, an easy, lithe movement that somehow made her heart do a strange little flutter. ‘But I’ll make a suggestion, shall I? I’ll tell you what my fee will be. But only when you’ve told me exactly what you require me to do.’

She bit her lip. ‘I’ve told you. I have so little money, I cannot pay you more!’

‘Who said it would be money, mam’selle?’ he drawled. ‘Indeed, all it will cost you is a few minutes of your time, believe me.’

Her mind reeled. Whatever it was, she had to accept. She was desperate.

‘My task?’ he prompted gently.

She moistened her dry lips and met his eyes directly, almost proudly. He liked that.

Then she said, ‘The problem, you see, is Josephine.’

‘Josephine?’

She nodded. And so they began their tour of the salon that was to be Napoleon’s wedding chapel.

‘Here, here and here are portrayals of Napoleon’s first wife, the Empress Josephine,’ Sophie said to Jacques, finding an inner calmness now that she was—she hoped—getting somewhere. ‘The official portraits of the former empress were removed, of course, as soon as Napoleon was divorced from her. But unfortunately it was overlooked that Josephine, at Napoleon’s request, was often portrayed in other paintings, for example in the crowd scenes, you will see here. Or here—’ she pointed to a classical lakeside scene ‘—as a nymph.’

He leaned closer to inspect it. ‘She’s a little old for such scanty attire.’

‘She was a great beauty once,’ Sophie said, rather sharply. She had always felt a sneaking sympathy for Josephine. The reason for the divorce, her father always said, was not the number of tempestuous affairs that both Josephine and Napoleon indulged in, but the fact that Josephine had been unable to bear the emperor a child. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘beautiful or not, she was painted in everywhere to please him.’ Her face fell again. ‘So we need someone, rather urgently, to paint out Josephine.’

‘And paint in the Archduchess Marie-Louise?’

‘Unfortunately, that would not be possible, since no one has seen her.’

‘Haven’t they?’ Casually drawing out of his pocket his small sketchbook, he flicked through several pages to show her a beautiful watercolour of a young woman with fair hair and a pleasant face, wearing a tiara and necklet of pearls. ‘The archduchess,’ he said.

She gasped. ‘You have been to Austria?’

‘A few months ago, yes.’ He smiled. ‘I’m a wandering wastrel. I pick up commissions where I can.’

‘I’m surprised you’ve not been commissioned by the emperor himself,’ she said rather tightly.

‘Napoleon? Oh, he goes for the rather grander artists. In fact, he commissioned Canova to do a marble statue of him, as Mars the Peacemaker, but it’s still in Rome—I saw it there. Canova is proving awkward about transporting it to Paris, partly because of money, and partly because Canova objects to Napoleon’s far-from-peaceful conquest of his homeland, Italy.’

‘Oh! I would love to see it!’

‘I’m sure you would.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Napoleon is ten feet high, and stark naked.’

Her cheeks flamed. Whistling, Jacques started strolling round in the dim candlelight, examining the pictures for himself, his hands in the pockets of his shabby black frock coat. She was stunned by him. Made a nervous mess by him. He was so handsome. So…at ease.

He swung round and caught her staring. ‘Some of these paintings in here are by David,’ he said. ‘He is the official court artist. Why not get him to do it?’

She clenched her teeth. ‘Because we cannot afford him!’

‘But surely the curators were given sufficient funding for such things?’

‘All gone.’ This time her voice shook, just a little. ‘All gone, except for two hundred francs.’ Which was, in fact, her life savings.

The man called Jacques was drawing nearer. She backed away, and came into collision with a pillar. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you really are rather beautiful. You must allow me to paint your portrait some day. As for this work—if I agree to do it, how will I get access?’

‘You will have noted that I have a key,’ she said rather tightly. ‘I can let you in here every evening, though we must not take long, because the guards come round on the hour. We will have to be here, say, after six, then leave before seven. Will you do it?’

‘How important is this to you, Sophie?’

‘It means everything, Monsieur Jacques,’ she answered quietly.

Two days ago her father had explained it to her from his sickbed.

‘The paintings,’ he muttered. ‘Of Josephine. They must be dealt with. But there is no money.…’

Her heart had lurched. ‘Surely it’s not your personal responsibility, dear Papa? Surely Monsieur Denon will have seen to it?’ Denon was the chief curator of the Louvre, a stern, soulless man.

Her father had shaken his head. ‘That’s the trouble, my dear. Monsieur Denon asked me to see to it, a month ago. He gave me money, but I spent it, on the restoration of other paintings. I quite forgot about Josephine! If I told Denon now, I would lose my job. And I love my work, Sophie, I love all the paintings.…’

‘I will see to it,’ she’d said resolutely. ‘Trust me.’

And now came the question. Was her father’s job and happiness worth putting herself in the hands of this disdainful stranger?

The question had already been answered. She had no choice.

Jacques had merely nodded at her earlier answer and was already examining another of the paintings. ‘Incidentally,’ he said, turning to her, ‘how did you hear about me?’

She clasped her arms across her bosom. ‘My father follows the gossip of the artists’ quarter, and heard there was a talented portrait painter called Jacques, recently come from Claremont. He said you were known to enjoy a challenge.’

‘How true,’ he answered. He was watching her carefully. ‘I like payment also. And the time has come, Mam’selle Sophie, for me to name my price.’

He was drawing nearer. The dim candlelight softened the harsh planes and angles of his handsome face, but it also lit sparks in his smouldering dark eyes. A wicked little pulse began to beat rather dangerously in all her nerve endings.

She tried to stand firm. ‘Name it, then.’

He was looking again around the softly lit chapel. ‘How many pictures need altering?’

‘Six—no, I counted seven!’

He let his hand rest very lightly on her shoulder, and she jumped as if a burning brand had touched her. He was smiling down at her now. ‘Well, then. For each hour I spend painting here, I want, in return, a kiss.’

She reeled. ‘No. That is despicable. That is a mean, mean trick!’

