Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Celeste: Part One

Paris, 1730

Isabeau Aguillon was not happy.

Her mask itched.

Her shoes pinched her feet.

The bodice of her dress was laced too tightly.

Her face ached from all the false smiles.

She was tired – so very tired of pretending that she would ever belong to this world.

Laughter echoed down the hallway, and Isabeau's head snapped up. She'd know that simpering giggle anywhere – Berthe Ardoin. Isabeau's lip curled. She'd avoided Berthe as much as possible this night, but the other girl always turned up when she wasn't wanted. Like a rash.

If it was up to Isabeau, there'd be no bad blood between them, but Berthe had never liked her, trying to compete with her at every social event. Tonight was worse than ever.

Isabeau knew why she was here.

The Aguillon family were always present at important social functions, whether Isabeau wanted to or not. She was the beauty of the family, the glittering jewel that Papa could use to secure her a husband with a title, maybe even one with connections to the king. He always had been ambitious, her papa. She just wished he wasn't so insistent about using her to achieve his dreams.

Another voice drifted to her ears – male, this time, and also one she recognised.

Jacques Chevalier, son of the Vicomte Chevalier. This was the Vicomte's stately home in Marais, the Vicomte's extravagant masked ball, where he would be keeping an eagle eye out for a good wife for his son.

Someone from a noble family.

Someone elegant and beautiful.

Someone like Isabeau.

It would have been easy enough to put Jacques off – after all, Isabeau had been scaring off her suitors since she was old enough to be courted. But there was difference in behaving scandalously in the safety of her home, and publicly humiliating her family at an event like this. If nothing else, Isabeau could not shame her sister like that, especially not after the last words she and Henriette had exchanged.

So Isabeau had danced with Jacques, and smiled at him, and listened intently to his every word, even though he was so boring that half the time she was fantasising about pulling one of the diamond pins from his cravat and sticking it in his throat just to shut him up.

Being married to him would be a living hell.

The voices were getting closer.

Isabeau wasn't doing anything wrong in hiding out in this darkened corridor, away from the ballroom, but she'd come here to get away from everyone. Berthe and Jacques were the last people she wanted to see.

She slipped off her shoes so the heels wouldn't click on the stone floor. She would go out into the courtyard and find a secluded corner somewhere –

A soft noise caught her attention.

Berthe stood at the end of the corridor, a little smirk on her lips. Jacques stood behind her, his hands on her tiny waist, his mouth moving along the line of her throat. He hadn't even noticed Isabeau.

Triumph lit Berthe's eyes.

She had arrived here tonight with the intention of securing Jacques's attention, and clearly she'd succeeded. Ever since arriving, she'd viewed Isabeau as her main rival, and the look in her eyes said it all – she thought she'd won.

A nasty little part of Isabeau wanted to prove her wrong.

Berthe was lovely, but Isabeau was lovelier. If she wanted Jacques, she was confident that she could seduce him away from the other woman. But she didn't want him. She never had.