A/N: It's been sooo long (my FFN backup copy says the story was published on 9/3/11 and last updated on 12/14/12... oops), but I've decided to continue this story. Why? I watched some GG around Thanksgiving—seriously, how great is season one? Also, I started reading The Luxe (which I am entirely too old for) on Christmas Eve; well into the second book, I (of course) could not bear not knowing what was going to happen so I went looking for spoilers and... I felt both let down (although the ending really did make a lot of sense, I guess) and inspired to go back to my own Gilded Age story. Anyhow, I don't have any of my old notes/outlines and I'm just starting to write Chapter 6, but I'm putting all the old chapters up nevertheless, to encourage myself to write fast and write a lot. :) I think I'm slowly starting to realize just how little fiction I've written over the past few years and how much I've missed writing it (and how much I loved the pre-S5 GG community...). xoxo
Chapter 1
Blair pressed a hand to her mouth. How could that be? So unexpectedly, so soon! She clenched a handful of silk ruffles as though that would silence her furious heartbeats underneath them. As the humming in her ears slowly subsided, she slid to the floor. She didn't quite trust her knees at the moment.
"...completely honest, I am not sure how I feel about that, Harold." Her mother's voice, which resonated from the lower level of their library, was every bit as cold as the marble column Blair propped her back against.
"Eleanor, do you think I would force my only child into anything?" Her father retorted in his usual voice, the one that would always soothe her, whether she was the six-year-old who screamed in horror because the maid had blown out the candle or the almost seventeen-year-old whose modest performance at the piano had just been snubbed and she didn't know what to do first – plot her revenge or cry. "Bart's letter merely stated in half a sentence that it would make him incredibly happy if our families united."
"Oh please," Eleanor scoffed, "Bart Bass never says anything without a reason."
"Eleanor," he said gently, but firmly enough that it was clear that he considered this to be the end of their discussion, "she certainly does not have to marry the boy if she does not want to."
Blair bit her lip to stifle a laugh. To not want to marry him? The notion itself was absurd! She had known for years exactly what the Chantilly-lace veil she would wear the day she became Mrs. Chuck Bass was going to look like. And to think that that day was so close now! Now, when she had almost not dared dream about it any longer... Oh, this was a miracle! She clasped her still-trembling hands together and lifted her eyes to the painted ceiling, murmuring thank-you's at the faces of the little cherubs.
Her mother mumbled something and then Blair heard the heavy door open and close. She peered down through the railing from her hiding place and was disappointed to see that her father was pacing the thick oriental rug. She was miffed that she couldn't go to her room to see if she had anything acceptable for Chuck's visit tomorrow. She shouldn't have worn this dress today, she thought as she looked at the peach-colored silk fanned out on the floor. Even Mother thought it did wonders for her creamy complexion. It made her look wonderfully fresh or, as a young gentleman who had called on them last week put it, "as the most beautiful rose of May." Frankly, she had considered his vocabulary sorely lacking, but she appreciated the sentiment clearly written all over his somewhat handsome face.
She could not wait to see the same expression on Chuck's gorgeous face tomorrow! Her chest swelled as her lips spread into a smile so wide that it would surely hurt were she able to feel pain at the moment. Oh, he loved her! Blair wasn't so stupid as to believe that marriage equaled love, but she knew he didn't have to marry – not for money, not for social status, not because he was getting old and wanted a legitimate heir. In other words, he had no other reason to marry her but love. He loved her and her life was perfect!
They may have been just little children eleven years ago, but she had known. She had known from the moment Serena surlily introduced him to her six-year-old self as her "new stepbrother." She had known he was the one she wanted to marry. He was almost ten and he was already a perfect gentleman with his immaculate three-piece suit and his carefully-combed raven hair. But he also proved to be an excellent schemer and they carried out many a plan involving public humiliation of those who had been short-sighted enough to cross one of them. Maybe someday they would tell their children how they smirked at one another as Penelope ran away in tears, crying for her nanny. And then Chuck would say how he had known even long before that tea party at the Van der Bilts that he loved her.
She let out a silent sigh. The warmth which originated either from her chest or her belly, she wasn't quite sure, was still spreading through her limbs, bringing her into a state of bliss. There were no words in English – or French – to describe the joy she had been feeling ever since she overheard her father telling her mother he'd received an interesting letter from Bart Bass. Now if only Daddy would finally exit the library... She clenched and unclenched her little hands.
Amazingly, as on cue, he did leave. Blair counted to ten, just in case. Then she flew down the stairs and into the corridor. She sprinted to her room as fast as her silk slippers could carry her.