Someone was coming, along the gallery outside, towards this chapel. They both heard it at the same time. Heard the key in the big lock turning, the squeak of hinges as the heavy door slowly swung open.

Her terrified eyes flew up to Jacques. She whispered, ‘It’s Monsieur Denon. He must not know!’

As quick as lightning, Jacques grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her down with him behind the altar, crouching there with her in the shadow of the lavishly embroidered altar cloth. Old, fat Denon came in and stamped around, muttering, ‘Strange. I would swear that I heard something. Must be those rats from the river. The sooner this business is over, the better. Be damned to Napoleon. Be damned to the whole wedding!’

He marched off again, slammed the door shut and locked it. And Sophie suddenly realised fully her predicament. She was huddled in the dark on her hands and knees, and gently round her shoulders lay the muscular arm of the most handsome man she’d ever met in her life. She ought to spring away, but she couldn’t for the life of her move. His arm was holding her tight; his body was pressed close to hers. The clean male scent of his skin, of his hair, made her senses sweetly swim. And he was shaking, she realised—with soft laughter.

‘I know Denon,’ he whispered. ‘He travels a lot, doesn’t he? Scouring Europe for art treasures for Napoleon. But he doesn’t seem too keen on his imperial master at the moment.’ He was laughing again. ‘“Be damned to Napoleon,”’ he said in a perfect imitation of old Denon’s grumpy tones. ‘“Be damned to the whole wedding!”’

Then she was laughing too, because of course it was utterly absurd, finding herself here beneath the sacred marriage altar with a stranger who was going to paint out poor Josephine. Especially when she was nothing to Jacques at all! Just a rather absurd seamstress from the palace, whose request must strike him as ridiculous.

But then she saw that those compelling eyes were watching her with a mixture of amusement and—could it be desire? A kiss. He’d said he wanted a kiss, for every hour he spent on the task. Suddenly her situation didn’t seem funny at all. Her pulse quickened and she licked her lips, which were dry with anxiety. He was murmuring huskily, ‘An apt time to take payment in advance, I think.’

He was drawing her to her feet and holding her so close that she had to tilt her chin to look into his eyes. He slipped his hands around her waist and drew her even nearer, with gentle but relentless pressure. There was no time to protest as his mouth closed over hers in a slow, sweeping kiss that tore at her reserve and shattered it. His lips were warm, and strong; without realising it her own lips had parted, and his tongue was exploring with sweet demand.

A reckless yearning seized her. For a few magical moments she forgot everything except the feel and taste of this man, who was clasping her pliant body against his own hard one. She was cast adrift from reality, into a world of sensation—a world where the faint candlelight from the gilded altar swooped and dipped as his arms clasped her tighter and his mouth so sweetly possessed hers. A soft moan started somewhere in her throat and she ached for more.

Madness. What was she doing? She’d only just met this man. She knew nothing about him. He could be dangerous… Could be? He’d most certainly lived the life of a rogue and a rake!

Jacques of Claremont. She’d wanted his kiss more than she’d wanted anything. Ever.

He’d drawn away. Was looking round again, coolly assessing this hallowed chapel. ‘I’ll start work tomorrow, then,’ he said, buttoning up his coat. ‘I’ll meet you outside, just after six. Isn’t that what you said?’

She nodded. Mam’selle Sophie, head seamstress at the Tuileries. Trying to pretend nothing of any consequence had happened, when really her whole life had just been turned upside down by this painter Jacques.

‘Yes,’ she said. But her voice came out like a little squeak; she pretended to cough, and said again, more calmly, ‘Yes, I’ll meet you outside at six. The public galleries will still be busy, which will help. But won’t you need to bring paints, and brushes?’

‘I’ve got big pockets in this coat,’ he said. He was already peering at the nearest painting. ‘I’ll start with that one. Cupid and Venus, in dalliance.’ Then he swung round to her. His smile was wicked. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

Jacques left her outside the Louvre and strolled off thoughtfully along the crowded rue de Rivoli, cheerfully brushing aside courtesans who accosted him along the way, the touts selling souvenirs of the wedding—trinkets adorned with the entwined initials of the happy couple, Austrian sweetmeats and little flags to wave on the great day.

Sophie. So lovely. So dutiful. So repressed… Until he kissed her. And then her reaction had been spectacular. His loins still throbbed at the memory of her sweetly parted lips, of her pert breasts pressing so enticingly against his chest.

And so, still musing, he got home. No artist’s garret for Jacques; instead a rather luxurious four-roomed apartment in the rue du Faubourg St Honoré, where his anxious valet tutted over his scruffy clothes, and—more usefully—poured him a good large brandy while Jacques contemplated this rather intriguing adventure he’d got himself into.

Chapter Three

The wedding drew steadily nearer. Every day, Sophie supervised her small team of skilled seamstresses as they prepared the royal suite in the Tuileries Palace for the Archduchess Marie-Louise. Every day, Sophie hurried away after her work was done to visit her sick papa, seeing all around the vast preparations for the great event: the flags and garlands that were being hung all along the Champs-Élysées; the flower beds of the Tuileries that were being coaxed to exquisite perfection by hundreds of dedicated gardeners.

Poor Marie-Louise, she kept thinking. To be forced into marriage with a man she barely knew! Each evening, an hour before the Louvre closed its great doors to the crowds of sightseers, she met Jacques and together they would move, unseen, into the Salon Carré.

He was a wonderful artist, she realised: speedy yet meticulous. She’d been terrified when he’d started on the first painting. She’d seen his sketches, but this was quite different. What if his work was unacceptable? What if he ruined these precious masterpieces?

But he knew exactly what he was doing—had brought exactly the right brushes and tubes of oils to mutate the dark, vivacious features of Josephine into the fair prettiness of the much younger Marie-Louise. For a while, she even forgot his wicked bargain. When he gestured to her to come and examine his first completed transformation, Sophie gasped. ‘You should not be a lowly street artist! You could be making money!’

