The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(39)

Celine’s lips hung between silence and speech for the span of a breath. She considered asking him if he knew her. Or worse, if she should know him. But that same something hooked around her spine, summoning her toward the shadows above.

It called out to her again, without words.

At first Celine’s footsteps were hesitant. As she climbed, she glanced over her shoulder more than once, to find the gentleman with the earring standing there, his gaze expectant. The noise around her began to die down to a murmur, the air cooling as if the walls were lined with frosted glass. The path ahead was dark, the light waning around her. It should have been discomfiting, but a delicious shudder rolled down her spine. When Celine neared the top of the rounded staircase, she noticed that the banisters were embellished with the same symbol that hung on the sign outside the establishment: a fleur-de-lis in the mouth of a roaring lion.

Dim gas lamps burned on either side of the railing. It took Celine a moment to acclimate to the darkness. When she stepped forward, her slippered foot sank into plush carpeting.

She looked up. And gasped.

The shadowy room before her was a den of pure iniquity. A world completely apart from the one below.

Stunning young men and women lounged in various stages of undress on silk-covered chaises and velvet settees, holding glasses of champagne and tumblers of deep red wine. On a divan set against a darkly paneled wall sat a trio of pale figures sipping from snifters of glowing green liquor. Faint silver smoke tinged with a floral scent collected near the coffered ceiling. In the center of the chamber, a girl around Celine’s age was sprawled atop a boy, the ties of her ivory lawn gown loose, a smudge of rouge in the hollow of her throat, her brown eyes feverish.

At first Celine’s gaze was caught on the girl. She’d never seen another young woman in such a state of dishabille. Nor had she ever seen a girl quite so lovely, her limbs long and lithe, her bare feet swaying lazily above the Aubusson carpet.

Then the boy lying beneath the girl turned his head toward Celine.

She almost stumbled where she stood. A stabbing pain radiated from the center of her chest.

In all her nearly eighteen years, Celine had never beheld a more beautiful young man.

His face was sculpted bronze, his cheekbones cut from glass. Half-lidded eyes trailed after tendrils of smoke above, framed by sooty black lashes. A hint of stubble shadowed his jawline, his brows heavy and low across his forehead. But it was his perfect mouth that arrested Celine. Made her breath catch and her heart pound.

Everything about him suggested sin. Hinted at a complete disregard for propriety. He wore no cravat or waistcoat, and he’d shorn his hair close to his scalp in defiance of the current fashion. A crystal tumbler filled with red wine dangled from his fingers, his right hand tracing slow circles on the girl’s back. When she saw Celine staring, the girl aimed a pointed grin at her, then took hold of the boy’s chin and pressed her mouth to his.

Rage spiked in Celine’s throat. An odd, possessive kind of rage, her skin tingling with awareness. When the boy’s gaze slid her way, the rage melted into despair.

He broke away from the girl and stood at once, his perfect lips pursed, his expression strange. Almost wild.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Celine remained frozen to one spot, her fingers trembling in the folds of her blue linen skirt. A mad part of her wanted to run to him. His voice seemed to beckon her closer, the sound filled with a lulling music.

“I—I’m . . .” She thought to apologize, but stopped herself. Straightened, her hands clenched at her sides.

He glided toward her, his movements liquid. His eyes were the oddest color, the grey of molten gunmetal. Another unreadable emotion crossed his face, causing his pupils to flash as if he were a panther.

“You don’t belong here,” he said, his whisper like ice against her skin. He reached for her, then pulled back, his fingers twisting into a fist. “Who sent you?”

Though her knees shook and her voice trembled, Celine did not falter or look away. “The gentleman downstairs.”

“Rest assured, I’ll have words with him later.”

“You will not.” Celine took a step forward. “If you are cross with anyone, be cross with me. I chose to come upstairs. No one forced me to do anything.”

A woman with dark skin and jeweled rings the size of walnuts tilted her head back and laughed throatily; a young, tanned-skinned gentleman with cherubic curls grinned like a fox.

Frustration crossed the beautiful boy’s face. The muscles in his forearms pulled taut. Celine had the distinct feeling he wanted to reach for her just as much as she wanted to reach for him. Wanted to touch her as much as she wanted to touch him. The longer she looked at the boy, the more she simply wanted, the desire taking on a life of its own.

Over his shoulder, the disheveled girl on the chaise scowled at Celine.

“Why does it hurt me to see you kissing her?” Celine asked without thought. As soon as the question left her lips, something cracked behind her heart.

He flinched as if she’d slapped him. Then his expression hardened. “Why should I give a damn if something hurts you?”

His rudeness should have shocked Celine. But it didn’t. “Do you love her?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re right. It shouldn’t be. But still I would like to know,” she said, another pang knifing between her ribs. Why was she so captivated by him? By the line of his jaw, the bronze skin of his bare chest, and that cursed, cursed mouth.