Page 18 of The Kiss of the Nightingale

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Prettiest Flower

BY THE TIME I make it back to the estate, dawn is already painting the sky. I don’t even ring for Pauline to help me undress. Instead, I flop onto the bed in exhaustion.

My eyelids droop, too heavy to stay open. Wine runs through my veins, its intoxicating effect now a soft lullaby.

I’m drifting into the realm of dreams when a tiny hand taps my back.

“Not now, Lirone,” I mumble.

“Wake up, Cleo,” he persists.

I groan as I force my eyes open, meeting his unblinking gaze. “What? Why are you here at this hour?”

“That’s exactly my question for you.” He shakes me by the shoulders, and I push myself up on my elbows.

“I went out,” I say as a massive yawn overtakes me, distorting the words.

“I know that. My question is, why would you go out when you know we’re meeting for a lesson, and you have a rehearsal in the morning?”

“Who are you, my mother?”

He glares at me. “This isn’t a joke. ”

“I’m not laughing.”

“This isn’t about you,” he shoots back at me, and even though he’s whispering, there’s anger in his voice. “It’s about protecting Lady Sibille’s investment.”

“I’m not an investment.”

“Business partner, whatever. It doesn’t matter.” Lirone shakes his head. “So where were you? Henry managed to follow you to that pianist’s house, but he couldn’t go in.”

I sit up, trying to prevent myself from leaning into the soft pillows. “I was at Madame’s. There was a party, and she invited me.”

“A party . . . you skipped our lesson for a party ?” He’s so enraged he’s shaking. “Mon Dieu! What am I supposed to tell Lady Sibille?”

Now fury starts bubbling in my chest, too. “That I need to keep up appearances. Ladies go to parties!”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Lirone, please.” I cover another yawn with my hand. “I have to sleep. Can’t we discuss this when I wake up?”

“We can.” He presses his lips together tightly. “But I thought you’d like to know you have letters.”

All my senses perk up at once and I hurry to my feet.

In the dawning light, Lirone pulls an envelope from his pocket.

Anaella.

I snatch the letter from him, tearing the envelope with haste before taking in my sister’s familiar handwriting.

My Cleo,

I’m sorry it took me so long to answer you. I tried to sit and write before, but each time the words refused to come.

You just left . . . disappeared.

And all of a sudden, this flood of letters.

But you’ve given me no address, or a way to write to you on my own, or visit you .

I don’t know what it is you are doing to support me . . . But Cleo, it’s not worth it if it keeps you from home.

I miss you.

Your Ann

A lump blocks my throat, tears welling in my eyes. I expected her to be angry with me, to be hurt, but seeing the words on the wrinkled page sends a shock of sharp pain to my heart.

Could she be right? Could all of this not be worth it?

The image of our stuffy back room fills my head—the narrow beds, the creaking floors, the cloudy water, and the dusty shelves displaying only cheap fabrics after moths had eaten their way through Father’s collection just last fall—a shadow of the home we used to have. At least now there is food in the house, and medical care. But would Anaella hate me if she knew the price? If she knew why I cannot see her? Shame and guilt grab me, threatening to squeeze the air out of my lungs.

“Cleo?” Lirone’s voice pulls me back.

I lift my eyes from the page and notice he’s holding a second envelope. This one is heavier, the paper expensive, with an elaborate, but broken, wax seal and delicate lettering forming my name.

“I said letters. ”

I wipe away a stray tear from my cheek. Who else could possibly be writing to me?

“Seems like you’re not doing everything wrong after all.” Lirone places the other envelope in my hand, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “It’s from Vicomte Lenoir. He wants to take you out in two days.”

Pauline follows close behind me as I step out of the carriage, glancing at the letter clenched in my hand one more time .

Dear Lady Adley,

I have an important meeting at the Jardin Botanique this Thursday. I hope you might accompany me afterwards for a walk.

If you’re agreeable, I shall expect you by the entrance to the round greenhouse at 17:00.

Nuriel

The vicomte’s handwriting is delicate, artistic in its curves. I circle his signature with the tip of my finger.

Nuriel.

He signed his first name. That must mean this is a courtship meeting. It has to be—he would have used his title if it were a simple social call.