He smiled, that lazy, languorous smile that disconcerted her so. ‘I’m not doing this for nothing,’ he drawled, looking at her in such a meaningful way that she almost felt faint.

A kiss. For each hour he spent painting.

That first kiss of his had swept all her common sense to the wind. What would the next one be like?

She waited that second night with a thundering heart for him to claim his due. Yet when he came to her at the end with his brushes and paints put away, and the candles in the magnificently adorned wedding chapel burning but dimly, he just took her hand, lifted it and gently kissed it.

She felt rather faint. With relief—or disappointment?

‘Is that all?’ she breathed.

‘That’s all,’ he answered evenly. ‘I was wrong to take advantage of you as I did last night.’

‘But it was our agreement!’

‘I have had payment enough, believe me.’

She gazed up at him, outwardly calm. ‘Very well. We had better go. It will soon be seven, and the guards will be doing their rounds.’

So she unlocked the door to let them out, and he took his leave. Her heart was welling with bitter disappointment. One kiss was enough. Was she so very unattractive? Yes must be the answer. Yes. She had simply amused him, that was all—presented a challenge, with her devotion to her task, her earnestness, her innocence!

Indeed Sophie guarded her innocence fiercely. But only because she had seen too many women in her position—lowly servants to the great—seduced, then cruelly cast aside. She had sworn that would never happen to her, and had deliberately cultivated her plain attire and her prim manner.

She had been safe until now. But Jacques the insolent artist had sparked something, unleashed something. Not just in that first kiss, but with his very presence—his casual smile, that lithe grace that emanated from every part of his powerful body, even in the shabby clothes and dusty top boots he lounged about in. She dreamed wicked dreams, every night, of being in his arms. Of his lips on her lips, and more.

How he would laugh, if he knew. Well, that was up to her. He would not know.

So each day, as the wedding drew closer, she dressed more severely than ever, and pulled her hair back into her demure cap, and wore her high-necked gowns. Not that he paid her appearance much attention anyway, for his eyes were always on his painting.

But he would often talk, as he painted. And Sophie would listen, enraptured in spite of herself. He would tell her the latest tales from the Paris streets. How the costumiers were running out of seed pearls because the rumour had spread amongst the grand ladies of Paris that this was what Marie-Louise would have embroidered on her wedding gown. How the builders of the Arc de Triomphe had threatened to strike unless they were paid more money. How Napoleon’s outrageous sister, Princess Pauline, had fallen out with the Comtesse de Lyons over who would sit closest to the imperial couple at the wedding feast.

‘How do you know all these things, Jacques?’ she would ask wonderingly. There was gossip aplenty at the Tuileries Palace, but he seemed to know it all the minute it happened.

He turned to her, still stroking his paintbrush in the delicate colours on his palette. ‘One hears everything at the Palais-Royal. One even hears how a very pretty seamstress at the Tuileries Palace has turned down one respectable suitor after another, because she is so devoted to her work, and to her father. Her name—’ and now he was watching her thoughtfully ‘—is Sophie.’

Her cheeks burned. ‘I didn’t think you would stoop to pry. And besides, it is…ridiculous to say that I’ve turned down offer after offer, to say that I am pretty!’

‘Not pretty, I agree.’ He was looking at her, those dark eyes glinting again. ‘I actually said…very pretty. And I’ve heard something else. That this same Sophie signed away four years of her life to work at the Tuileries, so that her father, who is ailing, did not lose his job at the Louvre. Monsieur Denon, who is hand-in-glove with the head steward at the Tuileries, wanted you to stay and reject all suitors, because you were so good at your job. Your price was that your father should keep his. Is it true, Sophie?’

Her heart was beating like a panic-stricken bird trying to get out of a cage. ‘My father is excellent at his job! No one knows the collection as he does—no one cares for it as he does!’

‘But he is becoming careless. Isn’t he?’ said Jacques the painter softly. ‘That’s why he didn’t realise there were pictures of Josephine all around this wedding chapel, until it was almost too late. Even then, he thought there were only one or two, but it was you who spotted them all, wasn’t it, Sophie?’

‘You should not know this,’ she said bleakly. ‘No one should know it.’

‘But is it true?’

Her shoulders drooped ‘Yes.’ Suddenly her eyes blazed again. ‘But I love my father, I love my job, and besides, I have no wish to marry, to be bargained away like poor Marie-Louise!’

‘Are you quite sure, Sophie?’

In the rich shadows, surrounded by the marble pillars and sumptuous hangings, the gold altar decorations and the priceless paintings, Sophie suddenly felt so full of emotion that she could scarcely breathe. He had moved closer—too close. She had not seen him put down his palette and brush, but he was here, facing her, with one hand on her shoulder, and the other cupping her chin, tilting her face towards him.

‘Payment,’ he said softly.

She lifted bewildered eyes to his dark, intent ones. ‘But I thought you didn’t want anything more from me. I thought I must repel you.…’

‘Repel me?’ He backed away. ‘Dear God, Sophie, I’ve been fighting for the past few nights to keep my hands off you, woman, haven’t you realised?’

‘No doubt it would be the same with any female who was young, and available!’ she cried. ‘You artists have a reputation after all!’

‘Is that why you hired me?’ he stormed. ‘To test out my reputation?’

Her hands were on her hips. ‘Believe me, I would have hired you if you were the wickedest rake in Paris, if you’d said you would fix those paintings for me!’

Suddenly he began to chuckle, very softly. ‘You’re in the mood for a fight, and you look lovelier than ever when you’re angry. I’d like to paint you like that, Sophie. Your eyes become a darker blue, your cheeks are flushed—just a little—and your breath comes in short little sighs. And your beautiful hair has fallen down from its pins.’

Frantically she reached to push it up again. But before she could do so he was drawing her into his arms. Her lips parted in protest.

‘Payment time again,’ he said softly. He lowered his head, and his mouth found the sensitive skin of her throat. ‘Endure it if you must, sweet Sophie. Enjoy it if you dare.’

