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Slowly, she sucked in her breath. She would do as Ashford asked. But feigning illness was no longer an option, not when André was staring directly at her, seeing s
he was in the very bloom of good health. No, she'd have to deal with him, find some way to appease him and then get rid of him. Of course, she had no idea how belligerent he intended to get. Then again, if need be, she'd ask Bladewell to toss him out. Farrington's loyal butler had been apprised, both by her father and by Ashford, of her desire to avoid Monsieur Sardo and would not abandon his post until the gentleman in question had taken his leave.
"Hello, André," Noelle began carefully, forcing a smile to her lips. "I wasn't expecting you."
André stepped into the hall, frowning when Bladewell made no attempt to take his hat or move aside and invite him in.
"I have some sketches I'd like you to see," he informed Noelle coolly. "That is, if I'm welcome."
Noelle studied his face, tried to ascertain his state of mind. But his expression revealed nothing more than his determination to see her. She gestured for him to enter, deciding that the more graciously she behaved, the less likely this conversation had of becoming ugly.
"I'm sorry for the commotion at the gallery yesterday," she said, walking towards him. "Truthfully, I'm not quite sure what happened. I realize Mr. Baricci needed to see you. Even so, I would have waited for you to finish your business and see me home. But Lord Tremlett was right. My father is very protective of me and would have been sick with worry if I'd been gone much longer. So forgive me for leaving so abruptly. I had no choice."
The artist's eyes warmed to that velvet brown Noelle was accustomed to seeing, and he sidestepped Bladewell, joining her in the hallway. "I suspected that was the case. Think nothing of it, chérie. Incidents happen. That was yesterday. This is today. And I'm eager to show you these sketches."
A frown knit Noelle's brows. "I was under the impression Mr. Baricci no longer wanted my portrait painted."
"Who told you that—Tremlett?" André asked, a faint note of bitterness underlying his words. Before Noelle could respond, he shrugged. "No matter. It's true. Baricci has decided against commissioning your portrait—for reasons of his own. The loss, I'm sad to say, is his." André's expression grew tender. "Don't let him upset you. He's a strong-willed man. Much like his—" He broke off, glaring at Bladewell again, wordlessly telling him this was a private conversation and he was not welcome.
Unmoved, Bladewell stood his ground.
"In any case," André continued, pointedly turning his back to the butler and fixing his gaze on Noelle. "Mr. Baricci's decision does nothing to alter the feelings that have blossomed between you and me these past weeks. I needed to see you. And I want you to have these sketches."
Noelle's gut tightened at the intimacy of his tone. Still, there was no way to refuse the sketches without provoking him. "That was very thoughtful of you." Noelle glanced beyond him, her gaze finding Bladewell. "Monsieur Sardo and I will visit right here, and only for a minute. I know Mama is expecting me upstairs. I won't keep her or Madame Rousseau waiting."
"Very well, my lady," Bladewell concurred, taking his cue. "But one minute only. The countess gave me explicit instructions about your afternoon fittings."
Noelle sighed, turning her attention back to André. "As you can see, today is hectic. I'm sorry our visit must be so short, but I do appreciate the sketches." She reached out her hand to take them—realizing an instant too late that she was still clutching her wedding announcement.
The words were printed clearly, staring André in the face. Automatically, his eyes skimmed the page as he handed Noelle his sketches.
Sardo fancies himself in love with you.
Ashford's claim resounded in Noelle's mind, and her insides clenched as she watched André's expression as he read. She gauged his reaction: first puzzlement, then disbelief, then shock.
She steeled herself for his response.
It took a long minute for him to raise his head, and when he did, his eyes were veiled, his lids hooded. "It would seem congratulations are in order." His tone was smooth, controlled, his arm steady as he withdrew it.
If he was heartsick, he was doing a damned good job of masking it. However, he was angry. Noelle could sense the ire simmering beneath his flawless composure, his charming facade. And she had to admit, he was entitled to it. After all, she had flirted with him, led him to believe something was happening between them. Considering the basis for her charade, she felt no guilt. But that did nothing to alter the fact that André's anger was justified. The question was, should she ignore it or try to appease it?
Appease it, her instincts advised. By tomorrow, he'd be sharing a prison cell with Baricci, gone from her life forever. So the best thing she could do right now was to soothe his ruffled feathers and convince him to leave.
That in mind, she lowered her lashes, feigned embarrassment. "Thank you, André. That's very generous of you." Self-consciously, she tucked her announcement beneath the sketches, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. "I was going to tell you myself. I just wasn't certain how to do it. The earl's proposal came as a total surprise. As you're aware, he and I hardly know each other. But he is from a respected family, and my parents feel it's the right choice for me to make. I hope you understand."
"Understand." André repeated the word woodenly. "So you're saying you're marrying Lord Tremlett out of respect for your parents? That your decision was based on a sense of duty?"
Noelle was grateful her gaze was lowered. There was no way she could have successfully executed this lie if she and André made eye contact. "In effect, yes. Not that he isn't dashing or kind. He is. And I'm sure that, in time, I'll come to care for him. I can't explain my decision any better than that. In my world, André, one marries for different reasons than…"
"Passion?" he supplied. "Desire? Love?"
She nodded. "Yes."
Another pause, and she could feel André scrutinizing the crown of her head. "I'm sorry for you, chérie." he murmured at last. "I'm sorry for us both." He turned away, walked to the door, and seized its handle. "Au revoir, Noelle."
* * *
It was a half hour later when Ashford arrived at the Farrington Town house.
