The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(52)

“Are you displeased with her choice?”

Celine mused a moment before responding. “Phoebus is a kind man who will provide well for her. I just—I wish she thought more of herself. She could be so much more than a rich man’s wife. She is smart, capable, and resourceful. I hate that she thinks the only suitable aspiration for a girl like her is that of a bride.”

“It’s important to see the merit in her dreams, even if you disagree with them. Isn’t that what a friend does?” Michael led Celine to one of the long tables and pushed in her seat before taking his own.

“I don’t disagree with her dreams,” Celine said. “They simply . . . frustrate me in their simplicity. A wife is always second to her husband, and I don’t see the merit in settling for second place.”

Michael leaned forward, an amused light in his pale gaze. “I agree. But perhaps an engagement party isn’t the best place to have this discussion.”

Celine’s ears went hot. She wasn’t sure if it was because of what Michael said or his proximity. A hint of apple tinged his breath, the scent rather pleasant.

“I’ve overstepped, haven’t I?” Michael said in a flat tone. “Nonna told me I shouldn’t be so forward with my opinions. It makes people less apt to like me.”

“No.” Celine shook her head. “I prefer it when you’re forward with your opinions. And I like you as you are.”

Michael took her hand in his, his touch fervent. Unmistakable in its affection. Something fluttered in Celine’s stomach. Was it the butterflies she’d read about in books or overheard young women whisper about in private? It felt . . . strange, but not unwelcome. His smallest finger curled around hers. She smiled, and was rewarded with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the severe set to his lips.

Celine was all at once struck by the thought that she should kiss Michael. That this kiss would offer her the clarity she desperately sought. In fairy tales, a kiss was a powerful thing. If she kissed him, it would be like magic. The haze in her mind would clear. Her memory would be restored. She would wake as if from a dreamless sleep.

And she would just . . . know.

Just as suddenly, another image flared into sharp relief. Of another young man’s lips a hairsbreadth from hers. Of how she’d lain awake at night and imagined them brushing across her skin, his touch soft and hard all at once. Asking and offering in equal measure.

Bastien. That damnably beautiful boy who had haunted her dreams since that evening at Jacques’ less than a week ago.

It had taken a great deal of restraint to weather the effects of that altercation. Celine had spoken with her doctor at length about it. He’d reassured her that moments like those were not unusual for people who’d suffered head injuries. In fact, he’d recently read about a French philosopher with a developing theory on the matter. He’d called them “la sensation de déjà-vu.” A feeling of experiencing something a second time. This phenomenon would explain why Celine had felt the way she did in the boy named Bastien’s presence. As if she’d known him from a different life, even though the very idea was absurd.

Perhaps it could all be attributed to her injuries, as everyone kept insisting.

Or perhaps they were all lying to her.

It was a discomfiting thought. Would Michael lie to her? Would Mademoiselle Valmont—who’d returned from Charleston last week—agree to perpetuate such lies? Would Pippa, her dearest friend in the world?

A server bustled toward their end of the table, carrying a basket of pillowy brioche. He offered a bun to Celine, and she reached for the butter, the tips of her fingers grazing the large silver dinner knife to her right. A jarring sensation rippled through her bones. One of recognition and awareness. She tilted her head and picked up the dinner knife. Wrapped her hand around the embellished handle, its blade flashing in the light of a nearby candle flame.

When Celine caught sight of her startled face in its reflection, her fingers started to shake. Michael was being introduced to the elderly gentleman sitting beside him and had not yet noticed her distress.

Celine grasped the handle tightly in an attempt to conceal her trembling. She became overwhelmed by the sudden urge to pocket the knife. Not for the purpose of stealing it, but rather to protect herself.

Protect herself from whom? What was wrong with her?

Celine glanced about, fighting a wave of nonsensical panic. The gentleman beside Michael clapped a hand against the young detective’s back, offering effulgent praise for his recent accomplishments. Michael grimaced, but accepted the kind words with a murmured response of his own.

Her eyes flitting to and fro, Celine brought the knife into her lap. When she looked up once more, it appeared that no one had noticed her odd behavior. Less than ten seconds had passed since she’d first touched the dinner knife.

Smiling as if nothing were amiss, Celine tucked the knife into her skirt pocket with a deft motion.

Immediately her trembling ceased. Her body relaxed, her shoulders dropped. She reached for the brioche bun and locked gazes with Odette Valmont, her shop’s generous benefactress. Though the elegant young woman was seated much farther down the table, it was clear from her expression that she’d seen everything Celine had done.

Panic once more swirled in Celine’s chest. Of course Pippa would have asked Mademoiselle Valmont to attend her engagement party. Three days ago, their benefactress had come to the shop to order a custom gown complete with the newest style of Parisian bustle. Likely Pippa extended the invitation then.