The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(55)

Celine leaned back into the jewel-toned damask of her gilded chair. “I have nothing.”

“Nothing?” Odette laughed. She reached for another morsel of quail, pulling the tender meat apart between her delicate fingers.

“There is nothing I can say,” Celine continued. “Nothing I can do. No way to convey how amazing this meal was. Simply beyond belief.” She let out a protracted sigh. “Perhaps if I could dance like a winged fairy, I could better serve this cause.”

Another bout of laughter lilted into the air. “That is my favorite thing you’ve ever said, mon amie.”

“Also the truest.” Celine breathed in deeply, then reached beyond her golden cutlery for the crystal stem of her wineglass.

Celine had spent most of her seventeen years in Paris. As such, she’d lived a stone’s throw from some of the finest culinary establishments in the world. Unfortunately the cost of frequenting these establishments had been too much for her family. Far too out of reach for most people she knew.

But on special occasions, her father would take her to a bistro around the corner from their flat. The shiny-faced cook helming the kitchen was famous for her decadent roast chicken, served with small golden potatoes bathed in duck fat for hours on end. As a child, Celine loved popping a perfectly round pomme de terre into her mouth when it was still too hot, the crispy skin crackling on her tongue as she blew around the potato, struggling to cool it and consume it all at once. Her father had scolded her for being so unladylike, though he’d fought to conceal his smile.

It had been Celine’s favorite meal.

Every year on her birthday, her father would bring home a single mille-feuille from a well-known bakery in the eighth arrondissement. A cake of a thousand leaves. Paper-thin layers of puff pastry separated by whipped crème patissière, crushed almonds, and thin dribbles of chocolate.

These were some of Celine’s fondest memories. Despite her father’s sternness and austerity, he’d managed to show his love in simple ways. Ways she’d often brought to mind during some of her darkest moments on the transatlantic crossing, for they’d given her comfort when she most needed it.

But they were all pale shadows when compared with tonight.

Tonight—at seventeen—Celine was certain she’d consumed the best meal of her life.

Langoustines poached in butter, white wine, and thyme. Pistachio-encrusted turbot garnished with flakes of white truffle. Roasted quail served with a crème d’olive alongside root vegetables sautéed in herbes de Provence, then topped with edible flowers. Not to mention the little delicacies and perfect wine pairings offered throughout.

All of it, sublime to the last drop. The fanciful side of Celine dreamed of one day bringing her father here. Of sharing this meal with him, too.

Odette dabbed at the corners of her lips with a silk napkin before gesturing to one of the waiting ma?tres d’h?tel, who set a large brass bowl filled with rose petals beside her on a marble pedestal. Then he filled the basin with bubbling champagne so Odette could rinse her hands. So indulgent. So wasteful. Once her fingers were clean, Odette smoothed her bodice of duchess satin, her thumb grazing the ivory cameo at her breast, tilting it askew.

“You wear that brooch often. It must hold a great deal of meaning to you,” Celine commented while the ma?tre d’h?tel poured an entirely new bottle of champagne and roses. The bubbles tickled her wrists, the heady perfume of the petals curling into her throat.

“Mmmmm,” Odette hummed in reply. “It does indeed.” She straightened the cameo, her gestures careful. A mischievous gleam shone in her eyes. “Would you believe me if I told you it was enchanted? That it kept the most shadowy of my secrets safe?” She winked.

“After this much food and wine, I would believe just about anything.” Celine groaned as she tried in vain to slouch in her chair. “Tell me, Odette, why must we wear corsets even while we eat?”

“Because men enjoy keeping us in cages at every waking hour.” Odette swirled her wine. “That way we’re contained. They’re afraid of what would happen if we were free.” She grinned. “But perhaps if I looked as you did in a corset, I would be singing a different tune. Alas, we can’t all be blessed with a tiny waist and a naturally heaving bosom,” she teased.

“It . . . isn’t as wonderful as you would expect.” Celine winced, the wine causing her thoughts to spin. “Ever since my twelfth birthday, I’ve dreaded the way men look at me. As if I were something to eat.”

Odette canted her head, an odd light in her gaze. “I never thought of it that way.” She paused in consideration. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn.” Conviction flashed across her face. “C’est assez! None of us should have to wear corsets unless we decide to wear them. In the meantime, I say we take to the square and burn them all.”

Celine’s eyes sparkled. “The corsets?”

“No, the men, of course.”

A peal of laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “You do talk scandalously.”

“I merely speak the truth. Men are wretched, my dear. I’ve sworn off them entirely. I’ll keep them as friends, but they remain forever unwelcome in my heart.”

Delight flared in Celine’s chest. “Please share your secret with me. I wish to be rid of them as well.” She could think of one or two in particular.