Page 28 of The Beautiful Ones

“Do not distress yourself, Miss Lebon,” he said softly. His voice was low, rich, and cold as river ice, yet it carried a strange, hypnotic cadence that seemed to quiet the frantic beating of my heart. “Commander Vale spoke of you.”

The mention of Nathaniel’s name hung in the heavy air like a strike of thunder.

My breath hitched. “R-really?” I forced out, the single word slipping past my lips clearer than any I had spoken all morning.

His lips curved into a slow, elegant smile—a smile that offered everything I had ever starved for: attention, dignity, and understanding.

“Yes, really,” Adrian murmured, his dark eyes gleaming with an unnatural, starlit light. “He told me you possessed a rare and quiet soul. He said that when you choose to speak, yours is the only truthful voice in this house.”

Beside me, Elin shifted, stepping half an inch closer, her hand touching my elbow in silent, desperate warning. I felt her worry, but I could not look away from him.

For eighteen years, society had treated my silence as a defect, a pathetic lack in a wealthy daughter. But Adrian Fairhaven looked at my silence as if it were a treasure he had traveled across the world to claim.

CHAPTER SIX

ELIN

The dining room at Le Champ des Fleurs was suffocating despite the open terrace doors.

Beeswax candles sputtered in the silver chandelier, spilling beads of hot wax into their little brass cups. Beyond the windows, cicadas throbbed in the magnolia trees, their dry, relentless song pressing the humid night against the house. The servants had opened every door that could be opened, but no breeze entered.

Only the scent of gardenias came in from the dark.

Madame Lebon sat at the head of the table in dark green silk, determined to make the evening appear ordinary through the force of her posture alone. She had placed Adrian Fairhaven on her right and Judge Dewey on her left. Monsieur Lebon occupied the opposite end, flanked by Reuben George and Nicholas Fairhaven.

Octavia sat among the wives.

That had been Madame's first mistake.

Her second was placing Cécile opposite Warren Dewey, where the young man could stare at her without troubling to turn his head.

I stood two paces behind Cécile's chair with a silver water pitcher held against my skirts. Dinah remained near the sideboard, her hands folded over her apron. Whenever I felt uncertain, I looked to her. She had taught me how a servant survived in a grand house: observe everything, reveal nothing, and never let the silver tremble.

That evening, keeping the pitcher steady required both hands.

Cécile wore cream silk with seed pearls threaded through her light brown hair. She had hardly touched her soup. Whenever Adrian spoke, her eyes lifted toward him with a brightness I had never seen when she looked at Commander Vale.

Nathaniel had made her feel safe. I had understood that much. He had spoken gently, waited through her silences, and never treated patience as a favor for which she must be grateful. Cécile had believed she could build a tolerable life beside such a man.

What she felt while watching Adrian was not tolerance.

I did not yet know what to call it, but I distrusted how quickly it had awakened.

The Fairhavens all wore white.

While the rest of the company wilted beneath wool coats, stiff collars, silk sleeves, and the heat of too many candles, Adrian, Nicholas, and Octavia remained immaculate. No perspiration touched their temples. No flush warmed their pale faces. Their clothing looked as cool and untouched as linen laid over winter graves.

Adrian ate nothing.

I watched carefully as the first course was removed. He had lifted his spoon. He had even drawn it through the turtle soup, leaving a thin crescent upon its surface. Yet I had never seen the spoon pass his lips.

During the fish course, he divided a piece of trout into delicate flakes and arranged them along the painted edge of his plate. During the capon, he moved a slice beneath a sprig of parsley. He raised his wineglass twice, but the dark red line never changed.

Nicholas was cleverer. His plate appeared disturbed, though I could not remember seeing him eat. Octavia concealed portions beneath folded lettuce leaves and once pressed her napkin lightly to her mouth, leaving no stain upon the cloth.

Perhaps they had no appetite.

Perhaps they had not come to Le Champ des Fleurs to be fed.