Sensation curled up from somewhere deep inside her and began flooding her senses. It was all she could do not to groan out loud as his hands slid down her back to clasp her waist, then moved beneath the soft fullness of her breasts.

Endure, he’d said. But he must know. This sensual, experienced man must know that he only had to touch her for her body to become a mass of need. Only had to move his lips against hers for her mouth to open to him, savouring his kiss that possessed and plundered, while she clung to his wide shoulders, not only her breathing but her whole self almost out of control.

It was he who carefully drew away, though he still held her, steadying her, as his eyes glinted darkly.

Only then was she was strong enough to step back from him. Defensively she clenched her hands and stared up at him. Payment. That was all this was. He was amusing himself at her expense, toying with her. ‘So,’ she breathed at last. ‘One more night of work to go. I trust all this has kept you entertained!’

He was watching her, his eyes unreadable. ‘There is no harm in happiness, Sophie,’ he said quietly. ‘Sometimes you have to grasp at life, or it isn’t worth living.’ And he went back to his work.

But that night, when Jacques returned to his apartment in the Faubourg St Honoré, he was in such a black mood that even his valet was wary of him.

Only two nights left before the wedding, and the Tuileries Palace had been hectic all day. Though Sophie had completed her work in preparing the draperies for the empress’s private chambers, she was constantly being called on for extra tasks or advice.

‘Sophie, these flowers need arranging! Sophie, the curtains in the reception hall could really do with your finishing touch!’ the head housekeeper would beg. ‘Sophie, should these gold candlesticks—they were a wedding gift from the Tsar of Russia—be here, or here? No one knows these things as well as you, my dear!’

Sophie got away at last at six, and hurried through the still-sunny Paris evening to the Louvre where Jacques would be waiting. And her heart was heavy. These hours in the dimly lit wedding chapel had come to mean more to her than she would ever admit.

She had made a fool of herself in front of Jacques, an utter fool, by declaring that she had no time for men or sentiment, then yielding so treacherously to his kiss. Still, why worry? she told herself sadly. After tomorrow tonight she would never see him again, and no doubt he was completely happy with that arrangement. In fact, that evening he worked more swiftly than ever, applying paint with dexterity. Only once did she dare to question him about his work.

‘Jacques, I did not think Josephine was in that painting!’

‘Ah, but she is,’ he told her calmly. ‘She’s lurking amongst the nymphs surrounding gallant Hercules—who just happens to be Napoleon. It won’t take me long.’

Suddenly they were aware of a cacophony of sound, at the far end of the Long Gallery but drawing nearer. Sophie looked speechlessly at Jacques for guidance; he, being taller, could see better than she.

‘Napoleon,’ he said swiftly. ‘With his courtiers, and Denon. I don’t think they’ll enter the chapel. He’s probably checking that the gallery is ready for all his guests, and the procession. If we stand behind the pillars—here—I don’t think they’ll see us.’

He was right. From where Jacques guided her, she was able to see the emperor stalking up and down the gallery issuing orders, while his courtiers scurried around him, listening, nodding, making notes.

‘We need more bronze eagles here,’ the little emperor declaimed, ‘above the place where my Imperial Guard will stand!’ He pointed to another section of the hall. ‘Those laurel wreaths should be more prominent. And couldn’t we have the Bartolini bust of me in here?’

‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ said Denon quickly, ‘we might be able to move the Bartolini from the Salle de la Victoire, yes, but not the Rubens painting, The Triumph of the Victor, that hangs so appropriately, so sublimely, above it! How can the two be separated? Be assured that all your distinguished guests will wish to view the two of them together, and indeed will be guided to them—I myself will take responsibility for it!’

For a moment the silence was ominous. Then, ‘Hmm,’ said Napoleon. He glanced round critically. ‘Perhaps for once you are right, Monsieur Denon. Other than that, it is all good, very good. Marie-Louise will not be disappointed. Her wedding day will be the most glorious day of her life!’

Sophie had listened with bated breath, but now she had to repress the sudden desire to laugh. Jacques glanced down at her; his lips, too, were quivering with amusement. ‘Emperors. They tend to have a high opinion of themselves,’ he said wryly. He glanced out at the Long Gallery. ‘It’s all right, they’ve gone.’

‘I feel so sorry for Marie-Louise,’ Sophie blurted out. ‘She is scarcely more than a child! And to be married to a man so vain, so prone to rages!’

‘You feel pity for her, when she is to be married to the most powerful man in Europe? To be fêted throughout the greatest cities in the world, to be adorned with crowns and jewellery—have you seen the parure that Napoleon has bestowed on her?’

‘I have heard of it,’ she breathed. ‘A necklace and tiara, earrings and comb, all made from the finest diamonds and emeralds in the world. For myself, I do not care for show, but all the great ladies of Paris are wild with envy!’ Then Jacques saw her face become shadowed. ‘It’s just that…she is so very young. And she must be so nervous, at the thought of the…the…’

‘Of the wedding night?’ His dark eyes lazily smouldered. ‘Au contraire. I believe she welcomed him rapturously to her bed. Her cries of delight were heard throughout the neighbouring chambers.’

Sophie’s cheeks were filled with fierce colour now. ‘They have been intimate? But how? Where?’

‘He went to meet her at Compiègne, where he spent the night with her. They were—’ he paused ‘—very happy with each other.’

‘How do you know such things?’

He put a finger lightly to her lips. ‘One hears everything at the Palais-Royal.’

Sophie thought, And our vain emperor is quite capable of spreading such stories himself. She struggled to collect herself. To remind herself that she was merely a seamstress, a spinster, and a man’s touch should definitely not send rivulets of heat trickling through her. ‘I’m sure one does, Monsieur Jacques,’ she responded crisply. ‘Now, if you have finished, we really must be locking up.’

‘So I’ll see you here tomorrow?’

She froze. ‘I thought you had finished.’

‘Not quite. The varnish needs to be applied, remember?’

‘Of course.’ She frowned, and stared at the painting he had just altered. ‘To think that I never noticed that one!’

