Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [116]
Patrice interrupted them, clearing her throat. “I guess when you throw a party at a castle, you have to expect an evil fairy. What’s Malificent doing here?”
“Anne Dumas?” Lydie said. “She said you invited her.”
Patrice’s mouth flew open. “I did not! The most I did was mention it to her at your opening, Michael. I can’t believe she said I invited her—I was keeping her occupied, keeping her out of your hair.”
Lydie reached over to pat Patrice’s cheek. “I know. Of course you didn’t invite her.” But Lydie’s eyes were distracted, as if she were discussing something as unimportant as cake batter.
“What’s wrong with you?” Patrice asked, frowning. She leaned close to Lydie, looking into her eyes like a school nurse checking the pupils of a student suspected of drug use.
Michael felt Lydie swaying, and he held her steady. “Maybe we should leave,” he said.
“But this is her big night,” Patrice said. “She’s the star of the show.”
“I’m fine,” Lydie said. “Have you ever had a moment when you know for sure your life’s about to change?” She backed away from Michael, and from Patrice. She was receding from both of them, from the ball, into some private sphere of her own. “I’m going to check on Guy,” she said, giving Michael a last glance that held a tiny smile.
“What got into her?” Patrice asked. “She’s my best friend, and I don’t have a clue. I should never have let her wear those rubies.”
“She’ll be okay,” Michael said, fascinated by his own wife. He believed that she had just experienced something so strong and private that she had to get away, off by herself for a while.
“It must have been some shock, coming upon her husband and his mistress, then finding out the only reason she’s here is because I told her,” Patrice said, adjusting her tiara.
“That’s part of it,” Michael agreed, but he didn’t feel worried. He couldn’t take his eyes off Lydie; he watched her walk the ball’s outskirts. She had her mind on more than Patrice telling Anne about the ball; more, even, than catching sight of Michael with Anne. Any chance for the romantic night he had hoped to have with Lydie was gone, but Michael felt excited by whatever the alternative was going to be.
At one point it seemed that everyone was dancing. Lydie felt Michael’s hand on the small of her back, and they whirled through the crowd. The dance floor was a pillow of billowing, full skirts. Lydie hadn’t told him what had happened with the gun; she had had neither the chance nor the inclination. After making sure all the jewelry had been properly photographed, after overseeing the kitchen to make sure the banquet would go off without a hitch, Lydie was loving the chance to dance with her husband.
Every so often Patrice in scarlet waltzed past, and she or Lydie would wave or touch fingers. When the music changed to a cha-cha, Patrice cut in on Michael, leaving Lydie with Didier. But after one dance Michael reclaimed her. His breath on her neck, the pressure of his hand on her lower back, the way he seemed to be watching her every time she gazed up at him: it all reminded her of falling in love.
Anne Dumas seemed to be everywhere. If Lydie glanced over her left shoulder, Anne was dancing with someone near the orchestra. If Lydie looked straight ahead, there was Anne doing the minuet with Léonce d’Esclimont. Yet Anne never seemed to look in Lydie’s and Michael’s direction. She wore a small intense frown, and Lydie had the wild fantasy that Anne had been plucked from the leaves of French history just for these months, and it required all Anne’s concentration to attend this twentieth-century dance. But Lydie had already dispatched two ghosts tonight; even such a hateful one caused her no great anxiety now.
A gong sounded, then sounded again and again until the orchestra stopped playing. Everyone stopped dancing, to wait for something to happen. Even Lydie, who had planned this moment, felt expectant. Two boxwood hedges formed a path to the kitchen, and she focused on the spot where