The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(26)

Infuriating. What kind of silly little fool couldn’t stay on her own two feet?

Just this afternoon, her friend Antonia had remarked on how romantic it was—to be caught mid-faint by the dashing young detective. The girl from Portugal hummed a love song to herself while arranging boxes of grosgrain ribbon in Celine’s new dress shop. Antonia’s behavior had irritated Celine beyond measure. But not nearly as much as her own inability to recall even the most insignificant detail from that night.

As if Michael could sense Celine’s mounting agitation, he nodded, and they resumed their evening stroll down Rue Royale.

Celine looked about, letting the hustle and bustle of the busy thoroughfare calm the tempest in her mind. Though it was past dusk, families still milled about, stopping to peruse the offerings in the shop windows, chat with acquaintances, or dip into bakeries to snag a box of warm pralines or a paper sack of hot beignets. The early spring air carried the scent of melting butter and magnolia blossoms. A carriage trundled past, its canopy trimmed in delicate white fringe.

“It’s my favorite street in all of the Vieux Carré,” Michael remarked, his pale, almost colorless eyes sliding down the lane, pausing to note every detail, as Celine had come to expect from him.

“It is a beautiful sight to behold,” Celine agreed. “Everywhere I look, I see something lovely.” Along with the suggestion of something sinister, she thought.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Lovely is precisely the right word.” The tenor of his voice dropped, turning almost husky.

Dread coursed through Celine’s body. She glanced in Michael’s direction and realized he was still studying her intently. Her pulse thudded in her veins, more from trepidation than excitement. It wasn’t the first time he’d gazed at her like that. With a spark of hope alighting his handsome face.

“Thank you for being so persistent,” Celine blurted.

A furrow formed above his brow. “You’re welcome?”

“You know what I mean.” She waved her gloved hand about like a ninny. “I appreciate you inviting me on a stroll every night, especially after I refused you all those times.” Celine realized what she was saying as she said it. “I mean . . . well, putain de merde,” she swore. “Never mind.”

Michael laughed. The way the sound rumbled off his lips was . . . pleasant. Even though her memory was worse than that of a mayfly, she seemed to recall he didn’t laugh that often.

And it was nice when he did.

Warmth flooded Celine’s cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she muttered.

“The swearing or the bit about repeatedly refusing my invitations?”

“Both?”

His laughter continued. “I like that you’re no longer careful about what you say to me or how you say it.”

Celine frowned. She knew Michael meant it as a compliment, but it nonetheless reminded her how much she’d lost that night at Saint Louis Cathedral. Indeed there were times she felt she’d misplaced intrinsic pieces of herself.

Exasperation clung to her like a rain-soaked cloak.

Enough of this nonsense. She was here tonight, safe, in the company of a fine young gentleman who’d saved her life, at great peril to his own. Celine should be thankful to have forgotten the ordeal, thereby escaping the horrors that would have darkened her days and haunted her nights for Lord knows how long.

It was just . . . she should recall something of what happened to her, should she not?

The sorts of injuries she’d sustained were not commonplace. The scars on her neck were still pink and puckered. Her chest smarted anytime she took a deep breath, as if a slender blade had been shoved between her ribs.

When Celine was twelve, she’d burned herself pulling a loaf of bread from the iron stove in her family’s flat. She bore the scar of that awful morning to this day: a thin red line on the back of her left hand, near her wrist. It served as a constant reminder to proceed with caution around fire of any sort.

She would not have learned that lesson, save for that scar.

“How was your first full week working at the new shop?” Michael asked in a conversational tone.

Celine brightened, thankful for the change in subject. “I have to admit it’s been a welcome distraction. And it’s wonderful to see everything come together so brilliantly.”

“Well, it was an excellent idea to bring Parisian fashion to New Orleans, especially for the everyday woman.” Michael grinned, admiration warming his expression. “You are to be commended in all respects.”

“I appreciate your praise, but the truth is, I could not have managed it without Pippa’s and Antonia’s help. What they’ve accomplished in the last few weeks is nothing short of a miracle.” As Celine spoke, she and Michael passed a millinery, the shopkeeper tipping his hat at them. “And of course none of this would be possible without Mademoiselle Valmont’s generous patronage.”

A frown shaded Michael’s face, there and gone in an instant. “Have you spoken at all with your mysterious benefactress?”

“She has corresponded with me via letters, and promises to visit as soon as she returns from Charleston.”

They strolled half a block farther before Michael replied, his tawny features lost in thought. Celine could see him weighing his words in the same manner with which he adjusted his stride to match hers. Calculated, yet concerned.