But she knew the clock was ticking.
“Our wedding feast is not to your liking, my lady wife?”
Startled by Gaston’s low voice, Celine dropped the piece of bread she had been toying with. She turned a wary glance on him. “The food is ... not what I’m used to,” she whispered, mindful of how her voice carried.
He stabbed the little partridge again and ate a chunk of meat from the tip of his knife. “You were accustomed to finer fare at your convent in Aragon?” he asked with a skeptically raised eyebrow, chewing.
She hesitated, trying to imagine whether nuns would have better food, guessing the answer by his attitude. “Uh ... no,” she said after a moment. “I mean ... not really.” She had been playing her role for only a few hours, yet she was already finding it wearying, having to constantly think of what the real Christiane would say, what she would do. “This is just ... different from what I’m used to at home.”
Gaston poured himself more wine from a nearby flask. “Do you miss your home already? I would think a wench such as you would be pleased to escape an impoverished cloister for the comforts of a chateau.”
“I am not a wench, and I wish you would stop calling me that. And yes, I miss my home,” Celine replied tartly. After a heartbeat, she added under her breath, “And as for my being impoverished, my father is one of the most renowned and wealthy heart surgeons in the world, and he flies—”
“Your father flies?” Gaston laughed so hard he almost choked on his wine. “Ma dame, your father died years ago, without a sou to his name. And never have I heard of him working as a barber-surgeon. Or having wings.”
Celine bit her bottom lip. She would have to be careful not to let pride run away with her. If she couldn’t keep her temper from getting tangled up with her tongue, she would find herself the newest resident of the nearest asylum. She was supposed to be trying to fit in. She was supposed to be Christiane—an innocent young thing who had spent her entire life sheltered behind the walls of a poor convent. “I ... I meant—”
“If only you had inherited his gift of flight,” Gaston said dryly, slouching lower in his seat. “There is naught I would like better than for you to fly away and be gone.”
Celine was uncomfortably aware that the dozens of guests in the hall were hanging on their every word. “Please believe me, monsieur, that’s exactly what I want, too. I’d like nothing better than to go home. Unfortunately, it looks like we’re stuck with one another, for now.”
Gaston leaned forward in his chair, slowly lowering his goblet to the table. He looked at her with a curious expression, eyes glittering. “If you truly mean what you say, there is no need for us to be ‘stuck with’ one another at all. All you need do is go to the King and reveal whatever it is Tourelle is planning. You can be home within the month.”
Celine looked away. “I can’t explain anything to the King. Not for the reasons you think—I just can’t. You’ve got to believe me. I’d get out of your life right this second if I could. Really. I’m not in on any plot against you.”
“You are not?” His voice dropped a note lower. “Ma dame, mayhap I have misjudged you. Mayhap you have been forced into this against your will.”
Celine turned toward him. His face was only inches from hers, his expression one of seeming misgiving and gentleness that made her stomach feel all fluttery—even as she told herself she couldn’t trust him. “Yes, actually, in a way I was.”
He smiled, a low-beam version of his knee-weakening dazzler. “Then, if you do not wish to be here, you would agree to help me obtain an annulment?”
Celine almost said yes—then stopped herself. If she agreed to that, she would no doubt be sent packing in the wink of one of his dusky lashes. She would find herself alone and vulnerable in a world she knew nothing about. For now, Gaston was her only protection. “I’m ... I’m not sure that would be—”
“Come, ma petite,” he coaxed. “Do not allow loyalty to Tourelle to sway you. Your faith in your overlord is misplaced. Have you forgotten so quickly the lessons learned in your convent? It is not always easy to choose good over the temptations of evil—but you know the right course to choose in this: admit the truth before the King.”
Celine’s heart beat unevenly. There was something unnerving about hearing him say the word “temptations.” And it seemed ironic, to say the least, for a man who looked darker and more dangerous than the Devil himself to be offering her a lecture on good and evil. “I ... I can’t.”