Page 51 of The Beautiful Ones

Lucien laughed openly.

Warren’s face darkened. “You have become remarkably bold overnight.”

“And you remain precisely what you were yesterday. It appears only one of us has experienced a miracle.”

This time even Philip laughed, though he disguised it as a cough.

Warren shoved back his chair. The legs scraped harshly across the floor. Judge Dewey seized his son’s wrist before he could stand fully.

“Sit down,” the judge hissed.

Warren looked toward Adrian.

Something passed between them—a memory, perhaps, or a warning. Warren’s anger collapsed into fear. He lowered himself without another word.

I glanced at Elin, expecting gratitude for defending her.

Her expression held none.

I had humiliated the man who insulted us, but I had also taught the entire table that cruelty was permitted if I delivered it beautifully enough.

Octavia smiled at me over the rim of her untouched wine.

After luncheon, we moved into the formal parlor to escape the mounting heat. The crimson damask drapes were drawn against the glare, turning the room into a velvet jewel box. Servants carried in iced tea and melon while the Fairhavens resumed their careful work upon us.

Nicholas settled near the fireplace with Lucien, Philip and Warren, binding the young men together through laughter even as Warren watched him with wary resentment. Octavia drew my mother, Augusta and Lavinia around the velvet chaise, feeding each woman precisely the sort of admiration she could least resist.

Adrian led me to the pianoforte.

“Play for us,” he said.

It did not sound like a command. That was part of his skill.

I sat before the rosewood instrument. My hands trembled above the keys—not from fear, but from the terrible desire to please him. I began the Schubert impromptu I had practiced since winter.

The music emerged flawless.

Conversation faded. My fingers flew across the keys, and when I reached the final passage, I felt the room lean toward me. The last chord hung in the crimson air.

Applause broke over me.

My mother clapped with both hands. Lucien shouted my name. Even my father, standing near the study doors with Dewey and George, looked briefly astonished.

Adrian said nothing.

He merely watched me.

His approval was quieter than applause and far more powerful.

I began to speak before anyone else could claim the room. I told a story about Lucien falling into the ornamental pond at twelve and persuading our mother that Philip had pushed him. Lucien protested; Philip confessed he had accepted the blame in exchange for Lucien’s new boots. The room dissolved into laughter.

For nearly an hour, I reigned.

Then Adrian crossed the parlor to speak privately with my father.

The moment he passed beyond the edge of my vision, a word caught.

I covered it with a laugh. A second snagged behind my teeth. I abandoned the story halfway through and turned to the pianoforte, where music required no permission from my tongue.