Bastien smiled wider, his teeth flashing white, distracting her for an instant. They looked inordinately perfect, the points of his canines almost wolfish. Something about it unsettled her, as if Celine were gazing at a painting instead of a person. Perhaps a piece by Rembrandt, a master who always managed to catch details others missed, rendering his subjects in an otherworldly light.
A timely reminder that young men like Bastien saw the world through rose-colored glasses. Through a haze of wealth and entitlement.
“Don’t fall in love with me,” Celine blurted without thought. “Nothing good will come of it.”
Surprise touched his features. “Then you intend to break my heart?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Duly noted.” Bastien appeared—by all rights—to be enjoying himself. It unnerved Celine to realize that she, too, was enjoying his company. It had been weeks since she’d looked upon a man without an air of suspicion clouding her every thought.
The next instant, Celine’s smile faded.
Pippa had reached the top of the stairs, Odette in tow. The front of Pippa’s simple voile dress was wet, but the stain appeared to be from water rather than wine. Celine moved away from Bastien, clasping her hands behind her, turning her attention to the floor, as if she’d been caught committing an act of subterfuge.
Bastien studied her with an odd look, his expression savoring strangely of disappointment. It was only for an instant, but a cold hand of guilt grasped Celine by the throat, making it difficult to swallow. As if her conscience believed she’d wronged Bastien in some fashion. But how could that be possible? A boy like this would not care what a girl he’d just met thought of him. He’d said it himself:
He would be the last one to correct her assumptions.
Sure enough, Bastien stepped away. Stood straight, his brow hooding his gaze, a shadow falling across his features once more.
Another stab of guilt cut through Celine’s chest. She banished it the following instant. If Bastien did not believe it necessary to explain himself, then why should she? Besides that, it wasn’t proper for her to be seen enjoying his company, given his earlier behavior.
They were like two trains set on a collision course. Better for all those involved if they did not relish each other’s company.
At least that way they could avoid colliding at all.
Odette strode before them, her hands in the pockets of her buckskin trousers, a lock of brunette hair escaping her coif. “My, that was an odyssey. I never thought voile would be quite so stubborn a fabric.” She arched her brows in question. “What did we miss?”
Celine lifted a shoulder as if she were bored. “I was merely conveying to Monsieur Saint Germain my displeasure at our earlier encounter.” She squared her chin. “And especially with the display of wanton violence.”
Bastien remained silent, his lips pressing forward. Celine felt the weight of his gaze upon her, the steel turning colder with each passing second.
“Violence?” Odette’s eyes shifted from Celine to Bastien and back again. “Qu’est-ce que tu as fait?” she accused, her lovely face crestfallen, her hands curling into fists at her sides, the skin there resembling polished Carrara. “At least do me the courtesy of not ruining my friendships before I’ve had the chance to make them, s’il te plaît.” Huffing, Odette drew a lacquered fan from inside her ballooned sleeve and flicked it open.
Bastien considered Celine for a tense spell. Then amusement tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Answering violence with violence was a courtesy, ma souris. Perhaps in your quest for friendship, you could elect to choose fewer . . . unsavory characters.”
Odette’s fan snapped shut. “You didn’t.”
He crooked a dark eyebrow at her and said nothing.
“You démon,” Odette said. “I warned you not to get involved in that matter with Lévêque. What did you do?” She glanced about. “Never mind. Of course you won’t tell me. I’ll simply ask Arjun instead.”
“Des questions, des questions.” Bastien held his hands out at his sides. “Qui a le temps pour ces choses?” He sent her a devilish grin.
“You should make the time.” Odette sniffed with disdain. “And I wouldn’t be proud of that terrible joke, if I were you.”
“There are those who find me wildly clever.”
“Grâce à Dieu, I am not among them,” Odette retorted, “for I have no need of your golden coffers . . . or your pretty face.”
Celine laughed softly. “And every man should be master of his own time.”
Bastien turned to her, his features expressionless. He nodded once. “Just as every woman should quote Shakespeare when she has nothing better to say.”
Celine’s cheeks grew hot. Embarrassment coiled through her as Pippa took hold of her left hand, bidding her to keep calm.
Gritting her teeth, Celine swiveled toward Odette. “Forgive me, but time has gotten away from us. Is there a place we can go to finish obtaining your measurements?” She paused, her words pointed. “A place where we can avoid unwanted eyes?”
Odette’s petite nostrils flared at Bastien, her mouth caught between silence and speech for a breath. At any moment, Celine expected her to begin berating him again, almost as if she were his elder sister or his aunt. But Odette simply nodded. “There’s a chamber in the back, past the washroom.”
With a withering glance in Bastien’s direction, Odette led the way toward one of the two doors in the back, situated at opposite extremes along the wall. Between them rested an ornate wooden credenza with a white cloth strewn across its middle. Covering its surface were statues resembling Saint Peter and the Virgin Mary, painted in vivid hues. A short blade lay across the credenza’s center. Positioned in a semicircle around it were carved figurines with skull faces and small dolls fashioned of bone and straw. Scattered between were assortments of wooden beads, dried fruits, and nuts, mingled with drops of hardened wax.
The arrangement looked vaguely familiar to Celine. Lingering traces of incense and scented candles curled into her nose, painting flashes of memory across her vision. Recollections of a low table decorated in a similar fashion, the fragrances of fruit and myrrh suffusing the air.
The display spiked her curiosity, but Celine did not stop to study it further or ask any questions. She wished to be rid of anything associated with this place as soon as possible, though it troubled her to no longer feel welcome at Jacques’.
“Through here.” Odette reached for the handle of an entrance intended to blend into the paneled walls, its hinges concealed by the folds of a heavy silk curtain. When she pushed against it, the door refused to budge.