The Chagny manor was actually quiet for once—Raoul was off being melodramatic or whatever it was exactly he did in the opera house—and the Comte and his dear companion had actually had some time to themselves for once. It was astounding, thought Philippe, as he ran a hand through his damp blonde hair, going light at the temples, the effect Sorelli could have on him.
As he had this thought, she was curling one of her dancer's legs across him and smiling up into his face. There was something intoxicating in the glint of those lovely green eyes, the sultry way her black hair fell about her shoulders. She was an exceptional beauty. And even if she'd never be a suitable wife—one Chagny falling into scandal over loving a performer was quite enough (and besides, there was absolutely no way he loved the dancer), thank you very much—she was something Philippe was glad to have in his life.
And perhaps, he thought as she rested her head on his chest, and they closed their eyes, she was glad to have him too. That thought gave him a delicious little thrill in the pit of his stomach.
But he certainly did not love her.