Nicodemus continued, “And worked under the tutelage of the famed Camille de Beauharnais.” He paused with meaning. “In the uppermost floor of her atelier . . . beneath a lace of shimmering chandeliers.”
The thudding of Celine’s heart clawed into her throat.
He knows. Her worries invaded her mind. He knows.
The two words raced through her brain in time with her pulse. She fought to maintain her composure, her fingers gripping the silver dagger, her nails digging into her palms to the point of pain. “It’s clear you’ve learned much about my past, monsieur. You obviously have great resources at your disposal. But these details do not necessarily inform my present.”
Nicodemus’ smile was punishing. “I’ve heard you also enjoy being reckless. Venturing to places you’ve been forbidden. Lying through your teeth and flouting the rules.”
Color flooded Celine’s cheeks. “To which rules do you refer?”
“The only ones that matter. Mine.” His last word was the point of a knife in her back.
Celine refused to be intimidated, though her knees shook beneath her skirts.
A new emotion crossed the count’s face. One she could not recognize. As Nicodemus studied her, a line formed across the marble of his forehead. The next instant, it smoothed, vanishing from sight. “I admire your fearlessness, Celine. More than anything I could learn about your past, I can appreciate why my nephew is so taken with you. Not many young women would dare to hold their own in the company of so many who could kill her without a second thought.” He stepped forward again, the end of his walking stick striking the pavers beside his feet with a decisive thwack. “Who would kill you at my command, without a moment’s hesitation.”
The trembling took hold of Celine. She bit down on nothing to prevent it from reaching her teeth. There was nothing for her to say in response. Bastien’s uncle had just stated in no uncertain terms that Celine continued to breathe at his leisure. A cheeky retort would serve no purpose here. The only thing she could do was stand firm. Refuse to quail or beg, though her jaw clenched tighter with each passing second, her muscles tensing in preparation to fight or to flee.
After all, Celine Rousseau was not a mewling calf marked for slaughter. She could hold her own, if need be. The boy she’d killed for daring to treat her like a conquered thing was testament to that fact. Her last breath on this earth would not be tinged in regret, of that Celine was certain.
The count glowered into the night as if he could read her thoughts, his posture immovable. A mountain beneath the moon. “I, too, have heard the whispers of how you’re not afraid to spill blood. But you must know that I, too, have no qualms about destroying something in my path.”
“Why do you persist in threatening me, monsieur?” Celine gripped her skirts, the handle of Bastien’s dagger cool in her palm. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
Another flash of that same unreadable emotion. If Celine didn’t know better, she would have sworn it to be admiration. “I don’t threaten people, ma chérie,” Nicodemus said. “I trade in favors. If there is something I can do for you, you have but to ask.”
Celine almost laughed. Now he was offering her his good favor? It appeared that Bastien had learned his chameleon ways from his uncle. “I don’t want your money, monsieur.”
“I would not insult you by offering something as uninspiring as money.”
“May I ask what you want in exchange for earning your favor?”
The count did not hesitate. “I want you to reject my nephew. Cast him aside. Better still if it is for someone else.”
Celine blinked. “Why do you object to me so?” Her gaze narrowed. “Is it my lack of fortune or family?”
“As I said, I am not so uninspiring. Your lack of fortune is indeed a nuisance, but not of the insurmountable kind, were you suitable in other respects.” His words blistered Celine’s ears, mortification thrumming through her body. “In truth, I am most concerned by two things: you are far too inquisitive, and you have already become a weakness. I dislike seeing weakness in my nephew. Especially for something as inane as human emotion.”
Celine chose her next words with care, aware her cheeks had started to flush. “It is not a weakness to feel, monsieur. I—am not a weakness.”
“It is a weakness the moment one’s feelings override one’s judgment. And love of any kind is a weapon to be used against you, when wielded by the right hand.”
A part of Celine agreed with him. There were many times in life when she’d fallen prey to her emotions and erred in judgment as a result. Then she recalled the threads of hope she’d clung to during the long Atlantic crossing. “You should want your nephew to find love, my lord. When life becomes difficult, the only source of strength we have is love. Love of others, love of self, love of life in its entirety.”
Nicodemus nodded. “And what is love, ma chérie, a choice or a feeling?”
Taken aback, it took a moment for Celine to respond. “It is . . . a feeling.” She angled her head upward, biding time while searching for a better answer. As if it had been waiting for this moment, the moon emerged from behind a cloudbank, surrounded by a bevy of stars. Celine stared at the count with determination. “Love is looking at someone as if the stars shine in their eyes.”
He nodded again. “A beautiful notion. But you are wrong, ma chérie. Love is not a feeling. It is a choice. Contrary to popular opinion, there are many paths to happiness. I must ask which one you will choose, for the path you are on now will bring you only pain.” The count took a final step closer, until he stood just before her. Close enough that she could see the colors swirling in his amber eyes and smell the strange, icy scent emanating from his skin. Like frosted mint. “You do not belong in this world, Celine. It may be beautiful—intoxicating even—but beauty is a danger to behold, for it often masks the decay lurking beneath. Et ça fini toujours dans le sang.”
And it always ends in blood.
“I am not so captivated by the beautiful, monsieur.” Celine met his gaze without wavering. “For I know beauty is only a moment in time.”
“How right you are,” Nicodemus murmured. Then he placed his walking stick before him, both hands braced on the golden handle. “Nevertheless I must send along my nephew’s regrets. He will be unable to meet you tonight as planned.”
“I gathered as much, Monsieur le Comte,” Celine said.
“Don’t take it to heart, mademoiselle. My one goal in life is to protect my legacy. Do as I ask. Reject Sébastien. Hurt him once now to spare you both a life of pain. If you abide by my wishes, I will grant any favor you ask. And you’ll find there are no limits to my reach in all matters.” He paused, the line marring his forehead once more. “Defy me, and you’ll find your worst fears have become your reality. I will make sure you are left utterly alone, Celine Rousseau. Left to face everything you’ve run from, with no one to blame but yourself.”