Her maid Dorota seemed to be in the middle of rearranging her closet.
"What happened, Miss Blair?" The woman's eyes widened as she took in Blair's rosy cheeks and short breath.
"Damn corset!" her mistress managed to mutter between her gasps for air.
Dorota scurried to her side and started undoing the vicious satin straps which were about to break. "I told you, Miss Blair, you already have a tiny little waist. No need to torture you every morning."
"Nonsense, Dorota," Blair rebuked, her breathing marginally less labored. "I have to have the tiniest waist of all the girls in Paris." She could see Dorota's frown deepen in her gilt full-length mirror, but the maid remained silent.
This allowed Blair to focus her undivided attention on the most important thing: clothes for tomorrow. Her eyes jumped back and forth from the pile of fabric on her bed to her armoir.
"Dorota!" she cried desperately. "I have nothing to wear!"
"Miss Blair..."
"Stop! I know what you're going to say," she said as she picked up a powder-rose chiffon number, "and no, none of these dresses will do!" She hurled the chiffon as far as she could across the room.
"And I hate these stupid sleeves! They look too heavy on my delicate frame!" Her voice was bordering on hysterics as she threw a sunflower-yellow dress with leg-o-mutton sleeves to the corner. She then threw herself on the bed and buried her face into a pillow.
"Miss Blair," Dorota patted her shaking shoulders, "package from Miss Serena come this morning."
Blair looked up, her dry sobs coming to an abrupt halt. She was saved! "Really?"
"Yes, Miss Blair," Dorota nodded happily. "It very heavy."
She briefly disappeared from Blair's view as she pulled out an ivory box lined with gold from under the bed. She placed it onto the dresser and took the lid off ceremoniously, but not too slowly, knowing how impatient her miss could get.
Blair jumped off the bed pretty ungracefully.
"Oh my God, Dorota!" she cried. "It's perfect!" She twirled around, holding the lilac dress to her chest. "Everything is going to be perfect! My life is perfect, Dorota!"
"You're a lucky girl, Miss Blair," Dorota said as she obeyed Blair's wordless command to get her out of her morning dress and help her into the new one. "You are pretty, you are smart, you have money, your mama and papa love you..."
But Blair neither listened to her nor felt her nimble fingers undoing the last buttons. "I wonder where we're going to live," she murmured, more to herself. "I would hate to leave Daddy, but one has to start living one's own life," she shrugged, "and I do miss Fifth Avenue terribly..."
Much later that day, after Dorota had retired for the night, Blair stared at the flickering flames of the candles the maid had left on her night table. She had been tossing and turning for at least an hour, she was certain. She threw the duvet aside and sat up, Turkish style. After all, how could she be calm when tomorrow she was to see the love of her life for the first time in six months and – her heart leaped with joy and she hopped off the bed and into her satin slippers – was to be engaged to be married to him this time tomorrow!
She paced the room restlessly. Who could tell where she would be this time tomorrow? Of course, she knew she would probably be alone in her room again. Her parents wouldn't allow her to stay up, much less with a man. But if that man was her husband-to-be? Or maybe she and Chuck could concoct a plan to sneak her out of the house? Would he kiss her tomorrow? Surely, he would... She sighed in content and pressed her fingertips onto her lips, the memory of her first kiss surging through her.
They were to leave New York in two days. Mother had conveniently organized their farewell party together with her fifteenth birthday party. Well, maybe she hadn't remembered her birthday, even though she would have never admitted to that. Either way, Blair didn't care. How could she care about anything but the fact that she was moving to Paris and Serena... and Chuck would be an entire ocean away?
"I'll be spending so much time at your house that you'll be sick of me," Serena whispered, squeezing her hand. Her eyes didn't match the cheerfulness of her voice, but Blair was grateful that she was trying.
"Paris is the most beautiful city in the world!" Serena tried to gush and almost succeeded. "It's even more beautiful than New York." Blair almost snorted out loud, but rewarded her friend's wholehearted efforts with a smile instead. "It's the City of Love! We'll both meet handsome European princes and marry them and live in neighboring palaces!"
Serena let out one of her girly laughs, but Blair wasn't paying attention to her. The only palace she wanted her husband to own was the hotel of the same name that the only man she ever wished to marry was to inherit one day. And, at that moment, that very man was cornered by his father, whose face was composed, but whose steel-blue eyes gleamed with fury.
Following her gaze, Serena moaned. "Oh, great! Now they can't even control themselves in public." It wasn't a secret that Bart Bass was not pleased when his son had been asked not to return to Harvard for his sophomore year. Nobody but the family and Blair, who Serena always told everything, knew just how bad it was, though. "But that's another reason to visit you in Paris as soon as possible," Serena chirped.