I ignore the butterflies in my stomach as waves of nerves and excitement pass through me. It’s all just a game. I need him to fall for me only so I can steal his Talent. But if that’s the case, why is my heart racing at the thought of his closeness?

Shivering, I fold the letter and tuck it carefully into my purse beside Anaella’s. The two sit next to one another innocently, just two sheets of paper. Yet one holds the chance for a future, and the other is a reminder of the reason I cannot let this chance pass me by.

Having my sister’s reply has sparked a fire inside me—an urge to prove her wrong, to uphold my end of the bargain and grant us both the life of our dreams. A life where I can make sure Anaella never shivers at night or goes to bed with an empty stomach. Where I can make sure she is healthy, happy, maybe even fulfilled.

I close my purse and turn back to Pauline, my chaperone. Yes, I did go into the vicomte’s carriage alone once, but this is a public outing—being seen alone together this way would be like poking a hornet’s nest.

“How do I look?” I ask, smoothing out my dress.

The gown is made of light blue silk, with a sheer gold organza lining the off-the-shoulder collar and sleeves. But its real beauty lies in the skirt—rhinestone butterflies flutter upward from the hem, growing gradually smaller as if disappearing into the distance.

“As radiant as any flower in this garden, my lady.”

Pauline smiles as we walk past the main gates. She seems happy to be outside and out of her maid’s uniform. I wonder when, if ever, she last had a vacation. Being stuck on the estate, taking care of me—it’s surely not the life she dreamed of. Her obvious pleasure today brings me joy.

I’ve never been to Lutèce’s botanical gardens before, though I know they draw visitors from afar. I can definitely see why. Large trees line both sides of the main lane, throwing scattered shadows on the stone paths and keeping the air cool. The scent of freshly cut grass lingers in the air, mixing with the sweet aroma of the tidy flower beds. I take a deep breath, my ears ringing with the sounds of bees flying among the blooming buds as we follow the signs toward the greenhouse.

We stop by a majestic, perfectly round glass building. Wide stairs lead up to its entrance, and its polished walls sparkle in the sunlight, tinted by shades of blue, green, and turquoise from its metallic structure.

My pulse quickens. This is it.

But the vicomte is not by the entrance, and I cannot see him approaching from any of the paths.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” Pauline says. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”

I nod, my body rigid with tension. Am I early? Did he change his mind? Or worse . . . what if the letter is a fake? A cruel joke meant to embarrass me. I can imagine Véronique behind such a ruse. I glance around as though she might appear from behind a nearby tree, ready to laugh in my face.

Before my mind can spiral further, muffled voices drift from inside the greenhouse. I strain to hear. Their timbre is low, masculine, but the cadence is heated. It sounds like an argument.

In a split-second decision, I pull the glass door open and enter the building. A wave of humid heat and the potent aroma of saturated earth wash over me. Giant exotic trees reach all the way up to the tall ceiling, while wild bushes and vines spread below. Flowers the size of my palm bloom in silky whites and tangerine hues, their scent citrusy. It’s as though I’ve stepped through a portal to a different world, a jungle.

The voices are stronger now, echoing under the tall ceiling as I move toward them, making my way between the massive plants.

“I’m telling you, this is exactly what you’re looking for,” a man says. A thrill of anticipation and relief grabs me when I recognize the vicomte’s voice.

He is here.

“Yes, the plans look great on paper,” another man says. “But I already told you, I need to meet the man myself.”

“And I already told you, he is unable to travel. I’m here to represent him, and my word should be more than enough.” Vicomte Lenoir’s voice is sharp and commanding. It reminds me of the first time we met, when he barged in during my fitting at Miss Garnier’s fashion house, brimming with anger. But something about it strikes me differently now, a sense of passion within the storm, alluring, like watching lightning in the night.

“My lord, I didn’t mean—”

“You deal with me, or you find someone else. But I promise you, you won’t find anyone better.”

They are just around a corner now. I lean past the bushes blocking my view and take in the scene. A delicate round table is set among the greenery, with an endless array of sketches covering every bare inch. Immediately I’m taken back home, to Anaella’s designs spilling everywhere in our room. But these aren’t fashion designs I’m looking at. These are buildings.