‘It was easily missed, but we can’t afford to take any chances,’ he reminded her. ‘Napoleon has eyes like a hawk. Tomorrow night?’

‘Tomorrow night.’

The night before the wedding. The last time she would see him, ever. And tonight he hadn’t even kissed her.

But he’d wanted to. Oh, he’d wanted to. After he’d walked with her to the Tuileries, Jacques the painter pounded round Paris, until he finally settled himself in a lowly wine bar in the rue de la Baume, where men were laying wagers on how long Napoleon’s bride would take to bear him a son. ‘She’s a Habsburg,’ they were declaring. ‘A fertile race, the Habsburgs, as well as possessing the bluest blood in Europe!’

Jacques closed his eyes to their increasingly raucous banter and drank too much burgundy.

Hell. How had he landed himself in this? He’d just wanted to help her, because she was lovely, an innocent. But he’d quickly realised the kisses had to cease, because her reaction to his touch brought fire to his own blood, and heated him to the point where he would not be able to stop.

For God’s sake. He couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing her again. But how was he going to tell her…everything?

Chapter Four

On the eve of the wedding the Tuileries Palace was thronged with courtiers and servants. Down in the vast kitchens, armies of cooks bustled and flapped, while outside delivery drays pulled up one after another, laden with fancy foodstuffs, exotic plants, garlands of flowers and gifts large and small from all corners of Napoleon’s empire.

Sophie was eating in the servants’ quarters, but couldn’t understand why there was yet no sign of Fleur. No one else noticed her absence, because one of the housemaids was reading out the menu for the wedding feast tomorrow night.

‘Pickled oysters. Buttered lobster. Venison in a pastry case. Mutton à la Turc. Roast lamb with cockles. Trifle and gingerbread ices—oh, my!’ breathed the housemaid longingly.

‘All that fancy stuff won’t impress Napoleon.’ A cocky young groom laughed. ‘You all know what he’s like over food. “Fifteen minutes is time enough for anyone to fill his stomach,” says our little emperor.’ He winked saucily. ‘His views are exactly the same, by the way, on the subject of—ahem!—carnal relations.’

‘Quiet, you cheeky young scamp!’ ordered a burly cook.

Just then Fleur came hurrying in, looking white and desperate.

‘Fleur!’ Sophie was at her side in an instant. ‘Whatever is it, my dear?’

‘Oh, Mam’selle Sophie!’ Poor Fleur was openly sobbing now. ‘It’s my Henri. They’ve told me he died in the fighting in Spain. He won’t be coming back—ever!’ She collapsed in Sophie’s arms, in floods of tears.

That evening Jacques the painter was waiting for her in the usual place. His eyes narrowed. ‘You look serious.’

She sighed, pulling off her hooded cloak as she unlocked the door and let him into the wedding chapel. ‘Someone who works with me—a young friend—learned today that her fiancé has been killed in Spain. They were going to be married in the summer. It’s so cruel for poor Fleur, with the talk of the wedding everywhere!’

‘And isn’t that life?’ Jacques asked quietly. ‘To love and to lose perhaps? Isn’t that the point of living? No one can guard themselves for ever. No one can be safe for ever, whatever emotional walls they put up. We have to find happiness where we can.’

She gazed at him. His voice was so grave. As though he, too, had secrets, dark secrets perhaps. How could she bear not ever learning more about him, not ever seeing him again?

He took her hand and said gently, ‘Sit, and watch me work. Only a coat of varnish, and I’ve finished.’

So she watched him, taking pleasure in his skill, enjoying his calm, competent movements and smothering her forbidden yearning for his touch, his kiss. They talked about Paris, and their lives and hopes.

‘I suppose you will want to become a successful painter like Monsieur David,’ she said. ‘My father will help you if he can.’

‘My thanks.’ He smiled. ‘And I’ve enjoyed the task. Have you, Sophie?’

She hesitated. ‘I always take pleasure in seeing a job well done.’

He laughed. ‘Just as well, since you are in a position of some responsibility at the Tuileries. I’m sure your colleagues respect you enormously.’

But I don’t want respect, she was thinking in anguish. I want love. Yes, love…

He was putting away his painting things. ‘All finished,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Listen, Sophie, there will be tightrope walkers and tumblers in the Tuileries Gardens tonight. Come with me, why don’t you?’

She stood very still. The gardens at night were a place of loose behaviour, of debauchery even. She said, as steadily as she could, ‘You might prefer to attend the celebrations with your friends.’

‘Aren’t we friends, Sophie?’ A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘I’m just inviting you for a walk, in the Tuileries Gardens, tonight, the eve of the royal wedding.’

‘And my debt to you?’ she whispered.

‘It’s been my pleasure. Consider it paid off,’ he said.

She often wondered afterwards why she, a sensible twenty-three-year-old seamstress, should have agreed so lightly. Perhaps because so much had contributed, that day, to her emotional state. Fleur’s tragedy. Her own sense of time passing. Jacques was right: she always did shut herself off from life!

But not tonight. Tonight, the warm spring air of Paris was intoxicated with the forthcoming wedding. The gardens were sweetly scented with blossom, and bright with tulips and love-in-a-mist. The fountains played, glittering in the moonlight. Other couples, happy, in love, were walking down the broad avenues and along the shrubbery paths.

Jacques took her arm, and as they strolled he told her tales of his boyhood. ‘I was a little wild, I’m afraid. Rebellious.’ He laughed. ‘My dream was to be an artist, though my father, who died five years ago, wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘But he would be proud of you now!’ Sophie gazed up at him earnestly. ‘Your work is so beautiful!’

He was gazing down at her, something dark and fathomless in his eyes. ‘Not as beautiful as you,’ he said softly. ‘Ah, I’m sorry, I’ve embarrassed you.… Tell me your dreams, sweet Sophie. Surely you didn’t always want to be…a seamstress?’

‘I’m a senior seamstress!’ she protested defensively. ‘It’s what I do best!’