"Yes," Blair said absentmindedly, "we'll talk about that later." Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a blond gentleman carrying two glasses, no doubt filled with non-alcoholic punch. "I'll leave you with Mr. Archibald now," she told her friend, grateful for the distraction, and hurried out of the room and into the hall.
She saw the library door close with a little more force than necessary. She sighed. Debauchery. Bunch of old hypocrites; as if they had never been young! Besides, all those stories weren't true! Nobody could behave like that. She knew Chuck.
She opened the door gingerly and snuck in. The only sound was that of liquid hitting glass. She made a few cautious steps forward. Sure enough, there he was, in one of the armchairs, depleting her father's scotch supply. She just stood there, watching as he drank and stared at one point alternately. Whenever she wanted to say something, her voice would catch in her throat. Whatever she came up with sounded childish, stupid and trite. No matter how controlling and frightening her mother could occasionally be, she was – from what Serena had said – by no means a match for Bartholomew Bass. Maybe she should just tell him... Then he would know he would always have someone to lean on, someone who would love him and stand by him no matter what.
She took a deep breath and started towards him. Her little shoes felt as if they were made of iron. She could barely move. And she could barely breathe in between her heart's mad palpitations. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she was standing right in front of him, but he was staring at something right beside her. Or at least she hoped he wasn't staring right through her.
"Chuck," she said after some time, but no sound actually came out of her mouth. She cleared her throat delicately and tried again. "Chuck..."
His eyes first closed and then snapped open. He was looking at her now, or she thought so. He seemed to be having trouble focusing.
"What is it, Waldorf?" he asked and she recoiled from the weariness in his voice a bit.
"I-I..." she stammered. Then she remained quiet for a few moments and his eyelids fluttered shut again. "Chuck," said more loudly, afraid that he wouldn't hear her plea, "I..."
He opened his eyes and rubbed his temples. "What?"
"Aren't you going to wish me a happy birthday?"
He chuckled and she felt something tear apart inside of her.
"Of course." He stumbled to his feet, and only then did she realize how drunk he was. "Happy birthday, Blair."
He leaned in to kiss her cheek, like when they were children, but something happened – maybe his balance was too affected by the amount of alcohol he had imbibed, or maybe she turned her head a little, trying to avoid the stench of that very alcohol – and his lips pressed against hers. It lasted for a flicker of a moment only, but Blair knew that such a fire was bound to last a lifetime and beyond.
Oh, she couldn't wait for him to kiss her properly! Not that she knew what exactly she though "properly" meant... And what about once they were married? She felt fear ripple through her. She had only heard stories... Not pretty ones. But she would think about that later, tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. Right now, she needed to sleep. She had to be beautiful for her fiancé-to-be.
She returned to bed and tucked herself in, but soon the heavy duvet ended up on the floor again. She huffed in frustration. Maybe if she read a little... She grabbed the top book from her nightstand and opened it to a random page.
Another!... No, another never
in all the world could take my heart!
Decreed in highest court for ever...
heaven's will - for you I'm set apart;
and my whole life has been directed and pledged to you, and firmly planned.
The words melted her heart even more, but only briefly. She frowned – Eugene Onegin always reminded her of that pretentious and preposterous Dan Humphrey. Just because Serena and her brother thought he was smart, he didn't necessarily know a thing about literature. How had he dared say that Tatiana was crying for the moon, loving something that didn't exist, that was only a figment of her imagination and not a real person? Daniel Humphrey obviously had absolutely no idea what love was...
Oh, but to hell with Humphrey! Her love was coming to visit and ask for her hand tomorrow morning! In just a few short hours! And she was going to look fabulous in her fabulous new dress! Hopefully... She felt her stomach lurch. Nerves. She picked up the candelabra and headed to the bathroom. There was only one way to make her feel better. She had to feel in control and confident.
As he exited Café de l'Enfer, Chuck Bass flipped the stub of his cigarette to the ground. The rain had stopped, but the cobblestones of chilly Parisian streets were still damp. The air was surprisingly fresh and the wind wasn't harsh, so he barked a couple of orders at his coachman and the coach swiftly disappeared.
He inhaled deeply. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. His father was definitely a bastard. But he was not going to let him ruin this night. Even though the man had been ruining his life since he was born, on the same day his mother died. Not a meeting with his father had gone without Chuck wishing he had died that day. He shook his head a little and put the hat back on. No, this night was for pleasure and pleasure only. He walked up briskly to another famous establishment in the red-light district of Paris.
