Page 3 of Marrying Bluebeard

I don't even try to smother my laughter as all three of the Brindamour men begin talking at once, each of them coming up with a pressing matter to attend to.

Aunt Charlotte grins. “Looks like it's just us girls, then.”

3

ADELAIDE

Laughter is the last thing on my mind as I sit wedged between two loquacious gentlemen on the settee later that day. After baths and a short nap, Marguerite and I were hustled down to the parlor which was already full of people chatting and playing cards. I attempted to grab a place at the Whist table with Marguerite and Tristan, but Aunt Charlotte was having none of it. Which is how I ended up here, sandwiched between two men who may as well be carbon copies of each other for all the variety they offer.

Yes, the weather is fine today.

Madame Gossard is indeed a gracious hostess.

Tea? No, thank you. I'd prefer wine.

These starched-collar gentlemen are at least good for one thing—I have that glass of wine within moments. Thomas (or was it George?) all but thrusts it into my hand in his hurry to beat his friend to it. His friend (what was his name?) scowls over my head before pasting that overly familiar smile I’m beginning to detest back on his face.

“The wine is exquisite, is it not?” he simpers. “Madame Gossard only serves the absolute best at her functions.”

I take another sip of the rich red blend, savoring the moment it runs over my tongue and keeps me from having to make more meaningless conversation. “Delicious,” I agree, gaze wandering over his shoulder as I seek a means of escape.

On my other side, Thomas chimes in. “You're Madame Gossard's niece, isn't that right?” He eyes me with calculating admiration. “I imagine you've acquired quite the taste for finer things.” His friend hums in agreement.

Meaning they think I'm rich. I swallow a groan. So they're not only insufferable bores but gold diggers to boot. Lovely.

Tipping back my glass, I drain the rest of my wine in a single go. “No relation, actually. Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen.” I indicate my empty glass and ignore their offers to fetch me another as I slip out from between them. Spotting a servant with a full tray, I exchange my drink with a grateful smile. “Bless you,” I murmur, taking a sip as I turn back to face the room.

Is it just me or has it suddenly gotten colder? I shiver, looking for signs of a rogue ghost wandering about, but none come to my attention. Whisper isn't likely to visit me here. She hates crowds. And yet, I can't deny there’s a distinct chill in the air. A murmur of hushed voices draws my attention to the parlor door. Given the way people's heads are craning, I’m not the only one to notice the sudden stir.

A new arrival? I stretch up on my tiptoes in hopes of catching a glimpse. Damn these ladies and their passing fashions, I grumble to myself, attempting to see around Lady Beckett's ridiculous hat. I’m about to skirt the room and try from another angle, when at last she moves to the side.

My breath catches.

How? How could a man at this party be so remarkably enticing? It’s impossible. But there he is, looming over the other gentlemen like a dark knight, his very presence oozing mystery and secret delights. I swallow, throat thick. Are those blue streaks in his beard? How marvelously unique. The stranger turns his head, and I find myself gazing into a pair of obsidian eyes.

My hand flutters to my chest, as if the slight pressure of my fingertips will be enough to steady the pounding of my heart. The stranger's lips twitch, and he raises a hand, tipping the brim of his top hat in my direction. Heat floods my cheeks as I stand there, glass in hand, my entire world spinning off course.

What is this impossible feeling?

I blink as a servant passes, obstructing my view. When it clears, I see the stranger has turned his attention elsewhere, and my stomach dips. What's wrong with you? Getting emotional over some man you've never met? I scold myself. Ridiculous.

“Did you see him?”

I gasp as Marguerite appears at my elbow, face alight with excitement. I take a moment to calm myself. “See whom?” As if there could be any question to whom she is referring.

“The gentleman who just arrived,” Marguerite whispers, hiding her face behind her fan. “His name is Bertrand de Montragoux, and from what I've heard, he has quite the infamous reputation. I'm shocked that Aunt Charlotte invited him.”

I glance across the room, seeking him out. He's procured a glass of champagne and is chatting with Mary Dellum, of all people. The poor girl looks terrified. He's just arrived and the first person he seeks out is a wallflower? How curious. I push down the irrational spark of jealousy that creeps into my chest. You don't even know him, I remind myself. “Infamous? How so?”

“Well, his beard for one thing.” My sister widens her eyes. “No one has hair that color naturally, Adelaide. He must dye it.”

I shrug. “I've seen stranger fashion among the peacocks in London.”

“True,” Marguerite agrees. “But that's not all.” She leans closer, her lips a breath away from my ear. “They say he's a widower,” she whispers. “And no one knows how his first wife died, but there are rumors of foul play.” She gives me a meaningful look. “If you catch my drift.”

“Honestly Marguerite, are you implying Aunt Charlotte would invite a murderer to be a guest in her home?”

Marguerite bites her lip. “Well, no. Of course not.”