The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(81)
“Oberon, o’ course.” Nigel twisted the waxed ends of his ruddy mustache, his expression mischievous, his accent thick. “One and only king o’ the fairies.”
“King of the overgrown trees, more like,” Odette teased as she tore away a lifeless leaf along his elbow.
He peered down at her with exaggerated imperiousness. “Regardless, I lord over every’fing in my dominion. Kneel before me, Hippolyta.”
“You lord over nothing, my silly, sweet boy.” Odette swiped a gloved fingertip beneath his chin, a ghost of a smile lingering on her face. “Least of all the queen of the Amazons.”
Nigel bowed deeply, the leaves wrapped around his wrist trembling from his motions. He sent a cheeky nod to Celine, whose attention strayed toward the two masked figures loitering in his shadow. Perhaps loitering was the wrong word. For neither gentleman appeared to be the least bit concerned with the unfolding spectacle.
One of them was obviously Arjun Desai. The mask of a donkey concealed the upper half of his burnished face. A felt tail had been attached to his backside. At least he’d paid the soirée’s theme the appropriate due, for he obviously meant to portray Nick Bottom, the poor fool transformed into a beast of burden by the notorious trickster, Robin Goodfellow.
Arjun scanned his surroundings, his eyes falling on Pippa, his lips twitching. “Is that your friend on the arm of Phoebus Devereux?” he asked Celine.
“I believe so,” she replied in noncommittal fashion. Hoping he would not press the matter further.
“Fascinating.” Arjun’s grin widened as he cast a meaningful glance toward the tall, broad-shouldered young man to his left. A mask covered the entirety of his face, complete with a set of spiraled horns twisting away from his brow, the profile reminiscent of a bull. His body was swathed in a leather greatcoat, its large black collar turned up, further shrouding his features from view.
His only identifier was the gold signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand, embossed with the seal of La Cour des Lions.
Celine’s gaze lingered on the ring, and Bastien’s graceful fingers flexed at his sides, as if they could sense her unwavering study. It should have meant nothing for Celine to notice this particular crack in his fa?ade. But—to her endless chagrin—it caused her stomach to tighten and her skin to tingle as if she’d stepped out into a bracing winter’s night.
His awareness made her feel alive. Which meant it fell somewhere between nothing and everything. A bothersome development, to be sure. Almost as troubling as the inevitable question that followed.
Was Bastien pleased to see her, or was he irritated?
This was the first time they’d seen each other since admitting their mutual attraction. The night they’d agreed to be nothing more than mere acquaintances. Alas, the presence of a mere acquaintance would not cause a swarm of butterflies to take flight in Celine’s stomach, to cluster around her heart, their wings fluttering.
Frustration warmed beneath her skin.
Odette struck a dramatic pose, her right hip jutting forward as she gestured toward Bastien. “Pray tell, just who are you supposed to be?”
“The Minotaur.” A rich voice emanated from behind the bull mask, amusement rounding its tone.
“Is there a Minotaur in Shakespeare’s play?” Odette queried.
Bastien shook his horned head once.
“Well, bully for you,” Celine joked, wishing she could see his eyes. Wishing she could read his thoughts like the pages of a beloved book, pausing to savor every word. Her fingers moved into her pocket of their own volition, pinching his insolent note, stoking the anger in her blood, hoping the blaze would overcome the desire.
The bull’s head tilted in Celine’s direction, the motion filled with scorn. Then Bastien glanced away, as if he were bored with the very idea of her.
Though it was subtle, his dismissal enraged Celine beyond reason, the fire of fury swallowing everything in its path. She crumpled the note in her fist. He’d already disregarded her once today. After which Celine had gone to immense trouble to attend this godforsaken gathering, all with the intention of confronting him.
And he thought to treat her with derision?
Madness, to the very end. It was true a foolish part of Celine had wanted to see him and be seen in return. She deserved to feel wounded now. Nothing good ever came from succumbing to madness.
No matter. To borrow his own words, Celine would grant Bastien no quarter. He’d trifled with her long enough. These weren’t the actions of an acquaintance. These were the actions of an enemy. She’d had her fill of enemies.
If Bastien was the Minotaur, Celine would be Theseus, armed with the sword of Aegeus.
Ready to slay the beast.
As if Arjun could taste the discomfort collecting in the air, he laughed, pushing his donkey mask up his face, the silk ties swiping through his unruly waves. “Well, I’d wager this event to be the height of this season’s debauchery. Anyone care to name the terms?” His British accent sounded too refined for a party in which satyrs roamed the gardens with insidious ease. Too cultured for a night in which drunken fools lost their inhibitions in a maze of fragrant rosebushes, forgetting all their thorns.
As if to illustrate the point, a striking young woman with hair the color of smoldering embers poured a glass of bubbling champagne down the pale skin of her throat, letting it dribble between her collarbones and soak through the front of her bodice. It traced the shape of her breasts before she feigned outrage, as if she’d simply missed her mouth, her ensuing giggles high and false.