“Damn,” she whispered under her breath.
“What?” I hissed back.
“I forgot about Lilibet.”
“Who is Lilibet?”
“The maid. I hope you’re prepared for the whole of thetonto know you were here tonight. Her sister is a nurse in many homes and a notorious gossip.” Celine tipped her face to mine, checking for unease.
Her expression was all concern—for me. There wasn’t a hint of worry for herself that I could identify. She would be the one to bear the gossip and snide comments.
Satisfied with whatever she saw, she pressed closer to me while entering the drawing room door after the butler’s announcement.
There was no mistaking which of the two women was Celine’s mother. She had the same green-hued eyes and pert nose. Though paler and with slightly duller hair, she was beautiful. Her face bore the faint creases of age with grace.
The other woman had a rounder face with a sharp chin and dark hair. She, too, wore the signs of maturity with pride.
The drawing room was decorated in the French style, the actual French style and not the Anglicized version of it, papered in tasteful creams and bold scarlets.
Celine abandoned me to my perusal in favor of embracing her mother. Madame Bosarge studied me. The effort required to avoid fidgeting under her pointed gaze was significant. My unease was interrupted when Celine turned to greet her friend. Of course, that left me to be measured by Madame Cadieux instead.
“Celine,il est plus beau que vous ne l'aviez dit. Ces pommettes...” Her mother spoke boldly.
Obviously, Celine had neglected to mention my fluency in French. I had to bite back a smile when I caught the flush on her cheeks.
“Oubliez les pommettes, regardez ses yeux. Si bleus,” Madame Bosarge added. Well, this was just… delightful.By allmeans, ladies, please continue to enumerate my many fine qualities.
Celine appeared moments from passing away in shame for their naked admiration. “Il parle francais, Maman.”
“Est-ce un vrai, jeune homme?” she asked in a sharp tone.
“J’en connais, Madame.”
And that ensured the rest of the evening would continue in French, much to Celine’s consternation.
“I apologize for our rudeness, Monsieur Hart. We often forget ourselves.”
“No need.”
Celine wandered off to a sideboard and poured a glass of something amber. She drank it quickly and refilled it before filling a second one with water and bringing it over to me where I remained haunting the entry. She handed me the glass, then grabbed my arm, dragged me to a settee, and manhandled me next to her in the seat. Her mother’s lips pursed concealing laughter—poorly.
“So, Monsieur Hart. My Celine tells me you are a solicitor. Was that always your chosen profession?”
“For the most part. I had a generous patron for my schooling in the late Duke of Rosehill. But I briefly paused my studies to fight abroad.”
“And that is where you learned to speak better French than my native-born daughter?”
“Well, we studied it in my courses as well.”
“You know, I don’t believe I agreed to be the subject of ridicule this evening,” Celine said. No real irritation showed in her tone or manner though.
“You need not agree. It is my right as your mother to shame you. And I do it far too infrequently.”
“I strongly disagree.”
Madame Bosarge interjected, “You could always attend soirees dressed in the same style as the Duchess of Rosehill. That would prevent shame befalling your daughter”
I tried to picture the elegant, understated woman before me dressed in the ostentatious gowns and hairpieces favored by Her Grace, and the image was so laughably incongruous that I had to bite the inside of my cheek.