Vicomte Lenoir leans over the desk with his jacket draped over his shoulder. His tie is off and his white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a glimpse of his toned chest. He brushes a hand through his hair, causing the strands to fall in damp tendrils, like ivy after a summer rain. It gives him a careless look, wild, like a man who has just emerged from a night of unbridled passion. A flush of heat spreads within me and my hands turn clammy, though it could simply be the fault of the humid greenhouse.

Next to him, an older gentleman with glasses inspects the sketches, his face a hard mask.

I take another step forward, and a fallen twig crunches under my heel. The two men turn to me immediately.

“Lady Adley.” The vicomte straightens.

“Sorry to interrupt, my lord,” I say, my voice somehow richer, as though the humidity adds another velvety layer to it. “I was waiting outside and didn’t see you.”

“Were you?” He checks the time on his gold pocket watch. “The day did run away from me. I apologize.”

“I didn’t know you had another engagement, my lord,” the other man says. “We can pick this up another time.”

The vicomte rolls up one of the large sketches and holds it out. “Take this, to consider in the meantime.”

“Oh. No . . . no need, my lord. I will see it the next time we meet.” He bobs his head, taking a few steps back. “My lady,” he mutters to me before walking away.

The vicomte’s grip on the sketch is so tight I fear the paper will tear. I’ve never seen him so anxious, so constrained, lines of frustration creasing his brow. This is definitely not the mood I imagined for our meeting. I shift from one foot to the other, not sure if I should speak. Does he regret inviting me?

“My lady.” Pauline’s voice reaches me as she emerges from behind a large bush. “I thought I’d lost you. I didn’t even realize you’d stepped inside—” She freezes when she notices the vicomte and falls silent at once.

“You’ve brought a chaperone?” The vicomte raises an eyebrow, but finally loosens his grip on the paper.

I release a pent-up breath. “This is my lady’s maid, Pauline LaRue.”

He nods in acknowledgment before turning to the table and beginning to stack the papers. I exchange a quick glance with Pauline, her smile soothing my nerves. She tilts her chin subtly forward, silently encouraging me to make the first move. I never thought of her as bold, but her reassurance fills me with confidence. I take a step closer to the vicomte while Pauline draws back, giving us a little privacy.

Standing next to him, I examine the sketches. The architecture is exquisite: stunning glass structures between Neo-Baroque pavilions, massive columns supporting iron frames, winding staircases, and large glass domes. These buildings would be the jewels of any city.

“They are breathtaking,” I say, running my hands over the lines of a beautiful stone structure that could easily function as a gallery.

The vicomte stops stacking the pages and turns to look at the sketch I’m holding. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Who made them?”

“A friend. I came to show his designs to the manager. They’re looking for an architect to build a new green-house.” He pauses, his hand hovering over a large, rolled sketch, as if unsure whether to proceed. Then he relents, slowly spreading the sketch on the table, his movements tentative and careful. So unlike his usual sure self. “This is the one he planned.”

I take a step closer to him—that same bay rum cologne of his blending seamlessly with the natural scents of the greenhouse, spicy and earthy notes mingling to create a complex aroma that is both refreshing and invigorating. But I cannot allow it to cloud my mind. Not when the vicomte is finally opening up to me. I force myself to take shallow breaths, trying to focus.

The building in the sketch looks massive, constructed from separate components that weave together into a shape resembling a star. Elaborate spiral staircases are sketched at the pointed edge of each of the five main halls. I follow the straight lines, trying to imagine the space in my head—climbing the stairs, walking along the hanging bridge, gazing down at the plants from above. Like a miniature glass city.

“Each area will feature different types of plants from separate regions,” he explains .

“That’s genius,” I say. “But . . . the manager didn’t like it?”

“He liked the designs.” There’s anger again in his tone, that fiery energy that marks true conviction. “What he didn’t like is the fact that my friend isn’t here. He wants confirmation of the power of the gem involved. As if anyone without a magnificent Talent could have designed these.”

How very elitist. Though I’m not surprised. This is how high society functions, after all: a Talent means status, and there is nothing more important than that. Taking on an unknown architect would be like expecting Véronique to suddenly buy her dresses from a modiste without a renowned Talent to precede her—absolutely ridiculous.

The vicomte snatches up the sketches again and places them in a wide satchel before hanging it over his shoulder, his jacket now carried in his hand. “But enough about business. You didn’t dress up for that.”