‘But you’ve never tried anything else,’ he said. ‘And that’s because you gave up your own hopes and dreams to safeguard your father’s job.’

‘That is not true! It was no sacrifice to work at the Tuileries. I have no forlorn hopes, no unfulfilled dreams!’

‘Well, I have,’ he said.

She stared up at him, astonished. ‘What?’

He’d caught her wrist and was gently pulling her closer. ‘Sweet Sophie, I dream of just one more kiss from you.’

If only it had ended there, thought Sophie in anguish as much later she stole upstairs to her dark attic bedroom. If only it had ended with a kiss! What had she been thinking of?

It was the warm, soft Paris night. It was the musicians, playing in the terraced gardens. It was the twinkling lights set up around the trees for the wedding; it was the scented early roses, it was…

It was Jacques, you idiot. It was Jacques. If he had set out to seduce her, he couldn’t have chosen a better time or place in the whole world. And she hadn’t been exactly unwilling. From the first moment his lips had touched hers, and he’d let his skilled hands slip round to cup the soft contours of each breast, she’d been lost. Utterly lost.

‘Tell me,’ he’d said. ‘Tell me the instant you want me to stop, Sophie.’

But there hadn’t been a single minute when she didn’t want to be held even tighter by those strong arms, breathing in the scent of his clean skin as his lips sweetly caressed and explored. Sensation—pure sensation—leapt deep inside, and began to flood her every nerve ending, bringing her not only to life, but to awareness of burning need. Especially when his fingers found the peak of her breast beneath her gown, and teased it into hot hardness. Then, she wound her arms round his shoulders and held him, tightly. ‘Jacques.’

He looked at her once more, his eyes grave. He said, ‘There is still time. I will take you home whenever you say. You must not feel obliged to continue with this, Sophie.’

‘But I don’t want you to stop,’ she whispered. ‘And, Jacques, it’s nothing to do with…obligation. It’s to do with you, and me, and life! I’m tired of being sensible, and responsible, and always doing the right thing. I want to do the wrong thing, just for once, with you, tonight!’

‘You are sure?’ His hands tightened round her. His breathing was harsh.

‘Quite sure!’ She blinked in sudden self-doubt. ‘That is—if you want me.…’

‘Oh, Sophie.’ He crushed her against him so she became aware, suddenly, of the hardness at his loins. Her eyes flew up to his, wide, startled.

‘There,’ Jacques the artist said softly, ‘you have your answer.’

A reckless yearning seized her every fibre as he stroked her spine from the nape of her neck to her hips, sending shivers of desire through her. ‘Imagine that tonight is a dream,’ he whispered. ‘Just you and me in the whole world. No duties to care about, no one else to think about, just us.’ He brushed her lips with his silken mouth. ‘In a dream, everything is possible.’

There was a secluded pavilion along one of the paths, and he led her there in the twilight, away from the crowds. He closed the door, then drew her close again. A kiss—a deep, cherishing kiss—and she was lost to him, being dragged deeper and deeper in a whirlpool of pleasure. She moaned softly as he slipped down the shoulder of her dress and caught one nipple between his lips, drawing up fierce kindlings of desire. She felt herself dissolving, becoming molten in his hands, and when those hands gently lowered her to the floor, when he swept up her skirts and caressed her and felt the tremors passing through her, she clutched him to her.

‘Jacques. Jacques,’ she breathed.

He was with her then, as one in urgent desire—freeing himself, easing himself into her, caressing and coaxing as she rose to his hand, to his steely yet silken entry. With care he began to move, guiding her body into the rhythm of love, and Sophie was only aware of him possessing her, driving her to undreamed-of delights, as she clung to him, whispering out his name, because the waves of pleasure that washed through her with each stroke made it impossible for her to do anything else.

His lips were on her mouth again, on her breast; she cried out, her whole body racked with intense pleasure, as he held her, held her so tightly, and drove himself to his own release.

Afterwards, he drew her gently to her feet and helped her to restore her disordered clothing.

‘Sophie,’ he said. ‘I want to see you again.’ His hands lingered on her shoulders. ‘But tomorrow, I am busy.’

‘We will all be busy, I think,’ she said brightly.

‘Indeed. But there is something I must tell you. Something important. And I must tell you—soon.’

Now she lay in her attic bed, unable to sleep, unable to concentrate on anything but Jacques as the dreary hours went by. He wants to tell me he is married. Or has a mistress he adores. What a fool he must think me. I am twenty-three years old—and I begged him to make love to me, like a nun released from a convent. I surrendered to him in those moonlit gardens like a prostitute.

But that was not the worst of it. The worst of it was that she had fallen in love with Jacques, the decadent Parisian artist, and she must never, ever let him know it.

Chapter Five

Early the next morning Sophie hurried through streets that were already full of crowds eager to view the wonderful pageant of their emperor bringing his bride-to-be into Paris. Her father was waiting for her anxiously; quickly she reassured him.

‘It’s all right, Papa. The paintings have all been dealt with.’

She saw his anxiety fade; then he tensed again. ‘But the cost! I hope it wasn’t too high?’

I don’t know, she murmured inwardly. I don’t know yet. But aloud she said brightly, ‘Nothing I cannot afford, Papa!’

He nodded, clasping her hand. ‘You are a good daughter. You must go now—you will have so much to do. But somehow—’ he frowned, gazing at her face ‘—you look different!’

How could he tell? Could anyone else tell?

‘It’s the wedding,’ she told him lightly. ‘It’s all so exciting, and we’re so very busy at the palace!’

‘Of course.’ He smiled and patted her hand. ‘You will come later and tell me all about it, won’t you?’

‘Dear Papa, I’ll bore you to death with it!’ she teased. ‘Trust me!’

Everyone at the Tuileries was in a state of near-panic. Somehow Sophie had thought—wrongly—that her part in the preparations was complete, but the housekeeper spotted her as she passed through the hall. ‘Sophie! Thank goodness you’re here! They need some seamstresses over at the Louvre, urgently. Some of the gold hangings in the Long Gallery have come loose.’

