The Damned - Renee Ahdieh Page 0,46
once. As if half of her wished to flee and the other wished to sink its teeth into this world of cut crystal, fine china, and intoxicating decadence.
Celine inhaled the rich scent of bloodred wine, warm spices, and melting butter. “Isn’t this marvelous?” she said, her eyes flitting about the glowing chamber.
“It is indeed,” Michael replied, though his frown deepened.
“You worry too much.” She wrapped her arm around his in a reassuring fashion, the sleeve of her French linen dress fluttering with the movement. “Our shop’s benefactress, Mademoiselle Valmont, told me she would make sure to save the best table in the house for us. She’s well acquainted with the purveyor, and said he owes her a favor.”
The corners of Michael’s eyes tightened. “I didn’t know you told Miss Valmont about our plans to come to dinner here.”
“It was at her suggestion that I come to Jacques’ tonight.”
“Of course it was,” Michael muttered under his breath.
Celine shot him a withering look just as a white-gloved gentleman in an ivory dinner jacket offered them a bow.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau?” he said, his brown eyes warm. “I’ve been directed to escort you to your table.” He led Celine and Michael toward the far-left corner of the expansive room. It was obvious to anyone in the establishment that this was a place of honor, situated for guests to see and be seen. In the table’s damasked center was a beautiful bouquet of hothouse roses, their petals like crimson velvet, their scent reminding Celine of a famous parfumerie on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. A crystal-and-brass chandelier glittered above them, its refracted light catching fire on the Wedgwood china and the solid silver utensils.
Delight rippled through Celine. She’d never experienced something so luxurious in all her life.
Nearby, another server removed a domed lid from a tray of steaming food. The smell wafting their way startled Celine, for it brought a flurry of thoughts into sharp focus. Of the same flowers with the same scintillating perfume. Of another table in a shadowy room. Of muted feminine laughter. Of sparkling champagne and roasted quail.
Of feeling safe and warm and loved.
Celine shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut as if to banish the false memory. She’d never eaten at Jacques’ before. Pippa had said so, and it made no sense for her friend to lie about this. Celine would not allow her mind to betray her tonight.
Another elegant server set two fluted glasses before Michael and Celine, pausing to pour each of them a measure of bubbling champagne. Then, with a flourish, he placed napkins of fine ivory linen across both their laps.
An awkward smile curved up one side of Michael’s face. He reached for his glass and held it aloft. “To all you have achieved. And to all you will achieve.”
Celine’s smile was bright and easy. Filled with unfettered gratitude. She liked Michael Grimaldi more than she could ever remember liking any other young man. He was kind and thoughtful. Conscientious and attentive. All the things a desirable gentleman should be.
So why was she still equivocating about her feelings?
She should fall in love with him. It would be easy to fall in love with him.
As Celine studied Michael from across the table, a searing intensity honed his features, sending a riot of emotions through her veins. She hadn’t meant to linger in her sentiments as she had. It would only serve to encourage him, and she wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment. Not yet.
Clearing her throat, Celine said, “Isn’t this lovely? I’ve never eaten at any establishment quite so extravagant.”
“Not even in Paris?”
She shook her head. “My father loves fine cuisine as much as I do, but we never could have afforded something like this. He’s always been a pragmatic man. A scholar of language and linguistics.” Celine grinned. “But that didn’t stop him from bringing me my favorite pastry every year for my birthday.”
A fond light entered Michael’s gaze. “It’s good to hear you speak of your father. You rarely say anything about your past.”
“I suppose”—Celine weighed her response before making it—“it’s because I did not leave Paris under the best of circumstances. I miss my father a great deal, and the thought of him brings me pain.” She said no more, hoping Michael would not press her for more information. Almost six months after the fact, it was likely her father had been apprised of what happened that fateful night in Paris this past winter. Which meant Guillaume Rousseau would think his only child