The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(22)

He rolled a set of dice between his fingers, his angelic curls falling across his forehead. “I’d wager you’ve never played roulette.”

“You’d be wagering incorrectly, then,” Celine lied. She held out her hand for the dice. “I might be the best roulette player you’ve ever met.”

He laughed. “I can taste your deceit, my lovely little liar,” he whispered.

“What?” Celine dropped her hand, stepping back, disoriented by his words.

“It’s sweet on my tongue.”

Again Celine took a small step back, almost colliding with Pippa.

“Boone,” a feminine voice warned from the shadows. “Don’t be a beast. You’ve been warned already.”

The young man put both hands in the air in a gesture of surrender and pulled away the following instant, but not before offering Celine a wink.

“Fantastique!” the same feminine voice exclaimed from behind Pippa and Celine, as if nothing of import had occurred. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.” The slender silhouette lurking in a fall of shadow shifted into the light.

Celine’s mouth dropped open.

“Of course I hoped you would,” Odette continued, her teeth flashing in a smile as she lifted her glass of red wine in salute. “But I didn’t place a bet on the outcome.”

If the girl had not spoken first, Celine never would have recognized her. Gone were the dainty, demure garments from earlier in the day. The only familiar embellishment was the ivory cameo with its halo of bloodred rubies.

Odette was dressed as a gentleman. Her trousers were made of supple buckskin, and her shirt—with its ballooned sleeves—was stark white, covered by an elaborate waistcoat of pale green jacquard. The chain of a large gold pocket watch hung across the front of Odette’s vest. But the pièce de résistance had to be her intricately tied silk cravat, pinned in its center by the ivory cameo. Her brown hair had been slicked back from her face and gathered at the nape of her neck in a simple knot.

A slow smile unfurled across Odette’s face at their stunned silence. She swirled her wine knowingly.

“Why, you’re wearing . . . trousers!” Pippa remarked a moment later, her eyes enormous.

“I find it incredibly freeing.” Odette moved forward, resting one of her gloved hands in her pocket. “Some days I adore wearing corsets and bustles and layers of silk. But sometimes, it pays to wear pants.”

Though Celine was still rendered speechless by the sight, a sense of delight wound through her. The grin lingering on the edges of her lips threatened to bloom.

How . . . wonderful.

Celine cleared her throat. “Of course we came,” she began as though nothing were amiss. “I said I would, and I don’t enjoy going back on my word.” Celine shifted beside Odette, studying the lovely girl’s outfit with a practiced eye. “Forgive me, but there’s a stain beside your cravat.” She nodded at Odette’s shirt, where the tiniest drop of red wine—or perhaps rouge—had seeped onto the otherwise pristine cloth.

Odette glanced downward, tugging at her collar with a gloved finger. “Merde,” she cursed under her breath. “And I thought I had been so careful.”

“Both rouge and red wine are easy to remove with a bit of white wine or tonic water,” Celine offered. “Otherwise you look impeccable.”

“Truly?” Odette wrinkled her nose, no doubt pleased to hear the compliment.

Celine nodded. “A jacquard waistcoat is an excellent choice for someone with your coloring, and the tailoring looks flawless, though I would have selected a French seam to finish the edges instead of a standard backstitch.”

“Are French seams better?” Odette asked as she set her wine on a nearby table.

“Of course.” Celine didn’t blink. “They’re French.”

Odette laughed. “You’re simply delightful, mon amie.”

Celine almost smiled alongside Odette, but something stopped her. Bade her to keep her distance, at least for the time being. In the past, being too trusting of others had not done her any favors. “I’ve never seen a knot like that.” She nodded toward Odette’s cravat.

“It’s a mail coach knot from the earlier part of this century.” Odette’s eyes gleamed pale gold. “I do think that men of the Regency era had the best sense of fashion, don’t you?”

Celine thought a moment. “A part of me is inclined to agree.” She paused. “Though I’ll admit I’ve never fancied the top hat. Men have no need of the added height; they lord over everything enough as it is.”

Odette hummed in agreement. “What kind of hat would you pair with this ensemble?” she asked. “An Eton cap? A bowler?”

“Frankly, I’d prefer no hat at all, but I know it’s simply not done. If you were out during the day, I would recommend a straw hat with a thick band. The weather here becomes it.”

“So then, a Panama hat?” Odette tapped an index finger against her chin.

Celine frowned. “No. Something . . . else.”

Something that did not remind her of Sébastien Saint Germain.

Celine swallowed, wondering why her thoughts had hearkened to that particular style in that particular instant. It had never struck her as memorable before. When Celine glanced at Pippa, she noticed her friend studying her, Pippa’s blond head angled to one side. As though she’d heard the lie buried deep in Celine’s musings.