Page 9 of Chateau Reverie
In such a world, the auction hardly seems unbelievable at all.
She says, ‘I truly believe in the promises the invitation made. I could not say why, but I do.’
Sterne replies, ‘Then you have already dug your grave.’
She startles and thinks of telling him, You are quite shockingly rude, sir. She considers ceasing to walk and demanding an apology. But she mustn’t—she mustn’t. Temperance, she tells herself. Rise above, Genevieve. Always above.
They come to what appears to be a dead end. It is a narrow corridor, the hedges closing in on either side of them, casting long shadows over Genevieve’s shoulders.
Sterne says, ‘You didn’t answer me.’
‘Answer you?’
‘What are you bidding for?’
Genevieve straightens her back, holds her chin high. She does not have the physical advantage, but she can retain the moral one. ‘Do you intend to hold me hostage here, sir, until I provide you with an answer?’
‘I suppose I could.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of revealing such a thing—not unless you do the same.’
He smiles at her. It is utterly aggravating, that crooked smile of his, twisted too high on one side, too low on the other: imperfect, and yet perfect for it. ‘That’s unfortunate. I’m afraid, mademoiselle, that I’m a consummate hypocrite.’
She scowls at him. He continues smiling.
She says, ‘Then I shall find my own way out of the maze.’
Genevieve turns to leave; Sterne lunges forward to grasp at her sleeve. The velvet strains. A seam pops.
She says, appalled, ‘Release me.’
He drops the sleeve, but his expression is unapologetic. ‘You’ll get lost here if you walk by yourself.’
‘You leave me no choice.’
He bends so their faces are level. Genevieve’s breath catches in her throat. There is a new softness to his expression, and she cannot help but find it attractive. For a moment, brief as a spark, she allows that attraction to comfort her.
‘You say you know the face of evil,’ Sterne says. ‘Yet you marvel at it still. You should be more cautious, mademoiselle.’
The pleading way he looks at her seems almost earnest. ‘If I am in danger, sir, then surely you are also?’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
She takes a step closer to him—he clearly does not expect her to, and his eyes widen as her face nears his. She pauses only inches away. ‘Why?’
‘Unlike you, I have nothing to lose.’
She huffs softly. ‘Perhaps I do not, either.’
‘Don’t be absurd.’ He reaches forward to capture one of her pearl earrings in his palm. Genevieve freezes. This close, she can see the pale fan of his lashes, the dimple of his philtrum. His skin is flawless, like porcelain fired and glazed, his jaw sharp. His knuckles brush her neck, and she realises she still feels somewhat woozy. Genevieve has yet to eat properly today, and she has hardly slept, as always—she prays she will not faint. In some of her novels, it seems men rather like it when women swoon, although she suspects that Sterne would simply leave her on the gravel if she did.
‘Look at you,’ he continues, tone pitying, ‘in your jewels and your silks. How many hours did it take to produce that coiffure? How many coins have been spent on your fans, your dresses, on the mirrors in which you practise that demure smile? Wherever you live, it must be a place that treats you well. In fact, it seems you have everything anyone can possibly want, mademoiselle. You have safety and you have freedom. That is everything to lose. Everything and more.’
Genevieve feels a stab of annoyance, but she swallows it down. Sterne’s lips twitch again, in either anger or amusement, although perhaps, in regard to him, it would be pointless to distinguish between the two. He clearly wants Genevieve to slap him away, to respond frustratedly or with insult. She will not give him the satisfaction. Instead, she raises her hand and detaches his fingers gently from her earring.
She asks, ‘Have I done something to offend you, monsieur?’
He blinks at her, momentarily disarmed. ‘Offend?’