Le Moulin Rouge had long been Chuck's favorite place in Paris. Screw l'Arc de Triomphe and la Tour Eiffel when you can screw the delectable dancers who can bend their bodies in unimaginable ways. Hell, maybe he could marry one of the dancers, just to spite Big Bad Bart. But, no, his father had been specific: no marriage with a respectable girl and becoming a respectable family man – no shares in the company on his twenty-first birthday and no inheritance later. He had even hinted, and not very subtly, at who the most suitable match would be. Blair Waldorf.
Chuck tossed back another scotch. Of course he had no intention whatsoever of marrying her. The girl used to be a nosy little Serena's friend with some talent for scheming. They might have even plotted together a couple of times, maybe they had even been spending considerable amounts of time together, before he hit the age of twelve, tried scotch, had a romp with a maid in the butler's pantry and befriended Carter Baizen. After all that, Eric, Serena and Blair, and sometimes even Nathaniel Archibald, seemed to bore him to tears.
In the last couple of years, and especially since her family had moved to Paris, Blair Waldorf seemed to become even more boring. She would barely speak when he would be spending some time with the Waldorf women after his appointments with Harold, who without doubt was the best legal adviser he had ever had. When she would say something, she would say one of the nonsensical trifles every society girl knew by heart. Her mother would look proud, Chuck would try not to look bored. She was such a proper, virginal little thing. But in a frigid way. She wasn't made for love and passion. And if he was going to marry someone, he was going to marry a woman who was at least going to entertain him in their bedchamber. He deserved that much if he was going to give her his name and his fortune.
As he reached for his glass again, the lights and the music changed. A young man from a nearby table almost yelled, "Satine!"
Chuck glared at him, but the man just went on babbling in French.
"She only appears when she wants to and does one short dance," the man explained to his friend, getting louder and louder. "I can't believe how lucky we are to have come tonight! Ah, Satine!... There is no one like her!" He twirled his mustache with glee, and Chuck wasn't sure if he was amused or disgusted.
One thing was certain, though: his curiosity had been piqued. He had seen plenty of women in less clothes than the dancers wore and he was sure that this Satine wasn't going to impress him. Still, he turned his eyes to the front of the room and waited as the sounds emanating from an old piano quieted.
A woman entered the stage, wearing an elaborate Venetian mask and a cream-colored, lace-trimmed negligee that, despite its name, did not reveal much. It was easy to see why they called her Satine. Her skin was almost translucent and he knew it must be smoother than any silk or satin. Dark hair cascaded down her back and curled around her shoulders, creating a gorgeous contrast with her paleness. The way she undulated her hips and the way her perfectly shaped arms made strange little figures in the air... Somehow she was managing to dance in such a club and not look vulgar. She looked pure. She was pure, from her lush hair to her little satin-covered feet. She was ethereal. She was a nymph, a goddess. And he had to have her.
A couple of bars of music more and she disappeared behind the curtain, much too soon. Had he heard them, the catcalls and screams from the audience that ensued would have told Chuck that he wasn't the only one who felt that way. But he didn't hear a thing. He just sat there, staring at the emptiness that the stage now was. Satine. His heart was pumping blood in the rhythm of her name. And her name was the only thing on his mind, the thing his brain repeated over and over. Satine. Satine. Satine.
He had to have her. He had to have Satine.
A man on a mission, he strode backstage. Naturally, no one dared question his presence there. Satine was nowhere to be seen, but he found Roman, the man who had replaced Zidler as the manager. He was in front of his office, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.
"And some smelling salts, Gigi, ma chérie!" The man was so dramatic that, under different circumstances, Chuck would have laughed. "I'm going to have a heart attack one of these days!"
"Monsieur-"
"Charles Bass!" Roman, always trying to look like a serious businessman, grinned like the Cheshire Cat in greeting. He shook Chuck's hand warmly. "What can I do for you, mon ami?"
Chuck got straight to the point. "I need Satine."
"I'm afraid that's impossible, Monsieur Bass." Roman frowned instantly. "She is already gone."
"Then give me her address."
"Impossible, Monsieur." The man sounded infinitely more exasperated now. "Our dancers are decent girls!" He nodded sharply, as to give extra strength to his words.
Chuck smirked. "We both now that is not quite true, Monsieur Durant. So spare us both and tell me where the girl lives."
"Impossible!" Durant cried again. "Satine... she just comes and goes when she wants. Nobody knows where she lives."
Chuck was getting rather tired of arguing with the hand-waving man, and his Parisian people could get him the information faster anyway. "If you want it that way, then fine. Just know that you've lost an important client." He nodded at the man. "I wish you a pleasant rest of the night." And by the end of the night, Satine would be his.
