The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(63)

Bastien sighed, the sound grim. “I’ll never understand the fascination with the infinite. There is an end to everything, to good things as well.”

“Chaucer was an ass.” Celine glanced at him, a brow quirked with amusement. “And the infinite captivates us because it allows us to believe all things are possible. That true love can last beyond time.”

He did not reply. Instead his eyes bored into hers, the lashes above them thick. Deliciously sooty. When Celine looked away, Bastien cleared his throat, pausing to check his pulse.

“You did it again,” Celine said.

“What?”

“You often check your pulse. I’m curious as to why.”

A sardonic smile took shape on Bastien’s face. “To remind myself I’m human.”

That same strange feeling gripped Celine again. That feeling of something eluding her grasp. Something . . . important. Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Are you?”

Her question caught Bastien off guard. He stared down at her, his perfect lips pushing forward with slow deliberation. Then he took her hand and pressed it to the side of his neck. Beneath Celine’s fingertips drummed a steady heartbeat. One that began to race at her touch, its warmth tingling through her body. Bastien held both their hands there for a time, aware his pulse betrayed him. Aware and seemingly unconcerned.

The heart doesn’t lie, Michael had said.

Celine let her shaking hand fall. And decided to ignore all common sense. “Since we’re dealing in truths for this one night, I wanted to say I’m attracted to you.”

“And I’m attracted to you.” Bastien did not hesitate in this admission.

She stared up at him, her eyes unflinching. “Earlier this evening, I wanted to kiss you.”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night we first saw each other in Jackson Square.”

“You remembered,” she murmured. “I thought you had forgotten.”

Bastien canted his head. “How could I forget? You surprised me. It had been a long time since anything surprised me.”

Celine blinked. “I surprised you?”

He laughed. Then his expression turned serious. “One day, someone should tell you how beautiful you are in the moonlight,” Bastien said softly.

Heat pooled in Celine’s stomach, licking through her chest, rising into her throat. “Someone should.” She swallowed. “But . . . I don’t think it should be you.”

“I agree.” Again, Bastien did not hesitate.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” she warned again, her words breathless. “You’re not good for me. And I’m not good for you.”

“I agree, on all counts.”

“Most likely, you require a young woman with wealth and pedigree. An established place in society,” Celine continued. “And I require a proper young gentleman.”

The angles in Bastien’s face sharpened, betraying a spark of emotion too slight to discern. “Correct on all counts,” he said. “You lack the right pedigree.” A half smile curved up his face. “And I am not a gentleman.”

“Nevertheless, I appreciate what you did for me tonight, more than words. And in the future”—Celine inhaled—“I would not be offended if you chose to maintain your distance.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. If you agree, I believe we’re safe being passing acquaintances.” Bastien paused as if he intended to say something more. Then kept silent, his lips curling upward.

But . . . who wants to be safe? Celine banished the reckless thought from her mind and held out her hand. “Thank you again. I will not forget your kindness.”

“You’re welcome, mon coeur.” Instead of bending to kiss her hand, Bastien shook it, as he would an equal, his signet ring winking back at the stars.

A wave of satisfaction rippled through Celine. “Do passing acquaintances use such terms of endearment?”

“They do in my world.”

She smiled through a flicker of sadness. “Your world is beautiful, Bastien. I wish I could stay.”

“As do I.”

With that, Celine slid her hand from his, the tips of her fingers lingering a beat longer than necessary. Then she turned toward the convent, surprised to realize it was possible to feel both gladdened and gutted in the same instant.





THE WITCHING HOUR




From the corner of her eye, Celine watched their last candle begin to flicker and wane.

Not yet, she silently implored. Please not yet.

Her tongue slipped between her teeth as she hastened her efforts, basting the pieces of lustrous fabric together in a race against the sputtering light. Just as she was about to reach the end of the seam, the door to Pippa’s cell creaked open. A faint breeze blew through the space, snuffing out the flame before Celine could blink, swallowing her in sudden darkness.

“Oh,” Pippa said, her petite figure silhouetted by a beam of moonlight. “I’m terribly sorry about that.” With her foot, she propped the door halfway open. “But I come bearing gifts.” She sidestepped into the room. Between her hands rested a simple wooden tray laden with what appeared to be food and the stub of a candle in an old-fashioned brass holder.

It took a moment for Celine’s eyes to adjust to the blue darkness. “Apologies are unnecessary, especially if you brought cheese.”