There is that teasing voice again, that twinkle in his electrifying eyes that catches my breath. But it isn’t arrogance I see on his face. It’s confidence, and the urge to challenge me. It’s as though every interaction he conducts is a part of an elaborate game, a test to see who will figure out the rules.

But I’m also playing a game—one in which he’s not in charge.

“I’m not exactly sure myself what I dressed up for, my lord.” I twirl a loose curl around my finger.

“Considering you’ve brought a chaperone, I believe you had a pretty good idea.”

As much as I try to hide it, a smile tugs at my lips. He is courting me. And maybe . . . he likes what he sees. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remind myself that this is all part of the plan. That he is a rich, entitled man I’m about to rob blind. That I should care nothing about him. Especially not whether he might happen to fancy me. But when his gleaming eyes meet mine, my knees turn weak, and a strange flutter brims in my chest. His voice, his scent, his teasing smirk—they all make me forget why I’m here. Or maybe it’s the danger of it all, the thrill of the unknown, the need to figure out the puzzle he presents .

I break my gaze, staying in control as I walk farther into the greenhouse. “Won’t your fiancée mind?” I ask as he follows me, matching my tone to his light banter.

“Fiancée?”

“Lady Véronique Battu? Aren’t you two practically engaged?”

The vicomte snorts. “Hardly.”

“Oh?” I try to keep my face clear, but I can’t help the sense of elation spreading through me.

He lifts a giant leaf with the back of his hand, allowing me to pass under it first—a perfect gentleman. “Our families have history. I won’t deny that my parents would appreciate the match. But expectations and reality are two very different things.”

“Like for your friend the architect? You expected today to go differently.”

He is quiet as he wipes a drop of sweat from his forehead.

“You seem to care about him dearly,” I continue. “I believe I saw you carrying his sketches a few days ago at the opera house.”

“I care for all things touched by passion,” he says, staring right ahead.

I follow his gaze to an indoor stream leading to a round pond with swaying lilies. A painter sits by the water, gently stroking a canvas with his brush. On his finger rests an onyx ring, pulsing lightly as he works.

“Nothing is more passionate than a Talent,” I say.

But the vicomte shakes his head. “It isn’t magic that made this man fall in love with art. Look at his face.”

My brow creases, but I do as he says, studying the man. There is a serenity to him. His eyes are tender, filled with adoration, a gentle smile playing upon his lips, growing with each stroke of color. He appears as a man consumed by love, lost in the beauty of his creation.

“Since I know you carry a diary, I can imagine you are an ardent woman.” The vicomte’s voice is low, inviting. “What are you passionate about, Cleodora? ”

Just like that, he uses my first name. So casually, as if we are the oldest of friends. A part of me startles at his rudeness, my instinct to bite back at him kicking in, and yet the sensation of closeness is not unpleasant—as though a barrier between us just broke.

He is staring at me, waiting, testing. This question matters to him.

“I . . . love fashion.” The words come out as a surprise even to myself.

“Ah, is that what you write about? That must be why you discerned the issue with my sleeves back at Josephine’s shop.” He turns to smell a round flower, its blue buds resembling the shade of my dress. “Do you have much knowledge of sewing?”

I open and close my mouth like a broken doll. Why did I have to speak? How could I be so foolish as to let his stupid charms bring my guard down? Telling him the truth is out of the question. No one can know about Father. About his book. About my memories from our dress shop. About the endless rows of fabrics that used to call to me as if longing to become art.

I turn away and step onto the curved bridge to the other side of the stream, the water bubbling softly below. “I dabble, my lord.”

“Nuriel,” he says, grabbing my arm. An electrifying shock passes through me, a tingling sensation somewhere between pleasure and pain. I need to break away from his hold, to detach myself from him, but I’m frozen. “Call me Nuriel.”

“Nuriel . . .” I repeat after him as if entranced. “I . . . I do love singing.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“This ruby has been a blessing for me, that’s why I always wear it.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself. “Don’t you feel the same about yours?”

“In my family, we wear our Talents only on special occasions: a new hospital wing initiation, a premier night.” He waves his hand to dismiss it. “It’s best this way. ”

“How so?”

“It’s a heavy burden, is it not?” he answers with a sigh. “Carrying generations of expectations within your blood.” He grows silent for a moment before taking another step closer to me.

