These were some of Celine’s fondest memories. Despite her father’s sternness and austerity, he’d managed to show his love in simple ways. Ways she’d often brought to mind during some of her darkest moments on the transatlantic crossing, for they’d given her comfort when she most needed it.
But they were all pale shadows when compared with tonight.
Tonight—at seventeen—Celine was certain she’d consumed the best meal of her life.
Langoustines poached in butter, white wine, and thyme. Pistachio-encrusted turbot garnished with flakes of white truffle. Roasted quail served with a crème d’olive alongside root vegetables sautéed in herbes de Provence, then topped with edible flowers. Not to mention the little delicacies and perfect wine pairings offered throughout.
All of it, sublime to the last drop. The fanciful side of Celine dreamed of one day bringing her father here. Of sharing this meal with him, too.
Odette dabbed at the corners of her lips with a silk napkin before gesturing to one of the waiting maîtres d’hôtel, who set a large brass bowl filled with rose petals beside her on a marble pedestal. Then he filled the basin with bubbling champagne so Odette could rinse her hands. So indulgent. So wasteful. Once her fingers were clean, Odette smoothed her bodice of duchess satin, her thumb grazing the ivory cameo at her breast, tilting it askew.
“You wear that brooch often. It must hold a great deal of meaning to you,” Celine commented while the maître d’hôtel poured an entirely new bottle of champagne and roses. The bubbles tickled her wrists, the heady perfume of the petals curling into her throat.
“Mmmmm,” Odette hummed in reply. “It does indeed.” She straightened the cameo, her gestures careful. A mischievous gleam shone in her eyes. “Would you believe me if I told you it was enchanted? That it kept the most shadowy of my secrets safe?” She winked.
“After this much food and wine, I would believe just about anything.” Celine groaned as she tried in vain to slouch in her chair. “Tell me, Odette, why must we wear corsets even while we eat?”
“Because men enjoy keeping us in cages at every waking hour.” Odette swirled her wine. “That way we’re contained. They’re afraid of what would happen if we were free.” She grinned. “But perhaps if I looked as you did in a corset, I would be singing a different tune. Alas, we can’t all be blessed with a tiny waist and a naturally heaving bosom,” she teased.
“It . . . isn’t as wonderful as you would expect.” Celine winced, the wine causing her thoughts to spin. “Ever since my twelfth birthday, I’ve dreaded the way men look at me. As if I were something to eat.”
Odette canted her head, an odd light in her gaze. “I never thought of it that way.” She paused in consideration. “Forgive me for speaking out of turn.” Conviction flashed across her face. “C’est assez! None of us should have to wear corsets unless we decide to wear them. In the meantime, I say we take to the square and burn them all.”
Celine’s eyes sparkled. “The corsets?”
“No, the men, of course.”
A peal of laughter burst from Celine’s lips. “You do talk scandalously.”
“I merely speak the truth. Men are wretched, my dear. I’ve sworn off them entirely. I’ll keep them as friends, but they remain forever unwelcome in my heart.”
Delight flared in Celine’s chest. “Please share your secret with me. I wish to be rid of them as well.” She could think of one or two in particular.
“It isn’t a secret.” Odette pushed aside her plate of Limoges porcelain to rest her elbows along the scalloped table’s edge. “I simply have no interest in them.” She paused, her expression thoughtful. “In truth, I much prefer the company of women, in all respects.” Odette pronounced this plainly, watching for Celine’s reaction.
It took Celine a moment to comprehend the full meaning behind Odette’s admission. Her eyes went wide the next instant, color creeping up her neck. “Please know how flattered I am, but—”
Odette snorted. “I don’t mean you specifically, you delicious narcissist. Though you are genuinely beautiful . . . and would undoubtedly prove to be a genuine nuisance as a result. Years ago I swore never to love anything more beautiful than myself.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “Thankfully that leaves my options wide and varied.”
Laughter caught in Celine’s throat just as she took a sip of wine. It burned at the back of her tongue, causing her to cough like a silly young woman in her cups.
“But let’s not lie to each other, mon amie,” Odette said above Celine’s coughing. “You don’t wish to be rid of all men, do you?”
“I do.” Celine cleared her throat and wiped the tears from beneath her lashes. “They are nothing but a bother.”
Odette wagged a finger at Celine. “Menteuse. I see the way you look at Bastien.” She leaned closer, her expression sly. Knowing.
Celine startled, her hand jostling her water goblet. “What are you—” She sat up, her heart hammering in her chest. “How do I look?”
“Parched, mon amie. Like you wandered the desert for forty years, seeking the Promised Land.”
“I look . . . thirsty?” Celine groaned, her cheeks reddening. A mixture of anger and embarrassment washed through her veins. She considering denying it. Tried in vain to conjure a plausible explanation. Then lifted her chin in defiance. Why should she have to lie?
“Very well,” Celine announced. “I won’t deny it. I’m attracted to Bastien. I think he’s . . . too beautiful to be real.”
Odette clapped as if she’d just heard the world’s foremost soprano perform her favorite aria. “This is now my favorite thing you’ve ever said.” She proceeded to giggle in a way that reminded Celine of being a small girl. She didn’t know anyone who giggled like that anymore. “Now”—Odette paused to tap an index finger along her chin—“what to do about this situation . . .”
“Nothing,” Celine said determinedly. “There is nothing to do. I have no intention of pursuing anyone like Sébastien Saint Germain, Odette,” she warned. “Nothing will come from your rather naked attempts to interfere. You know as well as I do that Bastien isn’t a proper young gentleman.”
“And you require a proper young gentleman?”
“I do.” Celine nodded with conviction.
Her expression dubious, Odette pursed her lips. “We’ll discuss this later.” She shifted tack with the ease of a dancer. “Tell me what you think about my idea for the masquerade ball.”
Grateful that Odette had changed the subject, Celine did not hesitate to reply. “I think you shouldn’t go as Marie Antoinette. I daresay there will be at least fifteen other women dressed accordingly for the occasion. Because it’s expected. I say you do something unexpected.” A shrewd gleam alighted her gaze. “Don’t go as the wife. Go as the mistress.”