As he walked to the exit, he heard the manager mutter, "I knew this was going to happen one day. I'm going to have a heart attack! Gigi!"
Chapter 2
Blair was struggling to keep her mind on Miss Austen's prose to no avail. Not even her eyes would obey and remain glued to the page.
"Expecting someone?" her mother asked dryly, not lifting her own eyes from the latest copy of Vogue, which Lily van der Woodsen had so kindly sent.
"Daddy said he might be home for tea today."
Eleanor only shook her head as she flipped a page.
Blair tried to return to her novel, but the letters danced in front of her eyes. All she wanted was to slam the book shut and launch it across the room. At this moment, she couldn't care less how Mr. Willoughby was going to redeem himself and win that too-much-of-a-nature-lover Marianne back! Where was Chuck? They should have been engaged already! He had been supposed to come in the morning and talk to Daddy... And they would be strolling in the garden right now, holding hands and... Where was he?
She bit into a pétale rose macaron, her favorite, to distract herself.
"No," she said quietly.
Those thoughts that had been plaguing her ever since lunch had to be absurd. Nothing bad had happened to him. He had not fallen ill. She twisted the bookmark tassel between her fingers. Oh, but what if he had? Well, she would nurse him back to health, then, obviously. She would sit by his bedside, day and night, pale and fatigued but beautiful, until the illness loosened its steely grip.
She popped a dried sweet cherry into her oolong formosa tea, noticing with something akin to a speckle of remorse that she might have made Dorota yell at the new girl – the girl spoke Polish only, so she wasn't able to yell at her on her own – in vain when she couldn't replace their everyday china with their finest Limoges in under three minutes. All those preparations and he hadn't even arrived yet...
What if it was something worse than the common fever? What if it was... consumption? She shuddered but jutted her chin out. If that was the case, she would pray she got it, too, and... She frowned and made herself take a sip of her tea. Oh God, that would all be so utterly romantic, but she didn't want to die! She was too young to die! She still hadn't worn that ivory dress. She hadn't been to Bendel's with Serena since last March... Most importantly, she still hadn't married Chuck! Therefore, he was not ill. No, he would appear at any moment and propose to her and kiss her and whisk her off to New York, possibly after a honeymoon in Italy.
For the following few minutes, she imagined her and Chuck basking in the sun as they walked through nondescript vineyards in Tuscany – did people really walk through those, though? that seemed like an incredibly dusty undertaking – like in one of the books Penelope had lent her (the one at which she would always blush, as it had the gentleman in his shirt only, from page one). Parallel with that, she willed Chuck to come before tea time was over.
To her own amazement, that seemed to have worked. No sooner had she smoothed the imaginary creases from the skirt of her dress and inconspicuously checked her smile in her silver tea spoon – all the while avoiding her mother's gaze – after the maid had announced him, that he entered the room.
He greeted her mother, and then... If she were the fainting kind, she would have fainted, no doubt about it. When his gloved hand touched her bare skin, she shivered so embarrassingly that his lips actually touched her knuckles. The symphony her blood was playing in her ears was so frightening and so delicious at the same time that her first reaction when he left her to take a seat was pure, undiluted disappointment. As she reclaimed her chair and her breath, she wondered whether that curling in the pit of her stomach was normal. Even if it wasn't, she decided a minute later – stealing a glance at him as her mother poured him some tea – she wanted to feel it again. The sooner, the better.
Her hands played with the bookmark as she now studied his profile openly. There was no danger of getting caught, she knew; when Eleanor Waldorf talked, everybody listened. Hence, she was free to look at her future husband's lips as he sipped his tea, and his jaw line... Oh Lord, she had not realized how desperately she needed him to kiss her... She made a very deliberate attempt to fight those thoughts, the thoughts of his mouth on hers, on her neck, her shoulder... She knew Dorota would not approve. "God always watching, Miss Blair," the maid would say whenever she would catch her with one of Penelope's books. But, surely, God would forgive her for thinking those thoughts about her husband-to-be...
"What do you think, Miss Waldorf?"
Blair knew she had to look like a fish out of water, with her mouth opening and closing stupidly. She was nearly ready to burst into tears. Not only had she been caught red-handed – Chuck's (gorgeous) smirk she knew so well from their childhood days had told her that much – but she was being unimaginably unattractive. That was unacceptable. If at least she knew what he was asking her... Probably something about the latest New York fashions? Fortunately, Serena had kept her informed...
"Is it a good time to invest in real estate in Paris?" Chuck clarified, his amber eyes she adored sparkling.
