The Beautiful (ARC) Read online

  The moment Celine and Odette had entered the glittering

  foyer of this magnificent home, champagne had been poured

  liberally, to any and all who wished to partake. Hours later,

  the glitziest pillars of New Orleans society were well into their cups. Already couples were disappearing into the hedgerow

  deep within the impressive labyrinth, seeking shadowy corners

  awash in fervent whispers.

  Celine fiddled with the low-cut edge of her emerald gown,

  trying in vain to tug it higher.

  “Stop fretting over it, mon amie. You’ll only draw more atten-

  tion to the impressive swath of bare skin there,” Odette said from beside Celine, her long sheath dress falling from her shoulders

  in a cascade of lavender organza, her hair cocooned in a shim-

  mering net atop her head. She’d styled herself in Regency garb,

  with a hint of Greco-Roman influence. A skein of whisper-thin

  tulle stained a deep Tyrian purple had been draped across her

  chest, its ends left to trail down her back. Around her waist was

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  a golden girdle inspired by the character Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons.

  “I don’t mind a swath of bare skin,” Celine retorted. “I do

  mind my bare breasts spilling over the top of my dress at a party replete with satyrs.”

  Odette laughed, her ivory fan fluttering her loose brunette

  curls. “If that happens, you’ll have ten marriage proposals by

  the end of the evening.”

  “I have no intention of becoming the future Madame Goat.”

  Celine sniffed. “Besides that, I feel like a ham trussed up for

  holiday dinner.”

  Odette’s laughter rang into the starlit sky. “One glass of cham-

  pagne, and you’re far more entertaining than the Bard himself.”

  The edges of her lovely face crinkled as she gazed upon Celine,

  her expression warm. “Before I forget, you look divine in that

  color. It’s a perfect match for your eyes.”

  Her words caused Celine to flinch. Her tormentor that night

  in the Quarter had used that word. Divine. Meaning “of the gods.” She certainly didn’t feel “of the gods” tonight.

  “I should have gone dressed as a tree,” Celine said in a flat

  tone. When her gaze ran the length of the hedgerow, she caught

  a glimpse of yet another satyr, his goat ears high on his curly head, a tail fashioned of wool and feathers pinned to the back

  of his gabardine trousers.

  Exasperation rippled through her chest. “Have any of these fools actually read the play?”

  Odette cackled with merriment, her long purple mantle

  swirling about her feet.

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  A familiar figure caught Celine’s attention across the way.

  Her heart missed a beat when a pair of sapphire eyes skimmed

  dangerously close to where Celine stood, the smile below them

  sweet and serene.

  Pippa Montrose was in attendance at this soirée, dressed as

  Titania, the queen of the fairies, if Celine had to hazard a guess.

  She’d arrived on the arm of a placid young man with a slender

  frame and large round spectacles, likely Phoebus Devereux.

  Thankfully, it appeared Pippa had yet to spot Celine across

  the crowded expanse.

  Without a second thought, Celine turned in place, position-

  ing her back to Pippa, all the while wishing she could shrink

  into the rosebushes. If Pippa saw her, a confrontation would

  likely ensue. Pippa had sent two messages to the hotel today

  alone, both inquiring after Celine’s welfare. In the latter part

  of the afternoon, Pippa had come to the Dumaine in person,

  hoping to check on her friend. Celine had begged off each at-

  tempt to make contact, spinning a web of white lies designed

  to keep Pippa as far away from her as possible, even if it meant

  damaging their relationship.

  Better that Pippa feel cast aside than remain in the mur-

  derer’s notice.

  “We should leave,” Celine muttered to Odette, just as another

  passel of jubilant partygoers hoisted a young man onto their

  shoulders and proceeded to cheer as if his horse had won the

  Derby.

  Odette drew closer, her features tufting with concern. “I

  thought you wanted to meet with Bastien. Is something wrong?”

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  “Nothing is wrong.” Celine struggled to appear nonchalant.

  “It’s just been three hours since we arrived. If he had any intention of showing his face, he would be here by now.”

  Odette tossed a dismissive hand into the air, the jewels

  adorning her fingers flashing. Definitely not made of paste.

  “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, he’s always late to these kinds of things.

  The fiend enjoys making an entrance.”

  Despite Odette’s reassurances, doubt unfurled in Celine’s

  stomach. Madeleine and Hortense had arrived not long af-

  ter Celine and Odette, dressed as ethereal fey, their dark

  shoulders gleaming with gold dust. Boone had trailed in their

  shadow a moment later, garbed in white, a literal halo about

  his head. A sight that had caused Odette’s body to shake with

  laughter.

  Celine was about to renew her objections when Odette waved

  her fingers in the air above her head, her smile bright.

  “Nigel!” Odette took hold of Celine’s hand to tug her along.

