never heard the story of the goddess Selene, which surprised her because her father was a lover of the classics. Her parents had named her for a family relation, long-since dead. A great-aunt named Marceline. She didn’t know when they’d first taken to shortening it. Likely when she was very young. Perhaps even when she lived along the coast of her mother’s country.
“No, I was not named for a goddess,” she replied. “Celine . . . is a nickname from childhood.”
“I deserved that.” Bastien’s soft laughter filtered through the air. Those in their immediate vicinity turned to peer at them in disbelief, one of their ranks blowing a stream of pale blue smoke from an elaborate water pipe. It was the first time Celine had ever heard Bastien laugh freely. It sounded low. A rich baritone swathed in silk. She ignored the way it made her appreciate each of her senses all the more.
Celine found herself settling into their exchange, without once feeling the need to play a role. The diligent worker. The obedient daughter. The pious young woman. Someone who floated with the current, rather than making her own waves.
Did the lunar goddess Selene also rule the tides, like the moon? If so, Celine wished to go through the rest of her life channeling this deity. It was true she didn’t know whether this goddess was her namesake, but perhaps she could choose to take on the mantle herself.
Celine relished the thought. The idea of being a Titan who wrapped the sky in a fleece of stars.
“Why did you leave Paris?” Bastien asked, shattering the image forming in Celine’s mind.
Her pulse fluttered at the question, her nerves going taut. “I never said I was from Paris.”
“You didn’t need to.” His grin was devastatingly charming, despite the sharp angles of his features. “You told Odette. Now even the gutter rats know.”
At that, Celine laughed. It felt easy. Too easy.
Nearby, the sounds of ivory dice striking against burl wood mingled with a chorus of raucous laughter. Her attention drifted toward the roulette table. Celine smiled to herself, again struck by the realization she felt comfortable here, amid practitioners of magic and lords of mayhem. As Odette had suggested, this place was unlike anything Celine had ever known.
Bastien followed her gaze. “Have you played roulette?”
Celine did not reply.
“You should try it,” he pressed.
“You’re encouraging me to gamble?”
“Does that riffle your delicate sensibilities?”
“Don’t be a cad.” Celine narrowed her eyes at him. “Perhaps I’m an excellent gambler,” she lied again, as she had to Boone. “Perhaps you will rue the day you let me win.”
A spark of humor shone in his gaze. “A fair pun, though I’m loath to admit it.”
“You dislike puns?”
“Almost as much as rhetorical questions.”
“There was a time when puns were the height of humor.” She mirrored the angle of his head. “And are you not curious about which came first, the chicken or the egg?”
“Technically”—he sent her a wicked grin—“wasn’t it the rooster?”
Celine’s brows shot upward, her mouth agape. The next instant, bright laughter burst from her lips, the sound startling those nearby for the second time that evening.
Bastien smiled wider, his teeth flashing white, distracting her for an instant. They looked inordinately perfect, the points of his canines almost wolfish. Something about it unsettled her, as if Celine were gazing at a painting instead of a person. Perhaps a piece by Rembrandt, a master who always managed to catch details others missed, rendering his subjects in an otherworldly light.
A timely reminder that young men like Bastien saw the world through rose-colored glasses. Through a haze of wealth and entitlement.
“Don’t fall in love with me,” Celine blurted without thought. “Nothing good will come of it.”
Surprise touched his features. “Then you intend to break my heart?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Duly noted.” Bastien appeared—by all rights—to be enjoying himself. It unnerved Celine to realize that she, too, was enjoying his company. It had been weeks since she’d looked upon a man without an air of suspicion clouding her every thought.
The next instant, Celine’s smile faded.
Pippa had reached the top of the stairs, Odette in tow. The front of Pippa’s simple voile dress was wet, but the stain appeared to be from water rather than wine. Celine moved away from Bastien, clasping her hands behind her, turning her attention to the floor, as if she’d been caught committing an act of subterfuge.
Bastien studied her with an odd look, his expression savoring strangely of disappointment. It was only for an instant, but a cold hand of