“Do you know why I called you to my study at such a late hour, Lady Alexandra?” Headmaster Maurice de Marchand’s hand disappeared beneath his imposing desk at her approach, but Alexandra dared not glance down to note it.
She didn’t want to imagine what his hands were up to, concealed from her view.
Besides, liars looked down. And a liar she was about to be.
She’d always hated this room. The overstated opulence. Damask everywhere. Splashing together in garish reds, oranges, and canary yellows. Even at this hour, one felt the need to squint against the visual onslaught.
“No, sir, I do not.” She summoned every lesson in deceit and temerity she’d gleaned from the Countess of Mont Claire in four years, and met the shrewd gaze of the headmaster with what she hoped was clear-eyed innocence.
Objectively, she understood why so many of the girls at de Chardonne found him handsome. With patrician cheekbones and an angular jaw, he portrayed the kind of sartorial elegance found in ladies’ novels. Alexandra thought his neck too long on his strong shoulders, an effect exacerbated by a diminutive chin.
Her friend Julia had once mooned over his brooding, dark eyes, comparing their color to a rich, black Croatian stout. But Julia, she’d long ago decided, was incessantly ridiculous. And if Alexandra had to compare his eyes to anything, it’d be whatever Jean-Yves, the gardener, fertilized his hothouse orchids with.
Julia had obviously forgotten about his penchant to lash the girls’ palms when they misbehaved. It wasn’t kindness in his eyes she noted then. But something else. Something darker.
He wanted them to cry. He moistened his lips at the sight of their tears.
De Marchand’s hand reappeared from beneath the desk, and he templed his fingers, resting the index tips against his lips. The sleeves of his black headmaster robes puddled at his elbows where they rested on the imposing desk. It was a desk shadowed by many such men, passed like a scepter and crown to each new lord of their château.
Lord of what, exactly? Alexandra barely suppressed a roll of her eyes. Lord of little girls? How pathetic.
“Come now,” he taunted, his French accent weighting his words with a treacle vibrancy. “You’re perhaps the cleverest girl we’ve ever educated here at de Chardonne.”
Alexandra imagined generations of clever girls before her better trained—or more willing—to hide their intellect. “You flatter me, sir. But I confess pure ignorance as to why I’ve been summoned to your study at so dark an hour.”
His lids lowered to a sleepy cast, his eyes darkening to a rather hostile brunet. “Always so polite,” he murmured, arranging implements on his desk away from his person. A stack of papers trapped beneath a marble paperweight he returned to their leather folder. “So proper and careful.” The uncapped fountain pen he set to the far left. “Perfect marks. Perfect comportment.” He put his letter opener to the far right, equidistant from the pen. “The perfect student … the perfect woman.”
“I am not yet a woman.” The reminder felt imperative. Though she was to graduate de Chardonne in a matter of days, at seventeen she was the youngest in her year, and would remain so for some months hence. “And I am quite aware of my defects, sir.”
Some days she could focus on nothing else.
De Marchand said nothing; his gaze reached for her across the expanse of the desk until Alexandra became so unsettled her stomach curdled against something she couldn’t quite identify.
Something unseemly. An unconsecrated anticipation she should have feared.
Instead, she settled her notice in his hair, the lambent color of drenched sand at low tide. Darker than gold, lighter than brown. An unassuming color for such an insolent and powerful man.
“Do you think, Lady Alexandra, that if you are perfect during the day, no one will notice what you do in the dark?”
Alexandra’s fingers fisted in the folds of her dress, her breath drove into her lungs like a cold rail spike. She valiantly fought the instinct to flee. “I assure you, sir. I’m ignorant as to what you are referring.”
Splaying his fingers on the desk, he stood and loomed over her for a terse moment. A spiteful victory danced across his features. He moved to the sideboard next to the window overlooking Lake Geneva. The waxing moon gilded the mountains with silver, and the town below competed with their own metallic golden light. “Clever people have the most exasperating tendency. They spend so much time overestimating themselves, they underestimate