  Closer to where Pippa and Phoebus stood engaged in conver-

  sation with the crème de la crème of the Crescent City.

  “Odette,” Celine gasped, trying to extricate herself from

  Odette’s determined grip.

  The damp warmth of the night and the dull roar of the fes-

  tivities succeeded in drowning out Celine’s protests. Nigel

  met them halfway, two masked figures sauntering behind him

  at an unhurried pace. His tall frame wove with ease around

  the countless bodies milling and spilling about. Like most

  of the other guests in attendance, he’d taken a rather blasé

  approach to his costume, resorting to winding a few willow

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  branches around his arms, their leaves drooping, the overall effect lackluster, save for the laurel crown gracing his brow.

  Boone appeared out of nowhere, startling Celine as he sidled

  next to her, his loose white shirt billowing about his trim torso, the halo of gold across his forehead tilted askew.

  Grateful for the cover his closeness provided, Celine paused

  to peruse his attire. “And who are you supposed to be?”

  “Theseus,” Boone said without hesitation.

  “The founder hero of Athens?” Disbelief flared across Celine’s

  face. “Be serious. You’re dressed as an angel.”

  Boone shrugged. “Honestly I thought this was a fête for saints

  and sinners.”

  “And you thought to go dressed as a saint?”

  “Didn’t you know, darlin’?” he drawled. “All the best saints are

  sinners.”

  Despite everything, Celine laughed, the sound filling he
r

  lungs, causing her tightlaced stays to stretch farther. She

  pressed a hand to her sternum, exhaling slowly to catch her

  breath. With the hunger of a seasoned sinner, Boone ogled

  Celine’s chest, the irony not at all lost on her.

  Nigel grinned as Odette shoved Boone in the shoulder, a note

  of warning in her eyes. The next instant, she turned to Nigel

  and sighed a soul-deep sigh. “Just whom are you hoping to

  channel in that godforsaken costume? I expected better of you,

  Lord Fitzroy.”

  “Oberon, o’ course.” Nigel twisted the waxed ends of his

  ruddy mustache, his expression mischievous, his accent thick.

  “One and only king o’ the fairies.”

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  “King of the overgrown trees, more like,” Odette teased as she tore away a lifeless leaf along his elbow.

  He peered down at her with exaggerated imperiousness. “Re-

  gardless, I lord over every’fing in my dominion. Kneel before

  me, Hippolyta.”

  “You lord over nothing, my silly, sweet boy.” Odette swiped a

  gloved fingertip beneath his chin, a ghost of a smile lingering

  on her face. “Least of all the queen of the Amazons.”

  Nigel bowed deeply, the leaves wrapped around his wrist

  trembling from his motions. He sent a cheeky nod to Celine,

  whose attention strayed toward the two masked figures loiter-

  ing in his shadow. Perhaps loitering was the wrong word. For neither gentleman appeared to be the least bit concerned with

  the unfolding spectacle.

  One of them was obviously Arjun Desai. The mask of a don-

  key concealed the upper half of his burnished face. A felt tail

  had been attached to his backside. At least he’d paid the soirée’s theme the appropriate due, for he obviously meant to portray

  Nick Bottom, the poor fool transformed into a beast of burden

  by the notorious trickster, Robin Goodfellow.

  Arjun scanned his surroundings, his eyes falling on Pippa,

  his lips twitching. “Is that your friend on the arm of Phoebus

  Devereux?” he asked Celine.

  “I believe so,” she replied in noncommittal fashion. Hoping he

  would not press the matter further.

  “Fascinating.” Arjun’s grin widened as he cast a meaningful

  glance toward the tall, broad-shouldered young man to his left.

  A mask covered the entirety of his face, complete with a set of

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  spiraled horns twisting away from his brow, the profile reminiscent of a bull. His body was swathed in a leather greatcoat,

  its large black collar turned up, further shrouding his features

  from view.

  His only identifier was the gold signet ring on the smallest

  finger of his left hand, embossed with the seal of La Cour des

  Lions.

  Celine’s gaze lingered on the ring, and Bastien’s graceful fin-

  gers flexed at his sides, as if they could sense her unwavering

  study. It should have meant nothing for Celine to notice this

  particular crack in his façade. But—to her endless chagrin—it

  caused her stomach to tighten and her skin to tingle as if she’d

  stepped out into a bracing winter’s night.

  His awareness made her feel alive. Which meant it fell

  somewhere between nothing and everything. A bothersome

  development, to be sure. Almost as troubling as the inevitable

  question that followed.

  Was Bastien pleased to see her, or was he irritated?

  This was the first time they’d seen each other since admitting

  their mutual attraction. The night they’d agreed to be nothing

  more than mere acquaintances. Alas, the presence of a mere

  acquaintance would not cause a swarm of butterflies to take

  flight in Celine’s stomach, to cluster around her heart, their

  wings fluttering.