‘But the guests will already be gathering there!’

‘Yes, but it’s hours before the wedding. Though you must be quick!’

Sophie took two other seamstresses, including little Fleur, hoping that being busy would distract the poor girl from her heartbreak. Swiftly and calmly she organised the repair to one of the huge silk hangings that adorned the gallery’s wall, while gradually the great room filled with magnificently dressed, eagerly chattering guests—royalty and nobility from all corners of Europe. Even Fleur, gazing round wide-eyed, took an eager interest.

The Princess Pauline, Napoleon’s notoriously promiscuous sister, caused the most stir by entering in a décolleté gown of almost sheer white muslin on the arm of her latest lover, a burly guardsman. The whispers began, but Sophie did not join in. Am I any better than Pauline? For what I did with the artist, Jacques, was shameless, quite shameless.…

When their task was done, she started gathering up her sewing things. Then Fleur was gasping. ‘Mam’selle Sophie. Oh, do look. Isn’t he the most handsome man of them all?’

Sophie turned idly, unimpressed by all these vainglorious peacocks. But then she saw him. Dressed in restrained but exquisite clothes, his hair black and curling. Jacques. Her street artist, whom she’d begged to make love to her.

And the herald, as he entered, was calling out, ‘Jacques-Guillaume de Vevret, Count of Claremont…’

She walked back to the palace with the others, hating him, but hating her own naivety most of all. There were still more flowers to be placed in the empress’s rooms—work, work was the answer—but little Fleur and the others dragged her out to the balcony, from where they could see the imperial procession as it progressed along the Champs-Élysées.

‘Mam’selle Sophie, the carriage!’ Fleur was exclaiming. ‘It’s all gold and glass, and, oh, I can see Napoleon’s bride! She’s wearing a mantle of red velvet stitched with golden thread, and her crown sparkles so much that it must be made of diamonds!’

All around them the crowds were cheering wildly and the bands were playing. Along the banks of the Seine the artillery were firing their guns.

Then some soldiers marched by, resplendent in their uniforms, and poor little Fleur began to weep again. ‘My Henri,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, poor Henri, he should be here.’ Silently Sophie hugged her; indeed there was a huge ache where her own heart should be. Jacques’s words rang again and again in her ear: ‘Sometimes you have to grasp at life, Sophie, or it isn’t worth living.’

But why had he let her think he was a poor artist? He must have found it amusing, the Count of Claremont, to play the part. To make her fall in love with him.

You stupid, naïve fool, Sophie. You’ve less sense than Fleur.

Afterwards everyone said it was the most glorious wedding ever. The Louvre and the wedding chapel were, people said, just perfect. Napoleon had surveyed it all, sharp eyed, from his throne in there, and now that all reminders of Josephine were eliminated, nothing could be seen that would send him into one of his terrifying rages.

After the ceremony the imperial couple returned to the Tuileries, and the young empress sent for the chambermaids to thank them personally, with an accent that was charming. Now that her red velvet mantle was removed, they could see her beautiful gown, a high-waisted robe of white tulle encrusted with pearls and silver thread and adorned with a stiffened collar of finest Brussels lace. One by one the maids of the chamber curtsied before her, but she raised them quickly to their feet. ‘Thank you all, so much!’ she said warmly. ‘These rooms, and the flowers, are exquisite!’

Fleur, as impetuous as ever, blurted out, ‘We thought you would miss your home, Your Majesty! You have had to travel such a long way, we really wanted you to feel welcome here!’

Marie-Louise gazed at her. ‘Sometimes, one has to endure…adventures—is that the word?—to find out what is right for oneself, I think. But I feel you are already my friends, the first friends I have made in this beautiful city!’ She sank with a little sigh into the nearest chair and eased off her lovely white satin shoes. ‘Too tight,’ she explained with a tiny frown, ‘my poor feet, they ache so…’

‘Your Imperial Majesty, we will find you others to wear, from your trousseau!’

‘No.’ Marie-Louise raised her small white hand and smiled. ‘My husband chose them for me, and I will wear them—just a little discomfort, you see!—because I love him, and I love Paris, because it is the city of his heart.’

Sophie thought, She loves him. Jacques was right; she truly loves him.

That evening, as the sumptuous wedding feast took place inside the palace, Sophie stood alone on the deserted terrace overlooking the gardens, which were illuminated by thousands of lanterns. An hour ago, Fleur had come running to her, bubbling with joy.

‘He is back! My Henri is back. He was wounded, not dead, and we are to be married, as soon as possible!’

Sophie had hugged her warmly. ‘I’m so happy for you, my dear. So very happy.’

Everyone was happy. All of Paris, it seemed, was partying in the Tuileries Gardens, where last night she had urged Jacques to make love to her.

The Count of Claremont. She felt renewed anguish in her heart. Oh, what a fool she was. She’d ignored so many warning signs. His bearing, his education. The fact that he knew what Marie-Louise looked like; no doubt he’d dined with her! How he must have laughed over Sophie’s assumption that he was a poor painter. Tonight he would be a guest, of course, at the imperial banquet. He might even be regaling his aristocratic friends with the hilarious tale of the virgin seamstress who thought he was an impoverished artist and begged him to seduce her.…

She felt a hand on her shoulder. She whirled round. It was Jacques, looking heartbreakingly handsome in a fitted black coat and white neckcloth. Her pulse thudded sickeningly. She backed away, her hand at her throat.

‘Have you come here to laugh at me again?’

‘Sophie,’ he began. ‘I want to explain—’

‘Go away.’ Her anger burned. ‘A poor artist. You told me you were a poor artist!’

‘Wrong,’ he reminded her tersely. ‘You assumed I was a poor artist. But didn’t I tell you, last night, that we needed to talk?’

‘What about?’ she said bitterly. Her voice was shaking. ‘Were you intending to offer me payment perhaps?’

