The Sheik's Son

“Merci! Thank you, Grand-mère.” Sophie came to Eugenie and hugged her warmly, kissing her on both cheeks. “I must choose a gown!” She left the table and the room, and could be heard in the house calling for Marie.

Jean Pierre smiled at the affection and dabbed his lips with the linen napkin. “Mère.” His voice was serious and Eugenie looked up at him.

“Do you know about the Duke of Dorset?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Eugenie placed several pears on her plate and savored their taste. Cook had prepared them as she liked, in a light juice with cinnamon.

“I understand the Duke took a liking to Sophie, at the salon.” Jean Pierre had been speaking to several colleagues and had not noticed it. But Sophie had mentioned it later and confirmed with the invite to the cricket game.

“Oui. That is so. I saw little of it, though. I was speaking with Madame Giroud,” she said.

“To be so delicate, le duc is a womanizer. I do not want Sophie to become too engrossed in his company,” he said.

“Of course she will not! Mon Dieu! As her grandmother and chaperone it is my express duty to watch over her and her honor, and that I will do most assuredly.” She spoke heatedly.

Jean Pierre almost smiled at his mother’s indignant response. She would watch over her granddaughter, he had no doubt. But it was best she knew who and what to look out for as well.

“Of course you will. But you need to know who the enemy is, no?” He winked at Eugenie and excused himself from the table.

***

“How was your journey?” Sebastian asked as he moved about in the downstairs library.

His sister had arrived, as his father had promised, and she seemed irritated and in a foul mood.

“Long. Very long,” Leila pouted.

“I see.”

“And hot,” she complained. “And the ship was so crowded.”

“That is to be expected.”

Leila’s trunks were piled up in the foyer and her small beaded purse sat next to her on the couch. She was dressed in a mauve-colored silk dress in the French style and Sebastian smiled. His mother had made certain her daughter was dressed accordingly.

“I didn’t want to leave, you know,” she said quietly.

Sebastian said nothing but poured himself a whiskey. “I only know what father wrote.”

Leila watched her handsome brother move about the room. They favored each other in looks. Both had dark hair, but while Sebastian had brown eyes, Leila had their mother’s blue ones.

“What did he write, Mohammed?”

Sebastian turned, startled by the name. He almost expected to see his father standing there. “Leila. In France, call me Sebastian. It’s simpler.”

“Very well.”

“He only wrote that you were coming to stay. Nothing more.”

She turned on the couch and gasped at the confining corset. “I hate this corset! Mother was right. These European women are being tortured alive. It’s awful.”

Sebastian smiled. Of all his sisters, Leila was the most like their mother in spirit and the most beautiful.

“A woman’s corset is necessary and expected. And you needn’t have come to France,” he replied.

“I did. I had to,” she said quietly.

Sebastian groaned. He knew his sister too well. She was the baby, but she was also a flirt and a tease. Something had happened in Arabia, he was sure of it.