Her lips thin into a line, her displeasure evident.
I take her hand, realizing she seeks reassurance, not resignation. “But if these wolves want a war, they shall have it. That is my promise to them. And to you.”
A smile ghosts across Hortense’s face. “Précisément.”
CELINE
The Devereux mansion stood stalwart on Saint Charles Avenue, one of the most moneyed addresses in New Orleans’ Garden District. Last week—a mere day after Philippa Montrose had accepted Phoebus Devereux’s proposal of marriage—the brick exterior had been whitewashed, the shutters painted a fashionable shade of dark green. Porches enclosed all three of the home’s elegant stories, offset by white latticework and intricate wrought iron. Vines of powdery blue wisteria snaked up one side of the impressive edifice. Flames danced in rows of small iron torches, winding around the lane leading up to the home’s entrance.
It was a perfect spring evening for an engagement party.
Pippa was radiant, dressed in a beautiful gown of wispy organza, her blue sash a match for the blue fire in her eyes. Her blond hair was piled on her head, demure curls framing her heart-shaped face like a golden halo. She lingered on the arm of a rather bookish-looking young man, his smudged spectacles sliding down his nose, his flashy cravat overpowering his otherwise unremarkable face.
“She looks happy,” Celine said to Michael as they made their way up the lane into the mansion’s immense back garden, where two long tables were set with Limoges porcelain and pressed linen, sparkling crystal and glowing candles in brass holders.
“It’s a happy time in life,” he replied, pulling her arm through his. “She’s found her match.”
Celine quirked her lips.
“You disagree?” Michael lowered his voice.
She shook her head. “Pippa always said how important it was for her to find a husband.”
“Are you displeased with her choice?”
Celine mused a moment before responding. “Phoebus is a kind man who will provide well for her. I just—I wish she thought more of herself. She could be so much more than a rich man’s wife. She is smart, capable, and resourceful. I hate that she thinks the only suitable aspiration for a girl like her is that of a bride.”
“It’s important to see the merit in her dreams, even if you disagree with them. Isn’t that what a friend does?” Michael led Celine to one of the long tables and pushed in her seat before taking his own.
“I don’t disagree with her dreams,” Celine said. “They simply . . . frustrate me in their simplicity. A wife is always second to her husband, and I don’t see the merit in settling for second place.”
Michael leaned forward, an amused light in his pale gaze. “I agree. But perhaps an engagement party isn’t the best place to have this discussion.”
Celine’s ears went hot. She wasn’t sure if it was because of what Michael said or his proximity. A hint of apple tinged his breath, the scent rather pleasant.
“I’ve overstepped, haven’t I?” Michael said in a flat tone. “Nonna told me I shouldn’t be so forward with my opinions. It makes people less apt to like me.”
“No.” Celine shook her head. “I prefer it when you’re forward with your opinions. And I like you as you are.”
Michael took her hand in his, his touch fervent. Unmistakable in its affection. Something fluttered in Celine’s stomach. Was it the butterflies she’d read about in books or overheard young women whisper about in private? It felt . . . strange, but not unwelcome. His smallest finger curled around hers. She smiled, and was rewarded with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the severe set to his lips.
Celine was all at once struck by the thought that she should kiss Michael. That this kiss would offer her the clarity she desperately sought. In fairy tales, a kiss was a powerful thing. If she kissed him, it would be like magic. The haze in her mind would clear. Her memory would be restored. She would wake as if from a dreamless sleep.
And she would just . . . know.
Just as suddenly, another image flared into sharp relief. Of another young man’s lips a hairsbreadth from hers. Of how she’d lain awake at night and imagined them brushing across her skin, his touch soft and hard all at once. Asking and offering in equal measure.
Bastien. That damnably beautiful boy who had haunted her dreams since that evening at Jacques’ less than a week ago.