The Damned (The Beautiful #2)(53)

And now here Mademoiselle Valmont sat, studying Celine in surreptitious silence, her sable eyes knowing, her bow-shaped lips pinched.

Celine stood the next instant.

Michael started, concern lining his brow. “Celine?”

She forced herself to smile. “I’m just going to take a turn about the garden.”

“I believe dinner will be served shortly.”

“I’ll return in a moment.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?”

Celine shook her head. “I need a moment to myself.” She discarded her linen napkin and stepped away from the table, taking in deep gulps of rose-scented air. Energy pulsing through her veins, she wandered closer to a trellis laced with grapevines, trying in vain to calm herself.

“Is everything all right, mon amie?” a soft voice said from behind her.

Celine turned around. Odette Valmont stood there, her brown hair lustrous, her silk batiste like a jeweled raiment around her neck. A familiar cameo surrounded by a halo of bloodred rubies flickered near the base of her throat.

“I’m fine.” Celine swallowed before smiling brightly.

One side of Odette’s lips kicked up. She stepped closer. “Don’t bother lying. I watched you filch some of the Devereux family’s silver.”

Horror took hold of Celine, an icy wave spreading down her back. “I—I didn’t filch it. I meant only to borrow it.”

“Pour quelle raison?” Odette canted her head. “Et pourquoi?”

“I don’t know,” Celine admitted in defeat. “I just felt . . . safer with it.”

Odette’s eyes became slits. “Is someone threatening you, mon amie?”

“No. Not at all.” Celine took a step back. “You must think I’m mad.”

A thoughtful expression settled on Odette’s face. “I don’t think you’re mad at all. I—” She stopped midsentence, tension banding across her forehead.

“Celine?” a male voice said from behind her, tugging at her already frayed composure.

She reacted on instinct. Celine whipped the knife from her pocket and held it aloft, her heart pounding in her chest. A horrible recollection stormed through her mind. The fleeting image of being stalked. Of having a man attack her unawares.

Of possessing nothing but a silver knife with which to defend herself.

Shock rounded Michael’s gaze. He raised his hands to either side of his face and took a step backward. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s all right, Celine,” a familiar voice said. “You’re safe here. I promise. Nothing and no one will hurt you.” A small hand reached for hers, its touch tender. Celine blinked, and Pippa’s lovely face came into focus. Pippa threaded their fingers together and led Celine toward the house and into a small parlor of paneled ash, its shelves lined with leather-clad books.

“I’m so sorry,” Celine began in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve caused a scene at your party. I should leave before more people take notice.”

“Of course you haven’t caused a scene,” Pippa said with a kind smile. “Besides that, I want you to stay. It wouldn’t be a celebration without you.” She gestured toward a damask chaise positioned near the black marble fireplace. “Please have a seat, dearest.”

Celine settled into the chair, her marigold silk skirts rustling, the silver knife still clenched in her right hand.

Pippa looked around the well-appointed room. “I still find it a bit strange that one day I will call a place this grand my home. It’s more than I could have hoped to have.”

“It is lovely,” Celine agreed. “And you deserve a life of love and comfort.”

“Don’t we all?” Pippa said.

“Some are more deserving than others.”

“I’m not sure about that.” Pippa took a seat in the chaise opposite Celine. “To be honest, I keep waiting for something to go awry.” Soft laughter bubbled from her lips. “Perhaps Phoebus is concealing some kind of terrible secret. Maybe he tortures bees or turns into a goat beneath the harvest moon.” She grinned.

“But none of that would matter if you were happy.”

“None of it?” Pippa’s eyes sparkled. “Not even the bees? Only a monster would torture an innocent little bee! Can you imagine?”

It was so absurd, Celine could not help but laugh.

Pippa’s grin widened. “I am happy, Celine. I’m marrying a good man. Phoebus is gentle and kind. His mother has been very gracious. His father”—she wavered—“is well intentioned, if a bit overbearing.”

Celine’s grasp on the knife loosened. “Is his father unfair to you?”

“Not outwardly.” Pippa shook her head. “But the deepest cuts can come from the smallest blade.” She sighed. “Phoebus isn’t what his father wanted him to be. But—in my opinion—he’s a much better sort of man. He doesn’t long for those around him to cower in fear. He doesn’t prize loyalty above all else.”

Celine nodded, the knife dropping into her lap. Already she’d begun to breathe easier. Already she felt more relaxed. How did Pippa always seem to know what to do?

“It worked,” Celine said in a wry tone.