I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the salty scent of sweat and the sweetness of his cologne. Now that I’ve finally got him to talk about his Talent, I need to push further, to learn more. But my heart quickens like a bird flapping its wings in a cage. I ache for his closeness, his touch, to press his body close to mine. Panic prickles up the back of my neck, overwhelming and sudden. This is supposed to be a game. I’m supposed to be in control. I’m not supposed to feel this way.

Not with him .

“Cleo . . .” He leans in, and I stumble backward.

But my heel doesn’t meet the ground. I let out a yelp as my arms flail, trying to regain my balance. My hand reaches for the rail but swipes only air. I tip toward the flowing stream when the vicomte grabs me. His strong, sure arms yank me forward, pulling me to safety. But just as I find my footing, he loses his.

Everything slows as my hand wraps around his wrist, ready to pull him back to solid ground. Then the stones down below catch my eye, their sharp edges like the claws of a hungry beast. And for an instant I’m transfixed, the image of the water turning crimson playing with my mind.

I can almost hear Dahlia’s soft whisper in my ear, “ Let go .”

Why am I even hesitating? Why do I want to keep him safe?

But his weight is too heavy, and my hands are drenched in sweat. I feel my grip slipping. And before I can do anything else, he falls right over the unusually low railing, tumbling down into the water with a crash.

A woman screams, and I turn to see Pauline staring in wide-eyed horror. I had forgotten she was here, following and watching from afar.

Cold spreads inside me as the vicomte reemerges, blood staining his white shirt .

What have I done?

“Pauline! Call for help!” I shout, and then she’s running.

I grab onto Nuriel’s arm, trying to pull him out of the water. He pants and curses—a stream of profanity not appropriate for any lady’s ears. But I cannot blame him.

A large rip on his arm reveals a nasty bleeding cut.

From the corner of my eye, I see the painter leaving. So much for basic decency.

“Merde,” Nuriel spits, finally lying back on solid ground. Even his jacket is a casualty, now a heap of soaking reddish wool. His hair is dripping wet, his white shirt all but see-through and sticking tightly to his body, revealing firm muscles I didn’t know existed.

I force myself to stop gaping as I crouch by his side. “Are you alright?” The stupid, yet expected question leaves my lips.

“What do you think?” He winces as I reach for his wound.

The cut is deep, gushing blood that trickles down his arm as if tracing his veins from the outside. My stomach twists but I ignore it, grabbing my purse in search of a clean cloth.

“We need to clean it,” I say.

Bandages would be better, but all I have is a white handkerchief. I bring the fabric to his wound, my fingers hovering uncertainly for a moment before pressing down to stop the bleeding.

He sits up with a groan, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. “Thank you,” he says.

“Don’t thank me. It’s my fault.” More than he knows.

“Could’ve happened to anyone.” He rubs his head, wincing.

I reach out with my other arm, still not letting go of the cloth, and his hand intercepts mine when it grazes his forehead. A tremor runs over my skin. I freeze, breath catching in my throat as his thumb circles my palm. His face is so close I can trace every flawless line, from the curve of his jaw to the arch of his eyebrows. He’s like a sculpture of a god, a work of art. He’s too handsome to be real .

His striking green eyes stare right into mine. From this distance, I can see they are speckled with flecks of golden honey. It gives them a warmth I’ve never noticed before, as if daring me to observe the man behind the smug, perfect mask.

“Cleodora.” He draws out my name, his voice husky.

He reaches for my cheek, cool drops of water tracing a path from where his fingers meet my skin down to my neck. My heart races at how close we are, how intimate this moment has become. A part of me tries to rebel, to resist, but his touch is a magnet, drawing me in despite my better judgment. My lips part ever so slightly, my breathing becoming shallow.

I feel myself leaning in just when the sound of hastening footsteps startles me.

“My lady!” Pauline is by my side, two young men following her.

They rush to the vicomte, pulling him up from under his arms. “Lean on me, my lord,” one of them says. “We’ll get you to the doctor.”

“Well, Lady Adley, I’m afraid we’ll have to cut our meeting short.” The vicomte adopts a formal tone. “Until next time.”

“My lord.” My legs tremble as I shuffle to my feet and curtsy.

Then the men carry him away, and I’m left alone with Pauline, and a handkerchief utterly soaked with blood .