Chapter Thirty-Eight #3
Noé looked murderous. I felt an immense surge of relief go through me as Adélard cleared his throat, momentarily breaking the tension.
“I have long felt that marriage is overvalued by today’s silkwitches,” the Cloister Master said—as if he had never been interrupted at all, but rather was simply picking up a topic he’d briefly set down.
“A husband may provide many comforts, of course, but the cloisters offer benefits as well. I have trained my girls to be utmost pillars of virtue—everything the feminine race can hope to achieve.” Swirling his wine, he smiled thinly at the table.
“You and your companions are welcome to come visit, Miss Lovett. Who knows—what you witness there may tempt you.”
Manon made a small noise, then pressed her napkin to her lips. Still glaring at Noé, Eliot lifted one shoulder. “You have nothing to say to that?”
Noé matched his glower. “Why should I?” he replied shortly. “Miss Lovett may go wherever she wishes. I’m not her keeper.”
“No, no—you are nobody’s keeper,” Eliot countered. “You’d be quite a poor one if you were. Ladies under your purview frequently meet with bad ends.”
My stomach dropped. I was terrified to look over at Noé, fearful that any movement would set him off, but I could sense him gripping the stem of his wineglass next to me. His thumb twitched rapidly against the tabletop, like a man angling for a fight.
Observing him, Eliot smiled. “You look upset,” he said. “Need to step out for a smoke, perhaps?”
Noé swallowed. “I quit, actually.”
For the first time, Eliot seemed thrown by his words. He blinked, his features shuttering. “No, you haven’t,” he rebutted. Then, shifting onto his elbows: “I lectured you a hundred times about the habit, and you never paid me any mind. Why would you…”
As if coming to a realization, he cut himself off. He glanced at me; there was wonder in his gaze, along with a bitter sort of shock. It stuck in my side like a thorn.
“Well done, Miss Lovett,” he continued. “It appears you are quite the reformer.”
The rest of my bridesmaids’ stares traveled my way. Again, Adélard broke in. “Impressive, Miss Lovett,” he said. “It is my opinion that—”
“So, what, then?” Eliot interrupted, his attention firmly fixed on Noé. “You love her?”
My fiancé did not waver. “Wholeheartedly.”
Eliot visibly flinched at his words. “Please. Don’t lie to me. Don’t…” Shaking his head, he turned, at last, to me. “And you?”
I felt Noé’s eyes flick toward me. His response was still caught in my chest: wholeheartedly, like a vow. It was false, of course, and yet…though I knew I should, I could not bring myself to repeat the lie.
“I think we’ve ventured rather far from the bounds of appropriate dinner conversation,” I said, glancing around at the rest of my bridesmaids, all of whom had stopped eating by now to watch the ongoing match.
“Perhaps you and my fiancé might like to speak elsewhere, and leave the rest of us to our meal?”
But Eliot did not heed my words. “Why don’t you kiss her, then?” he asked, facing Noé once more. When my fiancé hesitated, he laughed, low and bleak. “You won’t kiss your bride?”
He issued the question like a challenge. At it, both Noé and I went still. Like we were two puppets whose heads were being turned, we shifted to look at one another, our hands nearly brushing where they rested on the table.
His eyes were dark, dull iron, like some kind of charm. They lingered on mine for a second before dropping lower, to my lips.
My heart clenched. At once, it was as if we were back in the carriage—shut up together with his head on my shoulder.
I knew I should say something—some comment to deflect Eliot’s suggestion—yet my throat closed over whenever I went to form the words.
My mind had run away from me; I was petrified, frozen with the fear that Noé might go through with the command and humiliate us both in front of the entire table.
And it wasn’t only that. I was frightened of myself, too. Terrified by the possibility that if he kissed me, I would enjoy it, and everyone would see.
I gave an involuntary exhale as Noé took my wrist in his hand and swiftly raised it to his mouth. Pressing a kiss on the inside of it, he held it there for a moment, his lips on my skin, then hurriedly dropped my arm and leaned away.
Snatching up his wineglass, he scowled at Eliot. “Happy?”
His friend gave no response. He looked thoughtful, so that I could not be sure whether we’d passed his test or failed it. Seated beside him, Clio appeared vaguely disturbed; by contrast, the rest of the girls were watching our exchange with the open awe of women perusing a gossip column.
The table was quiet. In the silence, Adélard slurped at his soup.
Abruptly, Noé stood. His expression was dazed, as though he were a sleepwalker—peering out at us from a remote, intangible realm.
When he spoke, his voice was rough. “You know what? I think I shall have that smoke.”
Then he turned on his heel and, without acknowledging me, strode down the corridor and out of sight.