The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(49)

“Bonjour, mon amie.” Odette opened her creamy silk parasol with a flourish, the rubies around her ivory cameo winking in the filtered light, her gaze appraising. “I adore how you wear such bright hues. It’s ever so much more intriguing than this sea of simpering pastel.” She waved a gloved hand around the square. “One day, you must tell me what inspires you.”

Celine thought for a moment, her hand still sheltering her from the uncompromising sun. “Paris often had melancholy skies. They were always beautiful—especially in the rain—but I longed for splashes of color, so I thought to wrap myself in them.”

“Bien s?r,” Odette murmured with a knowing smile. “Come sit with me.” She patted the bloodred leather beside her.

“I shouldn’t,” Celine replied, glancing around at what she guessed to be a goodly portion of New Orleans’ high society, exiting the church on their way to Sunday barbecue.

“Ah, would it seem untoward?”

Celine wrinkled her nose. “Not untoward. Only . . . indiscreet.”

“Too soon after that unfortunate incident.” Odette nodded.

Celine simply smiled.

“Well,” Odette said, “I suppose I can issue my invitation from here.”

“Invitation?”

“To join me for dinner at Jacques’ tonight, you goose. We still have much to discuss with respect to my gown for the masquerade ball. And don’t worry,” she added almost as an afterthought, “it won’t be near where the . . . incident occurred.”

“I—don’t think that’s wise. I’m certain the Mother Superior—”

“—has already granted the request, despite her initial misgivings. The monsignor spoke to her before Mass.”

“Of course he did,” Celine murmured, disbelief flaring through her.

The devil at work once more, no doubt.

Then—as if he’d been summoned by her thoughts—footsteps pounded down the hewn stairs behind her, moving rhythmically. Efficiently. Celine turned in place just as Bastien brushed past her in a suit of dove-grey linen, his Panama hat tilted atop his brow, the scent of bergamot and leather unfurling in his wake.

He did not pause to acknowledge her, so Celine returned the gesture.

“The carriage will come to collect you this evening at seven o’clock,” Odette said as Bastien settled into the phaeton in a single fluid motion. “And don’t trouble yourself with respect to your appearance. What you’re wearing now is lovely.” Without warning, she struck Bastien’s arm with the carved handle of her parasol. “Don’t you think Celine looks lovely?”

Bastien pursed his lips and glanced Celine’s way. “C’est une belle couleur.” He took hold of the reins, his expression dispassionate.

Odette cut her eyes in his direction, then smiled at Celine. “It is indeed a beautiful color. But I wasn’t talking about—”

The pair of gleaming black horses took off before Odette could finish, their hooves clattering across the cobblestones, scattering any poor soul still milling about the white cathedral.

In the ensuing ruckus, Celine heard Odette screech through the courtyard, her words a jumble of French and Spanish, her outrage aimed at a precise target.

Celine smiled to herself, her features sobering the next instant. She watched the elegant phaeton turn the corner, her back to the church. A moment later, her gaze snagged on the unremitting stare of a familiar figure standing on the opposite end of the steps, studying Celine intently. The Mother Superior frowned, her censure plain, the sun casting half her face in shadow.

It did not take the work of a genius to deduce the source of her irritation. Once again, she’d been thwarted in her attempts to control Celine, this time by the monsignor himself. With a huff, the matron of the convent continued down the steps, her posture stoic, her strides unwavering.

Sighing to herself, Celine tarried for a while in front of the cathedral until the spired structure emptied of its patrons and Pippa joined her.

“Did the meeting go well?” Celine asked Pippa.

Pippa nodded. A warm breeze tugged at her organza skirts. “As well as could be expected. It’s the first ladies’ organization I’ve ever joined. Are you certain you don’t want to accompany me next time?”

“I know little about music and art. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to offer much in the way of conversation.”

“You know as well as I do that conversing about the arts isn’t really the objective.”

Celine grinned, a black brow curving up her forehead. “How many of the society dames tried to foist their horrible sons on you?”

Pippa paused, her expression grim. “Three. One of them might not be . . . terrible.” She turned to Celine, her eyes forlorn. “His name is Phoebus.”

Laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “I gather he doesn’t resemble his namesake, the Sun God.”

“I’m meeting his mother for tea next week.” Pippa exhaled in a huff. “After all, we can’t remain at the convent forever.” A line formed along the bridge of her nose. “And it’s up to us to make the best of our lives.”

Celine said nothing in response. With a kind smile, Pippa linked arms with Celine, and they began the short journey back to the convent.