  Frustration warmed beneath her skin.

  Odette struck a dramatic pose, her right hip jutting forward

  as she gestured toward Bastien. “Pray tell, just who are you sup-

  posed to be?”

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  “The Minotaur.” A rich voice emanated from behind the bull mask, amusement rounding its tone.

  “Is there a Minotaur in Shakespeare’s play?” Odette queried.

  Bastien shook his horned head once.

  “Well, bully for you,” Celine joked, wishing she could see his

  eyes. Wishing she could read his thoughts like the pages of a

  beloved book, pausing to savor every word. Her fingers moved

  into her pocket of their own volition, pinching his insolent

  note, stoking the anger in her blood, hoping the blaze would

  overcome the desire.

  The bull’s head tilted in Celine’s direction, the motion filled

  with scorn. Then Bastien glanced away, as if he were bored with

  the very idea of her.

  Though it was subtle, his dismissal enraged Celine beyond

  reason, the fire of fury swallowing everything in its path. She

  crumpled the note in her fist. He’d already disregarded her

  once today. After which Celine had gone to immense trouble

  to attend this godforsaken gathering, all with the intention of

  confronting him.

  And he thought to treat her with derision?

  Madness, to the very end. It was true a foolish part of Celine

  had wanted to see him and be seen in return. She deserved to

  feel wounded now. Nothing good ever came from succumbing

  to madness.

  No matter. To borrow his own words, Celine would grant

  Bastien no quarter. He’d trifled with her long enough. These

  weren’t the actions of an acquaintance. These were the actions

  of an enemy. She’d had her fill of enemies.

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  If Bastien was the Minotaur, Celine would be Theseus, armed with the sword of Aegeus.

  Ready to slay the beast.

  As if Arjun could taste the discomfort collecting in the air,

  he laughed, pushing his donkey mask up his face, the silk ties

  swiping through his unruly waves. “Well, I’d wager this event

  to be the height of this season’s debauchery. Anyone care to

  name the terms?” His British accent sounded too refined for

  a party in which satyrs roamed the gardens with insidious

  ease. Too cultured for a night in which drunken fools lost their

  inhibitions in a maze of fragrant rosebushes, forgetting all their thorns.

  As if to illustrate the point, a striking young woman with

  hair the color of smoldering embers poured a glass of bubbling

  champagne down the pale skin of her throat, letting it dribble

  between her collarbones and soak through the front of her bod-

  ice. It traced the shape of her breasts before she feigned out-

  rage, as if she’d simply missed her mouth, her ensuing giggles

  high and false.

  Whatever attention the girl sought to garner, she succeeded.

  Every eye—male and female alike—was locked on her slender

  form, equal parts scandalized and tantalized. With a smug
/>   smile, she whirled into her circle of tittering friends, safe and cosseted.

  For now.

  Distracted by the exhibition, Pippa’s shocked gaze landed on

  Celine, the same realization stealing through them in the next

  breath. A flash of pain shimmered across Pippa’s features, her

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  lips parting in surprise. The next instant, she leaned toward her escort, speaking with him in hushed tones.

  Celine knew it would take less than ten paces for Pippa to

  face her. Less than half that for the murderer to notice, were he present, as she suspected. And Celine simply could not allow

  that to happen.

  Panic took root in her stomach. Maddening laughter lilted

  into the air around them, mingling with incessant chatter. The

  scent of fresh herbs and the iron of overturned soil filled her

  nostrils as Celine looked about, seeking an escape.

  In a single, sinuous motion, Bastien removed his bull mask,

  his silver eyes like storm clouds, his expression guarded. As if

  he could sense her distress.

  They locked gazes for a blink of time.

  The next instant, Celine wheeled about without warning,

  rushing toward the entrance of the maze, her cream-colored

  hem snagging on thorns as she ran.

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  Darkness Incarnate

  i

  Celine didn’t know why she was sure Bastien would follow

  her.

  She just knew—with the certainty of a rising moon—that he

  would.

  When she glanced over her shoulder, the shape of his great-

  coat stretched behind her, and a jolt of something unseen,

  unheard, unfelt before this moment raced through her blood.

  It pulsed in time with her heart, sending her rushing down a

  wicked path, deeper into wicked darkness.

  She was Theseus. Setting a trap for the mighty Minotaur in a cursed Labyrinth.

  As if she led him on a string, Bastien glided in her footsteps.

  Celine felt him through the layers of shadow, like the night had

  embraced her, remaking her in its own image. The sounds of

  merriment faded into sighs, the smell of sweat and trampled

  flowers steeping in the warm air.

  Celine wove past a pair of young women embracing in a cor-

  ner, rose petals crushed to paste beneath their feet. A shoulder

  strap on one girl’s gown had slid down her arm, the rouge on