The Beautiful Ones - Silvia Moreno-Garcia Page 0,89
for fistfights, but he had not shied away from physical confrontation when it was necessary. The company he kept had not been the most gentle one in his youth. And though normally the thrill of a fight held little appeal, he was angry and he wanted to throw a few well-placed punches.
Étienne reached out and grabbed his brother by the arm, speaking quickly. “Stop it, the both of you.”
Luc shoved his brother away and straightened himself up. He did not bid either of them good-bye, instead preferring to glare at Hector before stomping off.
For a moment Hector considered tossing the remains of the damn cigarette at the back of Luc’s head.
“That was jolly,” Étienne said, drumming his fingers against the sides of his glass. “You didn’t tell me you were speaking with Nina again.”
“Only recently. You didn’t tell me Luc was pursuing her,” he replied.
“I had no idea. I thought he had a new fancy, but he didn’t say it was her.”
A fancy. Yes, no doubt it was hard to keep track of the women who danced in and out of Luc Lémy’s life, but he did not think this “a fancy.” As far as Hector knew, Luc Lémy had not courted a lady. He’d flirted with a good number of them and even enticed a few into his bed. Étienne had told Hector that one time, Luc had gotten himself into a whole lot of trouble over Mie Karlson, a diplomat’s wife. But then, Luc collected women like other men collected coins or stamps, and ladies—much less marriage—were beyond his interest.
“What now?” Étienne asked, frowning.
“Do you think he is serious?” Hector asked.
“About what, breaking your jaw?”
“Her. Marriage.”
“How am I supposed to know?” Étienne replied.
“He seems serious to me,” Hector asserted.
He recalled what Nina had said, that Luc flirted with her. Gaétan might not have spoken with her about the matter already, but surely he would soon. At this moment, he could be summoning his cousin to let her know that Luc Lémy was interested in her. How would the conversation end?
He thought back to the party and how they’d looked together. They had been at ease, Luc acting his charming self and she interested in the performance. And at Oldhouse, he tried to remember what they’d been like. Nina had spent most of her time with Hector, but they all gathered for games and conversation. They got along well enough, he thought.
They’d make a pretty pair, a study in contrasts, Luc with his blond good looks and Nina with her black hair.
Antonina Lémy, he thought.
It sounded awful.
Étienne, attuned to Hector’s moods, picked up on that thread. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Hector, please tell me I’m wrong, please tell me you’re not—”
“I’m heading home,” Hector said. “Suddenly the bathtub seems more appealing.”
“Hector, don’t start with a new madness.”
“Have a good evening, Étienne,” he said, his voice clipped.
As he walked toward a busy avenue, hoping he might find a carriage to take him home, Hector considered paying Nina a visit. He quickly discarded the idea. What would he say? That he and Luc Lémy had almost come to blows over her? And exactly over what?
Hector knew he and Nina were standing on ever-shifting sands. He was unsure where they were headed, too. It was strange because he was always sure of his actions, proceeding with the certainty of an arrow. It had been like that when he romanced Valérie, as he tried to fashion a career for himself, and in a myriad of business matters. The doubt that often clouded him when it came to Nina was odd, like listening to a tune and not knowing the steps of the dance.
At this point, Hector felt he could say nothing. Nina was a young lady in her second Grand Season, and she would be expected to catch the attention of suitors. Luc Lémy was a man of superior breeding—a Beautiful One, for God’s sake, his grandfather was a viscount—ripe for marriage, and that he should have turned his eyes toward Nina could not be faulted.
As Luc had pointed out, Hector threw away his chance. Hector’s pitiful gifts, the attempts at establishing new ties with Nina, colored only more vehemently that truth.
He managed to attract the attention of a coachman and boarded the carriage.
“Boniface, please,” he said.
The carriage moved under the shade of the light green linden trees, trotting quietly.
“Antonina Lémy,” he whispered, and the words left him with a sour taste in his mouth.