She offered him a smile that a few Parisian men of her acquaintance found dazzling. "A woman will be happy to have a home in Paris or anywhere else as long as she is with those she loves."
She fluttered her eyelashes like she had been practicing in front of the mirror and fixed her eyes on her lap.
Chuck did not address her again until the end of his visit.
As he was saying goodbye, he noted, tilting his head slightly towards the painting of a young Blair and her pet, "Old Handsome is doing remarkably well for his age. Lily is more fond of him every day, if that is even possible. Father was quite upset to learn his favorite chair in the library had become Handsome's chair while he had been in Florida."
Eleanor smiled her most polite smile, but it didn't escape Blair how tight it was. Her mother had always hated the dear old English bulldog Daddy had gifted her for her fifth birthday.
"I am so grateful to Lily and Bart that they gave a new home to Handsome," Eleanor said with faux care in her voice, though her disdain for the animal seeped into its name. "Not only would it have been inconvenient for him to travel across the Atlantic in his delicate state after his operation, but my allergy was getting worse. We couldn't even allow Blair to get a small dog here..."
"Maltese do not shed, Mother," Blair threw in, though without insistence, as her mother's voice trailed off.
Eleanor waived her hand. "When you're in your own home, darling."
Mere seconds later, Chuck was gone.
Wordlessly, although not without giving her a look Blair could not decipher, Eleanor went back to her magazine.
Blair moved her chair so it was facing the window. She pretended she wanted to catch the remains of the daylight rather than read by a lamp. She would even occasionally turn a page as tears streamed down her face in silence. She could not understand it. Was she not beautiful enough? When she had donned this fantaisie en mauve (Chuck's favorite color!), as Dorota called the dress Serena had sent her, she honestly thought she was... she would be irresistible. And that wasn't a word she used lightly, or often, when it came to herself. The dress emphasized her delicate waist and the silk ruched nicely over her humble chest. Her hair had been arranged with utmost care, a few loose curls framing her face and softening her expression (even as she screamed at Dorota at the top of her lungs that the sapphire combs simply would not do). Her cheeks were covered with a thinnest coat of rouge en poudre to give them that healthy, rosy glow. Perhaps she should have painted her lips, as well?
Her shoulders slumped. It was unfathomable – he had been supposed to ask her to marry him today. Instead, he had stayed for barely half an hour and hadn't talked to her at all. Maybe it was all because he still had not had a chance to talk to Daddy, though... Or should she have answered his question differently? Had it been inappropriate of her to allude to marital love? Certainly, it would have been far worse if she had told him that – whatever her mother said – it was the perfect time to invest in real estate in the city. The prices had reached a deceptive low and the market was going to fully recover and even blossom in the next five years, she was sure of it.
But men didn't want to hear that, not from women. From women they wanted smiles and fluttering eyelashes and flattery... Men did not want powerful women. They wanted soft, pliable, cooing and naïve. That was what Mother had been telling her; that, judging from the books she read and from Mother's marriage, was a complete truth... Blair was not stupid. She knew that something was wrong with her parents' relationship. And while Daddy loved talking about law and about investing with her, he never encouraged her to talk about those matters with other men... What could she have done differently, then, when Chuck had asked her the wrong question?
While, unbeknownst to him, Blair racked her brain for the reason he had not asked for her hand that afternoon, Chuck strode down the cobbled streets of Paris. He needed to walk, to calm down. All of his Parisian people had turned out to be utterly incompetent, a bunch of bumbling idiots! He was tempted to get Andrew Tyler to Europe. But that would take too long. He needed to find Satine tonight. This desire that was almost beginning to scare him needed to be quenched. It was unsettling how all he could think of were the brunette mass of her hair, the outlines of her thighs under the thin silk of her dress, her breasts... It was turning into an obsession with lighting speed.
Although something was telling him he would not find her in the street, he would cast a second glance at every woman that he passed by, old or young, alone or not. None was gliding through the air like her, or worried her full lower lip between her teeth like...
Blair Waldorf.
He rolled his eyes. He had gotten a letter from dear ol' Dad that very morning. The man was, not in the least bit subtly, advising him to propose to that boring kid as soon as possible.
After his tea at the Waldorfs that afternoon, Chuck had to admit that marrying her could have some advantages, apart from getting his share of the company. She'd changed since he had last seen her. She had a body of a young woman now, a very nice little body, as far as he could tell with all her clothes on. And she was beautiful. Her lips were... perfect. Yes, he could imagine myriads of perfect things she could do to him with those lips, myriads of things he could do to her delectable body... were she not such a strange little creature.
