Bastien’s brows shot up. “Me?”
“Yes! It’s perfect!”
She was already close to begging him to keep his mouth shut. And recalling what Jacques had disclosed about Bastien’s foul mood tonight, Celine could make sure he not only kept their encounter at Folies-Bergère a secret, but also agreed and became her model without much persuasion. It was a win-win-win!
“You’ve lost me,” Bastien said.
“Youwill be my model,” she clarified. “ And you are depraved enough not to care if you are seen in a dress.”
“You want me to wear a dress?”
“Yes. And, if anything,” Celine sat next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulder to pull him closer and flaunted her other hand in front of them as though to paint a vision, “it will be revolutionary. You will start a new trend. You enjoy that sort of thing, do you not?”
Bastien took his sweet time processing a reply.
“True,” he drawled eventually. “But why do you want ownership of Maison Baudelaire? You can just as easily open your own House. There are more young ladies following whatyou wear than there are customers in boutiques. You would have buyers in no time.”
Oh, the idea had occurred to Celine too—to use her status asGlamour Girland attract clientele. But she had no funds of her own to rent a place big enough to be divided into a studio and a boutique, and the thought alone would prostrate her mother on the spot.
“My parents would never allow me to use my trust fund for that,” she said, and it was enough for Bastien to purse his lips and nod in understanding. It irritated her that women had no say when it came to money, save for blowing it on dresses and parties. Sure, her mother had no qualms about her chipping away at the family wealth and having yet another pair of shoes delivered to the house, but when she asked to sew the dresses herself it was the most serious offence.
Not to mention, with the losses her father’s company was suffering, Celine couldn’t ask for such a favour.
“An established place like Maison Baudelaire is my only option,” she muttered. “Plus, it would be a dream to be taught by Claude Baudelaire himself. You can tell by his designs that that man adores women.” She gave Bastien a quick once-over. “Not that you would understand.”
“Oh,” he said, “Iworshipwomen.” Then turned his head to the side, his nose barely a breath away from hers. “But you forget one thing, baby vamp. You are not in yet. And I won’t agree to becoming your mannequin without making sure—”
A knock on the door stopped him from uttering another word. Celine went to unlock it, cracking the door just a sliver to see who it was. Francine entered promptly without invitation, as she always did. Once her gaze landed on Bastien, sprawled on the bed, she hovered awkwardly by the threshold.
“I’m fixing his hair,” Celine said, sticking to the same excuse she had told Jacques. The simpler the lie, the smaller the chances of getting caught.
Francine eyed the visible distance between them, as well as the absence of hairbrushes, but decided on keeping her lips sealed.
“Sure you are,” Francine said, extending an envelope towards her. “But you might want to pause for a moment and read this.”
The letter.
“I hope it is the answer you wished for, Mademoiselle.” Francine nodded at the door. “I’m needed downstairs, but tell me later.”
Celine’s heart jumped to her throat. Fingers trembling, she made to rip into the envelope, then handed it to Bastien. “You read it. I can’t.”
“Alright.” He flipped it open. “Dear Mademoiselle LeBeau, I hope you blah, blah, blah…I have found your design truly inspiring.”
“Ah!” Celine let out a squeal of excitement, interrupting him. “Go on.”
Bastien rolled his eyes. “It was one of the few who felt like a breath of fresh air. I hope to see you and your model on Monday, at Maison Baudelaire, where you will be introduced with your first challenge. Do not be late. Claude Baudelaire.” He placed the letter down. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Celine said, lifting her chin up.
“Don’t get cocky now.” Tentatively, he brought himself to his feet, towering over her. “You’re in. But are you so certain I won’t blurt out anything?” he taunted. “Don’t get me wrong, I am perfectly fine with wearing a dress. Throw in a corset and some stockings while you’re at it. But I don’t do something for nothing.”
Celine met his gaze, unflinching. “You will hold your tongue, if you wish to win that money you owe your grandfather.”
Bastien’s smile dropped. “Come again?”
“The price is ownership of Maison Baudelaireandten thousand francs.” And there it was—that little annoyed tick of his jaw that confirmed everything. He wouldn’t object now. “And since I cannot imagine someone with your lifestyle wanting to find a job, I can offer you a way to pay for your mistakes without even having to lift a finger. Once we win the competition, that is.”
“And you? Ten thousand francs are no small thing.”
