Page 22 of Marrying Bluebeard

I fumble for my fan, shielding my face under the pretense of cooling it. “Whoever do you mean?”

“Why, Monsieur de Montragoux, of course. You’re the reason I invited him.”

The fan slips from my fingers, and champagne sloshes over the rim of my glass as I hurry to retrieve it. “Wh-why would you do that?”

“Because.” She waits until I’ve righted myself before whispering, “He’s like you.”

“Like me?”

She widens her eyes. “He can see them,” she whispers. “Ghosts.”

I grip the fan as I gape at her. “You know about that?”

She nods. “As I said upon your arrival, you’re just like your mother.”

“My mother saw ghosts?”

“She more than saw them,” Aunt Charlotte says. “She befriended them. In fact, her best friend as a child was a ghost named Lili, if I recall correctly. She tried introducing us, but I’m afraid I don’t have the sight. I cautioned her, however, against speaking so freely of her gift. Not everyone looks kindly on people who see things they cannot. Which is why I hoped you and Monsieur de Montragoux would hit it off this week. Having a partner who understands you is imperative to a felicitous marriage.”

My head spins from the revelation that my gift is inherited. That Mother was so much like me. She had a best friend who was a ghost; I have a ghost cat. I bite my lip as I consider the rest of Aunt Charlotte’s words. “How did you know about Monsieur de Montragoux? Surely he didn’t tell you.”

A smug smile plays across her lips. “I can tell when someone is talking to themselves or talking to something invisible. He’s careful, but not careful enough for these sharp eyes.” She taps the side of her head. “I caught him doing it at an event last month, and when I inquired around I discovered he not only had a fortune but was in the market for a wife.” She shrugs. “I wasn’t sure if the two of you would suit, but I thought it was at least worth an introduction.” She raises a brow. “So? What do you think of our blue-bearded guest?”

“He’s…” Intoxicating. Excruciatingly handsome. Painfully mysterious. “Nice.”

Aunt Charlotte purses her lips. “Nice, is it?”

I nod.

She harrumphs. “Youth is wasted on the young. Come on, then. I do believe it’s time for your dance with the nice man.”

I feel as though I’ve swallowed a beehive. I may have convinced Aunt Charlotte that my feelings are tepid at best, but there’s no way I’ll be able to hide the brewing maelstrom of emotions from Bertrand when we’re mere inches away. I don’t have long to worry, however, as Aunt Charlotte is already signaling the musicians.

The crowd parts, clearing a circle in the middle of the dance floor. For a moment I stand alone, heart pounding louder with each breath, but then he’s there, bowing over my hand. I trace the subtle scent of his cologne as he lifts his head. His dark eyes lock on mine, and the room melts away. There is only this moment. Only us.

The music swells, and we dance.

15

ADELAIDE

“You look lovely tonight, Miss Brindamour.” Bertrand’s deep voice caresses my neck as he turns us first left, then right—arms outstretched, gloved fingertips pressing gently as we turn about the room. Other couples join in, following our lead, but his voice is the only one I hear.

“You’re looking well yourself, Monsieur.” I tilt my head, casting him an appraising glance from beneath my lashes. His beard is neatly trimmed, and the silvery, midnight blue vest he wears beneath his dress coat brings out the cobalt streaks. His neck is free of the stuffy cravats worn by most of the other gentlemen (my brothers included), and I find myself transfixed by the column of bare skin above his simple necktie. I bite my lip as I imagine myself leaning in and running my tongue over the smooth flesh.

His grip tightens.

My feet trip.

He catches me, guiding me through the steps as the room whirls around in a blur. I’ve only had a few sips of champagne, and yet I feel as giddy as if I’ve drank an entire bottle. My throat tightens as the last few notes fade away. This is it. Our last dance. Our last evening together. Tomorrow, we depart, engaged perhaps, but not to each other.

How is that even possible?

Does he not feel the same pull, the same unrelenting need to be closer?

“Excuse me,” I whisper, drawing away and ducking my head as I make my escape.

I cannot stay here, can no longer pretend in the face of all these strangers. I catch Marguerite’s eye across the room, sending her a silent plea for assistance. Ever the astute sister, she immediately draws Julien’s attention, allowing me to slip away without his notice.