Of course, she used to be a strange little creature when they were growing up, too. But she used to be strange in a different way. She had been sharp, manipulative, a world-class schemer in the making. At times, she had been quicker than himself. She had been the only girl... the only person among their peers that he had truly respected as his equal. And now... now she was more like Hazel and the rest of Serena's clique, completely devoid of personality, a quiet little mouse who barely dared look at him (or any other man, he suspected) and who had nothing to say. For all Harold's bragging about her being well-read and having an unbelievable mind for the stock market, she could not form an original sentence.
His father could write to him all he wanted, he would n-
He smirked as he spotted the sign from the corner of his eye and entered the little shop.
A quarter of an hour later, as he found himself on the street again, he smirked once more. He only wished he would be able to see Eleanor Waldorf's face. For all the woman's false hospitality, he had always known he and his father were tolerated in her home only because of his stepmother. And, naturally, because their wealth – although too nouveau for the noble Eleanor – was enormous. He barely restrained himself from laughing out loud.
Long after Blair's tears had dried, the maid announced another visitor. At the mention of the man's name, Eleanor shot up from the sofa.
"Time for afternoon tea has long passed, Mr. Durant," she informed the Moulin Rouge manager icily.
Roman was turning his hat in his hands. He looked incredibly bashful, and Blair – for some uncanny reason – rushed to his aid.
"We still have plenty of macarons left." She smiled.
Eleanor ignored her. "This is hardly appropriate," she told the man before she pressed her lips into a tight line, her spine ramrod straight.
"Mother." Blair laughed a jerky little laugh, surprising even herself.
Without another word or another look in either Roman's or her daughter's direction, Eleanor exited the room.
"Please take a seat, Mr. Durant." If she had been left to play the hostess, Blair would do her best.
Roman perched himself on the edge of an armchair.
"Are you here to see-"
"En fait, I am glad to see you, Blair." He rolled the r in her name and shook his head a little, as though to remind her that there was no need to keep her act up.
She huffed. "If this is about last night, Roman, I'm telling you again that we have an agreement and-"
"I would rather call that," he cut her off gently, "blackmail."
"It's not my fault," Blair rolled her eyes, "that you have been unfaithful to your wife."
"Just because I do not want my indiscretion to cause pain to my dear Geneviève, that does not mean I can let you dance at le Moulin Rouge any longer, ma chère."
Blair only scoffed.
Roman shook his head again. "You don't even know who the lady I was fond of is. You cannot tell anything to my wi-"
"I know her name begins with an H," Blair insisted, "and I still have that unfinished letter I found in your library."
Her stubbornness did not seem to do much for her opponent, however.
"Then tell her if you have to. But I cannot take that risk any longer. Someone is bound to recognize you. Your family would never forgive me. I would never forgive myself."
Blair rolled her eyes again, possibly to stifle that little voice in her head which was telling her the man in front of her was right. What she had been doing was dangerous. That was why it was so exciting, though. Besides, when she was Satine, she was confident, she was gorgeous, everybody wanted her... It felt good.
So she did not let Roman's pleading eyes persuade her.
"Why now?" she inquired, wanting to distract him. "What happened last night?"
Roman dabbed his forehead with his monogrammed handkerchief. "Charles Bass."
Blair's heart stopped for a second. Chuck? Had he...? He could not have recognized her.
"He came to the dressing rooms as soon as you left. He demanded to see Satine."
"W-why?" Blair stuttered although she already knew the answer.
Roman only averted his eyes to the floor. That wasn't a topic for decent young ladies, not even those who resorted to extortion to get what they wanted.
She felt a tear roll down her cheek. She had spent the entire morning primping for him, and he had barely looked at her because... he had been thinking about a burlesque dancer. Pain was spreading through her entire body as the seams of her heart were coming undone, one by one. He was supposed to love her...
"Blair..." Roman's tender voice brought her back to reality.
All those other men... They also want- watched Satine dance, but then they went home to their fiancées and their wives. Satine was not real. She was. Chuck loved her. She just needed to know what he liked so much about Satine. (Apart from her dancing half-naked in a questionable club, she couldn't but think venomously.) Then he would love her, Blair, even more.
"I want to see him."
Roman, who had just opened his mouth to say something, reminded her painfully, in his astonishment, of herself that very afternoon. Before he could sputter something incoherent, she gave him further orders.
"You will tell him that Satine has accepted to see him in your office tomorrow night, if and only if he promises that he will not try to touch her. Otherwise, she will call you. You will be waiting in front of the office."
"And you will not be eavesdropping, Roman," she added, arching an eyebrow.
