The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(28)

Something unreadable passed across his features, there and gone before Celine could take in a breath. Then his smile turned savage in its amusement. An unspoken challenge.

It emboldened Celine further. If he was going to play a game, she would simply play it better. She looked at Pippa and tilted her head, allowing a knowing twinkle to shine in her eye. Just the sort of look she’d seen countless young women of Parisian society share among themselves, as if they alone were privy to a delicious secret. “This is my dear friend, Miss Philippa Montrose.”

Bastien bowed again to Pippa. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Montrose.”

Pippa nodded, her unease obvious. Though Odette tried to appear indifferent to the unfolding scene, her attention flitted between Celine and Bastien as if she were witnessing a thread start to unravel. When she caught Celine staring at her, she diverted her gaze, focusing on Pippa’s wine-stained skirt.

“Merde!” Odette swore. “I’m an absolute wretch. I completely forgot about your gown. Come with me.” She began walking with purpose toward the staircase.

Pippa shook her head. “Don’t trouble yourself. It’s not—”

“Nonsense.” Odette pivoted in place. “I’m certain Kassamir will have some—what was it?” Her fingertips snapped together, the sound crackling through the air. “Tonic water to remove the stain, as Celine suggested.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I insist.” Odette took Pippa by the hand. “If you don’t allow me to fix it, then at the very least you must permit me to replace your gown. The fabric is such a lovely . . . voile, isn’t it?” Her features brightened, an idea already taking shape in her mind. “We could go together tomorrow to see my modiste. She doesn’t have Celine’s eye or training, but she’s quite adept at—”

“Please don’t trouble yourself, Mademoiselle Valmont. This gown isn’t worth it. It’s very old. It . . . was passed down to me from a cousin.” Pippa winced at this admission, and something knifed behind Celine’s heart. Clearly it pained Pippa to disclose this detail, and Celine did not have the slightest inkling why.

It bothered her to realize how little she knew about her only friend.

Only an hour ago, Pippa had remarked that they weren’t truly friends. Not yet. It had chafed to hear it then, but Celine could not deny its truth now. Real friends freely shared their thoughts and feelings, their secrets, their fears. In Paris—before that terrible night—Celine had had two such friends, Monique and Josephine. She wondered if they thought of her now. If they worried about her. Questioned where she’d gone.

If they knew she was now a murderess.

After Pippa’s pained admission, Odette kept silent for a time. When next she spoke, her words were gentle. “Please let me help with this, ma choupette.” She took Pippa’s hand again, this time with less insistence. “And do call me Odette. I much prefer when my friends call me that.”

In that moment, Celine decided that—one day—she would like to be friends with Odette Valmont, too. Pippa waited a moment. Then nodded once with a grateful smile. The two young women made their way toward the first-floor restaurant, on a quest to find Kassamir.

Leaving Celine in a den of lions . . . standing beside Lucifer.





DES QUESTIONS, DES QUESTIONS




The moment their friends vanished downstairs, Celine and Bastien shared a glance. A charge hummed through the air, swirling around them like the beginning of a storm.

Their smiles faded the next instant.

A thick silence descended like a cloak about their shoulders. A part of Celine relished it. It felt honest. Absent pretense. In this moment, she could be who she was. It did not matter if she failed to adhere to the social mores of her day. Bastien would not judge her, for he was not a gentleman, just as Celine was not a lady.

His posture relaxed further, almost as if he had come to the same conclusion. He spread his feet and settled into an informal stance. Celine found she enjoyed seeing him in this comfortable light. It made him appear more like a living, breathing person, rather than a subject of salacious gossip. He was, after all, nothing but a young man.

Albeit a devilishly attractive one.

Bastien pushed his lips forward again in obvious calculation. It drew attention to his mouth in a way that made Celine avert her gaze. She swallowed, dismissing a flurry of wanton thoughts. Half of her felt angered by this proof of her attraction. The other half appreciated the stark reminder that Bastien brought the worst version of Celine to the surface. The one cloaked in vice and sin.

Another minute passed in silence. The longer they went without speaking, the heavier the charge in the air grew, until it took on a life of its own, a hooded specter looming above their heads.

Celine refused to be the one who spoke first. Under pain of death. He could wait until the sun rose high in the sky tomorrow morning, for all she cared.

“You arrived to New Orleans recently.” Bastien offered this as a statement of fact, rather than a question.

“A little more than a week ago.” Celine paused, wondering if he recalled seeing her that first evening near Jackson Square. “You speak Spanish.”

He nodded. “Because of my father.”

“Your father was Spanish?”

“No.”