The Beautiful Ones - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,105
know Hector Auvray does not love you,” Valérie said in a whisper.
Nothing more, speak no more, Nina thought.
“I have seen him,” Valérie said.
Nina did not wish to ask the question, but she found it escaping her lips before she could prevent it. “You’ve seen Hector?”
“Yes. We are on speaking terms once more. He has expressed his utter, undying devotion to me. Poor man, he cannot live without me.”
“You lie. He wouldn’t speak to you. He does not want to see you again,” Nina said.
Valérie raised her head, her eyes bright. Her smile deepened and her voice was silk and honey over Nina’s reopening wounds. “In his dressing room, on his desk, he keeps those beetles. I’ll have them tossed out, I dislike them.”
Nina was unable, for the life of her, to form a reply. The words withered in her mouth; it was as if she’d been struck. She felt herself shrinking in her seat, her head bowing to evade the triumphant sneer on Valérie’s face.
“No, why would he do that? He wouldn’t do that, he wouldn’t lie, he—”
“He lied once, easily enough,” Valérie said with a shrug. “You must not take it too hard. He was trying to put me out of his mind. But those times you’ve met, it’s been me he wished to be with, as always. And then, the last time, when you spoke at the tearoom, afterward he came to—”
It took every ounce of effort in Nina’s body to keep herself from flinging Valérie across the room. Nina pressed her palms against her forehead.
“Stop! Stop speaking to me!”
“I have nothing more to say,” Valérie told her.
No. No need at all to add another word. Hector had told Valérie about the beetles, he’d told her about their talk in the tearoom, he had probably divulged all Nina’s secrets. Silly child! Trusting and silly and ever forgiving.
The door opened and Luc Lémy walked in. Valérie greeted him on her way out, her voice courteous, beautiful.
Nina sat with a closed fist nestled against her bodice, her breath burning in her throat. She had not ever fainted in her life, and whenever she’d seen a lady roll upon a divan, she’d thought it funny, people fanning her and bringing smelling salts.
She felt she could faint now.
“Miss Beaulieu,” Luc said.
“Mr. Lémy,” she replied.
There were tears in her eyes. She felt like an idiot, forcing herself to blink them away. Madness! She was mad and stupid for having ever thought that Hector … that they … What a fool! They must have laughed at her, like the cruel children laughed when she was little. Like Johaness Meinard had laughed.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. My nerves,” she lied. Nina pressed her hands together, against her skirts, to keep them from shaking.
Luc, seemingly concerned a second before, must have judged this was the behavior of a silly, blushing girl overcome with emotion, because he smiled broadly and was pleased. “You should not be nervous. This is not an arithmetic test.”
“I’m not bad at arithmetic,” she said.
Luc stood with aplomb. He was dressed finely as usual, but there was a special vehemence to him that evening, the strut of a conqueror as he began to speak to her. “Miss Beaulieu, we both know exactly what I’m going to ask, as I can see by your beautiful face. I must therefore cut to the chase, as it may be, and inform you I find you most pleasant and would be delighted if you’d agree to be my wife.”
“Thank you. It is sweet of you. I—”
“You will agree to it?” he replied.
His eagerness was almost grating. She did not wish to converse with him. She did not wish to discuss this, not now. Every nerve in her body hurt, and she wanted only to rush back to her room and to be alone.
“I cannot … I cannot say whether I should accept your proposal.”
Her answer did not seem to dent his resolve, and he looked only mildly curious, not offended by her reply. “Why would you refuse a marriage proposal from a man as charming as myself?”
“Some might say you are conceited, too,” she remarked.
“Some might be right. Is that a terrible impediment?”
He sank suddenly to his knees and clasped her hands in a display of exaggerated romanticism, kissing them both. He resembled the illustrations of sentimental novels she had read, but in real life, it was too theatrical and she shook her head.