Page 27 of The Beautiful Ones

I did not need to ask who she meant.

My mother entered moments later, her lavender silk gown rustling loudly in the quiet room. Her hands were precise as she directed Dinah to lace my corset tighter, to pin the small seed pearls into my light brown hair, to arrange the blue silk dress so that it hid the thinness of my shoulders. She moved around me like an artist preparing a statue for display, adjusting my chin with cool, firm fingers.

“Come downstairs, Cécile,” Mother instructed, her voice low and sharp. She jutted her chin, silently urging me to lift mine. “Stand beside the pianoforte. If someone speaks to you, smile, curtsy, and offer a simple greeting. Nothing more.”

I swallowed, my throat tightening. I am trying, I wanted to tell her. I am always trying.

“Do not force the words, Cécile,” she added, her eyes narrowing with that familiar, stinging disappointment. “Nervousness is your only enemy.”

She did not wait for a reply. She never did.

When we gathered on the wide front porch beneath the blinding July sun, the heat felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest. The Deweys and Georges stood in a tight, uneasy group, their laughter far too loud, their eyes darting nervously toward the long oak avenue. My father stood at the top of the steps, his face pale, his hands clenched tightly behind his back.

Then the carriage arrived.

It moved up the drive without a sound. No gravel crunched beneath the wheels; no dust rose from the sun-baked road to stain the horses' white legs. The carriage was an impossible, gleaming ivory, drawn by four gray horses so perfectly matched they looked like silver cut from the same shadow.

The driver sat high on the box, his face hidden beneath the dark brim of his hat. Though I stared directly at him, trying to fix his features in my mind, my eyes slipped away as if there were nothing there to see.

The door opened, and three people stepped onto the red Virginia dust.

They did not look like travelers who had spent weeks on dusty southern roads. They looked like creatures carved from alabaster and starlight, untouched by heat, dirt, or human fatigue.

The tallest man stepped down first. His dark hair held the midnight blue luster of a raven’s wing in the blinding July sun, falling around a face of such striking, sculpted perfection that it made the heart ache to look at him. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut, his jaw clean and precise, and his dark eyes held a deep, luminous clarity that possessed no heat, no tremor, and no flaw. He was beautiful in the way a frozen winter night is beautiful: breathtaking, silent, and deadly. I had no idea who he was, yet the moment his boot touched the ground, my chest tightened.

A fair-haired man followed, radiant and fair-skinned, his pale gold curls catching the sunlight like spun glass. His smile was warm, effortless, and terrifyingly charming, dimpling cheeks that belonged on a Greek marble statue. Yet beneath his bright, aristocratic grace lay a stillness so complete it felt almost theatrical—as though he were wearing human joy like a tailored velvet coat.

Finally, a woman stepped down, her skin the color of fresh cream poured over porcelain, utterly poreless, set against lips as vividly pink as fresh gardenia buds. When she moved, her cream silk gown rustled like dry leaves, yet she seemed to float half an inch above the red Virginia dirt, unbothered by the suffocating humidity that made every other woman in the county sweat and wilt.

Together, they stood among us like Gods who had deigned to walk among cattle—flawless, luminous, and terrifying.

My father took one step back. Judge Dewey turned his head toward the gardens, and Reuben George gripped his walking stick until his knuckles turned white.

I could feel their unease. What were they afraid of? I wasn't sure, but I could feel the unhappiness rolling off them in waves, sour and heavy in the humid air.

Mother stepped forward, her social duty overriding her fear. “Mr. Adrian Fairhaven, Mr. Nicholas Fairhaven, Miss Octavia Fairhaven—Le Champ des Fleurs welcomes you.” The gentlemen were introduced as brothers and Octavia as their cousin.

The tallest man bowed, a fluid, graceful movement. When he lifted his head, his dark eyes passed over my father, ignored the Deweys, and settled directly upon me.

I froze.

Usually, when strangers looked at me, I saw their eyes shift to my mouth. I saw the polite dread settle over their faces as they waited for the struggle to begin, the quiet relief when I remained silent.

He did not look at my lips. He looked straight into my eyes, as if he could hear the thoughts fluttering wild and trapped inside my mind.

Mother nudged me from behind, her hand pressing hard against the small of my back. “Cécile,” she prompted, her voice tight with warning.

I drew a breath. I summoned the words I had practiced all morning. Good morning, Mr. Fairhaven. Welcome.

“G-g...”

The first sound caught in my throat like a thorn. The silence on the porch stretched, terrible and suffocating. Warren Dewey smirked behind his hand. My father looked away in bitter shame.

“G-g-good...”

My chest burned. Tears pricked behind my eyelids. I wanted the wooden floorboards to open up and swallow me whole. I was an embarrassment, a broken creature displayed in blue silk and pearls.

He took a single step closer. He did not look amused, like Warren. He did not look away, like my father. He simply watched me with a deep, consuming stillness that felt almost like reverence.