“Pardon?” Odette let out a burst of laughter. “This, from the girl who requires a proper young gentleman!”
Celine waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind that. You should go as Madame du Barry.”
“Scandaleux!” Odette clapped gleefully. “The society matrons will be positively bug-eyed!”
“And it will be the dress no one forgets,” Celine promised.
“I’ll do it . . . but I must insist you accompany me to the masquerade ball, as well as another soirée I’m keen to attend.” Odette toyed with the silk ribbon about her neck. “Rumor has it the host—a member of a new krewe known as the Twelfth Night Revelers—plans to decorate his gardens after A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Though both ideas tantalized Celine with possibility, she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
“Not even if Bastien is there, in all his impropriety?” Odette winked.
“Especially not if he’s there.”
“Ah, don’t be so difficult, mon amie.” Odette paused meaningfully. “You already admitted he’s . . . how did you say it?”
Celine groaned, regret blooming in her stomach. “Too beautiful to be real.”
Something clattered to the floor behind her.
The blood drained from Celine’s face in a sudden rush. She froze in her seat, her eyes wide. It took only a glance in Odette’s direction to confirm the obvious.
Sébastien Saint Germain was standing behind Celine.
Listening to every word she’d just said.
* * *
“Je suis désolée.” Odette wrinkled her nose, clearly not sorry at all.
Celine considered balling up the silk napkin in her hand and hurling it toward Odette’s doll-like face. She reconsidered in the next instant. Although it might prove satisfying in the moment, it would do little to help her situation. Her pulse wreaking havoc through her body, Celine turned around.
And immediately wished she could shrink into nothingness.
Bastien stood at the top of the curved staircase, as striking as ever, his Panama hat in hand. Flanking him were several members of La Cour des Lions, each sporting varying degrees of amusement.
Before anyone could speak, Arjun bent to retrieve his leather notebook, an apologetic expression on his face. If Celine had to guess, he’d dropped it on purpose.
She tamped down a flare of gratitude. He’d dropped the notebook too late, that traitor.
A hero was only a hero if he managed to save the damsel in time.
Mortified, Celine stood at once, the legs of her gilded chair catching on the plush carpeting, her salmon-striped skirts a tangle about her feet. Gritting her teeth, Celine allowed her embarrassment to mushroom into anger. She curled her hands into fists and lengthened her neck so she could peer down at the recent arrivals with unmistakable disdain.
One of the elegant women with the rings laughed. “Comme une reine des ténèbres.”
Like a queen of darkness.
Easy laughter rippled around the room. Bastien kept silent, his gunmetal eyes unflinching, his handsome features unreadable.
Celine’s heartbeat drummed in her ears like the wings of a hummingbird. It would not do for her to appear weak. She would never be able to show her face again in this place if she succumbed to mortification.
Her fists gripping the striped fabric of her gown, Celine nodded once. “Hello.”
In response, Bastien bowed low, his hat held out at his side. When he stood once more, the suggestion of a smile played across his lips.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice silken. Sinful.
Celine wanted to stomp her foot and flee. To scream like a bean sídhe, loud enough to damage her own hearing.
“Bonsoir, Bastien,” Odette replied with a simpering grin.
Before another word could be spoken, the carved longcase clock along the wall began tolling the hour in furtive tones, its weighted brass pendulum swinging back and forth.
The interruption afforded Celine the perfect opportunity. “I’m afraid I must be going.” She pushed past the table, her face flushed.
“Not yet!” Odette stood, her sable eyes round, beseeching. “You must at least taste the îles flottantes.”
“Floating islands?”
“It’s a dessert Kassamir has been keen to add to the menu. We were to be among the first to try it. Clouds of perfect meringue floating in a decadent sauce of crème anglaise.”
Celine smiled sadly. “While that sounds heavenly, I’m afraid the hour is late. My friends at the convent will worry.”
Odette pouted, tucking a brunette curl behind an ear. “Then at least wait while I call for the carriage.”
“No,” Celine replied, straightening her skirts, keenly aware of their audience. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a few blocks to the convent.”
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Odette countered. “You simply can’t walk home alone, not after everything that’s happened recently.”
Frustration gripped Celine’s stomach. She needed to leave now. “Very well, then. I’ll hail a hired conveyance.”
“But that’s not necessary,” Odette protested. “Not when—”
“Odette,” Celine said through gritted teeth. “Thank you so much for the wonderful meal and the consummate hospitality. I’ll find my own way home.”
“I can’t in good conscience—”
“Let her be, Odette,” Bastien interrupted softly, the sound of his voice causing Celine to stiffen where she stood. “Tu ne peux pas tout contrôler.”
Odette moved from her side of the table. “Mais, Bastien, elle ne—”
“I’ll be fine, mon amie,” Celine said with another smile. “Please tell Kassamir the meal was a work of art. I’ll begin fashioning your gown for the masquerade ball immediately. Feel free to send the bolts of fabric and all the supplies to the convent first thing tomorrow.”
With that, Celine lifted her chin and made her way toward the stairs leading to the first floor of Jacques’. The members of La Cour des Lions—who’d stood silent and watchful throughout the entirety of this humiliating exchange—moved aside to grant Celine leave, though she could feel their eyes following her as she descended the steps, Boone inhaling deeply as she passed by.
Her hands trembled in her skirts, but she did not falter. She was a mountain, a tower, a hundred-year-old oak in the—