‘I wanted to give you something, certainly,’ he said. He held out a small trinket box. Frowning, she opened it.

Inside was a silver oval brooch, containing a miniature portrait. Of…her.

Her heart clenched.

‘Just to show you,’ he said quietly, ‘that you were not altogether wrong in assuming me to be an artist.’

She clasped the box tightly. It means nothing, nothing at all… ‘But you are also a count!’

‘A penniless count,’ he said, ‘till recently. My father was exiled during the revolution, like so many, and lost his lands, his money, everything. So I earned my own living around the cities of Europe, by doing what I was good at—painting. When Napoleon became emperor, he recalled all his exiled nobles and restored their lands. But I’m still far from rich. My father’s lands were badly neglected and there’s much to be done. I came to stay in Paris for the wedding, of course, to show my loyalty to Napoleon. The last thing I expected was to fall in love.’

Love. She froze.

‘With you,’ he went on softly.

‘You cannot. Oh, Jacques, you could have your pick of the women of the court.’

He said evenly, ‘Of the near-prostitutes like Pauline, who throng Paris? I’d really rather not.’ He drew closer, and took her hand. ‘You see, I want someone to be my companion, someone steadfast and honest, who’ll talk to me of love and life, as you have done. During our nights together in the wedding chapel, I realised. I want no one else to be my wife, Sophie.’

She was silent a moment, her heart in turmoil. ‘Jacques, I will have to think. In fact, there is so much to think about.…’

‘Is there?’ he said lightly. ‘Don’t you feel you’ve known me for ever?’

She laughed suddenly. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I do! But—’

‘Then let me tell you, sweetheart,’ he said, taking her in his arms, ‘that I actually finished those paintings on the third night.’

‘You can’t have! We spent—oh, I don’t know how many more nights there!’

He grinned, white teeth flashing. ‘Because I couldn’t bear to let you go. So I found a few more faces to turn into Marie-Louise. Napoleon, I think, would be delighted to know that his new bride is everywhere in the Salon Carré. Now, no more “buts.”’ He kissed her hand tenderly. ‘Because tonight, I’m going to dance with you, until you say that you will marry me. Understand, my foolish, darling Sophie?’

Nearby a band was playing. In the warm night air, it seemed as if all the lovers in Paris were dancing to the glorious music, in celebration of the imperial marriage. He swept her into the midst of them, to dance, rapturously; and later, as the celebratory fireworks cascaded over the gardens and the Seine, later, as he kissed her, she whispered, ‘Yes.’

Yes, to her artist, her lover, Jacques.

Author Note

Most people know that Napoleon and Josephine had a passionate, if occasionally quarrelsome, marriage. But sadly, Josephine was unable to bear the great French emperor an heir, and so in 1810 he divorced her and took a new bride, the shy young Archduchess of Austria, Marie-Louise.

Their sumptuous wedding in Paris provides the background for my story. The tale opens with the fiery Emperor Napoleon wanting nothing at all to remind him of Josephine in the chapel of the Louvre, where the ceremony is shortly to be held. It has fallen to my heroine, Sophie, to attend to this, though she needs the help of the handsome roving artist Jacques, whose demand for payment for his services is outrageous!

Were Napoleon and Marie-Louise happy? I think they were, and the year after their marriage she gave birth to his son. But Napoleon’s exile to Elba in 1814 meant that his wife and child had to return to Austria, and Napoleon never saw them again. Marie-Louise remarried and bore more children, though her first-born, Napoleon’s son, died young. Napoleon himself died alone in exile on St Helena.

The emperor was an ardent collector of paintings and sculptures, just a few of which are mentioned in my story. Canova was the most renowned sculptor of his day, producing many works for Napoleon, and Jacques, my hero, has glimpsed Canova’s naked statue of Napoleon as Mars in Rome. When Napoleon finally saw it in 1811, he rejected it as being ‘too athletic,’ and the statue, ironically, came into the possession of the Duke of Wellington, who vanquished Napoleon at the battle of Waterloo. It is now on view to the public at Apsley House, London.

May this year’s very special royal wedding be full of happiness!

Lucy Ashford

On April 29th 2011 the world will be waiting with bated breath for Prince William and Kate Middleton to say ‘I do’!

The bells at Westminster Abbey are chiming, the carriage is waiting and THE dress has finally been unveiled… So join Her Majesty by dusting off your best hat as you prepare for the wedding of the decade!

To celebrate this historic event, Mills & Boon have created a special ebook collection:

Royal Weddings

…through the ages

Read about the future king’s ancestors and the people who helped bring their special days together.

7 couples, 7 marriages, 7 stories for you to enjoy!

What the Duchess Wants by Terri Brisbin

Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine and Henry of Anjou (future Henry II), 1152

Lionheart’s Bride by Michelle Willingham

King Richard and Princess Berengaria, 1191

Prince Charming in Disguise by Bronwyn Scott

Prince George and Caroline of Ansbach, 1704

A Princely Dilemma by Elizabeth Rolls

George, Prince of Wales (future Prince Regent/George IV) and Princess Caroline of Brunswick, 1795

The Problem with Josephine by Lucy Ashford

Napoleon and Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria, 1810

Princess Charlotte’s Choice by Ann Lethbridge

Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold, 1816

With Victoria’s Blessing by Mary Nichols

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, 1840

So if you can’t wait until the 29th for your royal wedding fix…download one now!

Lucy Ashford, an English Studies lecturer, has always loved literature and history, and from childhood one of her favorite occupations has been to immerse herself in historical romances. She studied English with history at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favorite period.

Lucy has written several historical novels for Harlequin Mills & Boon ® and has also been published under the name of Elizabeth Redfern. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Peak District, near to beautiful Chatsworth House and Haddon Hall, all of which give her a taste of the magic of life in a bygone age. Her garden enjoys spectacular views over the Derbyshire hills, where she loves to roam and let her imagination go to work on her latest story.

ISBN: 978-1-4592-0419-5

The Problem with Josephine

Copyright © 2011 by Lucy Ashford

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