Chapter 58
Étienne
"No," she said, looking up at me. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, and I saw my own conflict reflected in them. "I'd rather go with you. If that's okay."
Something in my chest cracked open at those words. She'd rather go with me. Not with the boy who was courting her, who wanted to make things official, who could offer her something uncomplicated. With me.
Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to discourage this, to insist she bring Maxime, to maintain the boundaries that had been eroding for months. But I couldn't. God help me, I couldn't.
"Then we'll go together," I said, and heard the finality in my own voice.
The words hung between us, feeling more significant than they should. Elena's expression shifted, something lighting in her eyes that made it hard to breathe. I had to look away, had to break that connection before I did something unforgivable.
I set the invitation on the side table with hands that weren't entirely steady. "You'll need a formal dress. Something appropriate for an evening garden party in Deauville. I can have my assistant arrange—"
"I can handle it," she said, and there was something almost defensive in her tone.
"Of course." I realized I'd overstepped, fallen into my usual pattern of trying to manage everything for her. "I didn't mean to imply otherwise."
But she was leaning forward now, drawn by the formal French on the card. "What does 'RSVP' stand for again? And this part here—'Tenue de rigueur'?"
She was close now, close enough that I could smell her shampoo—something light and floral that I'd come to associate specifically with her. Close enough to see the way the lamplight caught in her hair, the faint freckles across her nose.
Too close.
"'Répondez s'il vous plaît,'" I translated, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "'Please respond.' And 'tenue de rigueur' means formal dress is required. Your aunt is apparently planning quite the event."
"The French is so formal," she said, frustration evident in her voice as she leaned in even closer, studying the elaborate script. "I can barely understand half of it."
"Here." I leaned forward before I could think better of it, pointing to different sections of the card. Our positions brought us even closer, my hand hovering near hers over the invitation. "This line indicates the time—six o'clock in the evening. This part mentions cocktails will be served in the garden, followed by dinner. And this final section gives directions to the property."
My fingers brushed hers as I pointed out the text, and I felt that jolt of electricity again, stronger this time. I should have pulled away. Should have maintained proper distance, should have remembered every reason why this proximity was dangerous.
Instead, I found myself cataloging details I had no business noticing—the way her breathing had quickened slightly, the faint color rising in her cheeks, the way her eyes kept darting from the invitation to my face and back again.
"Your aunt's husband must be showing off a bit," Elena said softly, her voice slightly breathless.
"Showing off, yes," I agreed, forcing my attention back to the invitation rather than the way her pulse fluttered at her throat. "But there's nothing wrong with that. They've worked hard for what they have."
Elena nodded, but she didn't pull back, didn't retreat to her chair. We stayed there, bent over the invitation together, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. The moment stretched, heavy with everything we weren't saying.
Then she looked up at me, and our faces were suddenly inches apart. I could see every detail of her eyes—the way the gold flecks in the brown seemed to catch fire in the lamplight, the slight dilation of her pupils, the way her gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before skittering away.
My heart was pounding so hard I was certain she could hear it. Every instinct I possessed was screaming at me to close that small distance, to finally—
"I should go," Elena said suddenly, pulling back and standing so quickly she nearly knocked over her chair. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing uneven. "You should get back to your book."
I stood too, muscle memory and manners overriding common sense. We were both breathing too fast, the air between us charged with something dangerous and undeniable.
"Elena," I said, my voice coming out rougher than intended.
She stopped halfway to the door, turning back. She looked young and uncertain and beautiful, and I wanted nothing more than to close the distance between us, to pull her into my arms and stop pretending that what I felt for her was anything remotely appropriate or manageable.
But I couldn't. I wouldn't. She was twenty years old, under my guardianship, dating my nephew. I was twenty-nine, her legal guardian, bound by responsibility and honor and every social convention that mattered.
The fact that none of those reasons felt sufficient anymore was precisely why I had to maintain this distance.
"I'm glad you and Annabelle worked things out," I said, forcing my voice back to something approaching normal. "And I'm glad you're going to Deauville with me."
It was the most I could allow myself to say, the closest I could come to admitting the truth that burned in my chest. But from the way her expression softened, from the way her breath caught, I wondered if she heard everything I wasn't saying.
"Me too," she whispered. Then, almost as an afterthought, "My head hurts. I should probably rest."
Concern immediately overrode everything else. "Do you need anything? Water? Aspirin?"
"No, I'm fine. Just tired." But she swayed slightly as she said it, and I found myself moving toward her before I could think better of it.
"Elena—"
"I'm okay," she said quickly, holding up a hand to stop me. "Really. Just a long day. Good night, Uncle Étienne."
She slipped out of the library before I could respond, closing the door softly behind her. I stood there listening to her footsteps ascend the stairs, counting each one, tracking her progress through the house as I'd done countless times before. Only when I heard her bedroom door close did I allow myself to move.
I returned to my chair and picked up my whisky glass, draining the remaining liquid in one burning swallow. My hands were shaking slightly, and I pressed them flat against my thighs, trying to regain some semblance of control.
I'd rather go with you.
I finished my whisky and stared into the fire, knowing that sleep would be a long time coming tonight.