When she finished her speech, Roman jumped off the chair, snapping out of his catatonic state.
"That is madness!" he yelled, throwing his arms in the air as he paced the room. "Vous êtes folle! Oh mon dieu, mon dieu..."
Blair shrugged and helped herself to cassis violette macarons.
She was on her third one when the man stopped walking.
"I will tell my wife everything," he said quietly. "I cannot allow that-"
"Yes, you can," Blair told him. "That's just a little game Chuck," she shivered lightly as his nickname rolled off her tongue in front of another person, "and I play. He already knows who Satine is." Her voice was firm and calm. She had no idea from what dark recesses of her mind this particular idea had sprung to life.
"I didn't want to tell you." She raised her eyebrows and shook her head a little at him, as if he were a bothersome child. "Nobody is supposed to know. Under no circumstances can you tell Chuck that you know. That will ruin the game."
"I... I..." Roman stammered, wiping his forehead again.
"You will do as you are told."
It seemed like he wanted to say something, hopefully somewhat more coherent this time, but he was interrupted by Dorota bursting into the room, with Eleanor hot on her heels.
Blair frowned, not knowing what to make out of the murderous rage on her mother's face and the wide smile on her maid's. At least until the littlest of all little bundles yelped from the maid's arms.
Then she was in front of Dorota in a split second.
"She lovely, Miss Blair," the maid whispered as she handed her the puppy, tucked into a little royal-blue cashmere blanket.
"Oh, she is!" Blair cooed, patting... Bianca's... yes, she was a Bianca... fluffy little head, careful not to spoil the loose pink bow around her neck. She teared up.
She wasn't the only one crying, though. Eleanor's eyes sparkled with tears of pure anger. "We're not keeping that animal!" She punctuated her words by slamming her smelling salt against the back of a chair.
"Shhh, you're scaring her, Mother," Blair whispered, clutching her trembling puppy to her chest.
"Besides, I'll take her with me, when... Chuck and I get married."
When you're in your own home, darling.
She was too busy grinning – at Chuck's gesture, and at Bianca, whose wet little nose was nuzzling her hand – to even notice her mother burying her face in her hands. Even when she did hear her groan, "I have always known that boy would be trouble.", she was unruffled. He loved her. But she knew he could love her even more. Thus, she nodded sternly at Roman as he was stuttering his goodbyes. She would meet Chuck as Satine tomorrow night.
Chapter 3
"And I'm telling you to stop bothering me," Blair all but growled at Roman as the coach came to a halt in front of the cabaret.
She had ignored his pleas all the way from la rue Saint Honoré to Pigalle. She wouldn't have deigned the latest one an answer, either, had his constant nagging not been making the pounding in her head worse.
"I have already told you that Chuck and I are good," she mumbled testily, pressing the pads of her gloved fingers into her temples.
The dream... the nightmare had been gone for almost a year. Why did it have to return? Fortunately, she had known better than to relax and start putting the candles out before she went to sleep. Lord, would those voices ever leave her alone? She shivered but quickly ordered herself to stop. She couldn't think about that, not now.
Throwing a final look of disdain at Durant, who was being more whiny than Bianca ("Why don't you, pour l'amour de dieu, meet at some other place?"), she secured her Venetian mask and allowed the coachman to help her step down onto the cobblestone.
Chuck stifled a sigh of frustration as he swirled his scotch for the umpteenth time. He was not an impatient man. If his father had taught him one thing, that was that it sometimes took a long time for you to prepare a perfect trap and for the enemy to fall into it. Nevertheless, he was nearly going insane whilst he waited for Satine to arrive. Perhaps because she was not his opponent, but a maddeningly sensual woman, in whose luscious body he could not wait to enjoy? Of course, Durant had mentioned some kind of an absurd "no touching" rule, but the little weasel probably simply did not want to openly admit the obvious – that his girls weren't all that chaste.
He shook his head at the man's idiocy and downed the remains of his drink, just as the door creaked open.
She was... gorgeous was too lowly a word to even begin to describe it. Inexplicably, he found himself standing up. Petite as she was, she commanded attention and... respect? In a seedy red-light joint, she carried herself like a princess. The gentle curve of her neck below her chocolate curls swept into a chignon, her bow-shaped lips painted ruby-red, the modest cut of her gold brocade dress which couldn't hide the lines of her round breasts, the lazy manner in which she unbuttoned her kidskin gloves, how she blew out the nearest candle before she sat down... it almost bothered him. He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to spoil that tantalizing perfection. There was nothing he wanted more than to let her hair down and bury his hands into it as he buried himself into her, against every hard surface in the room. And later, in his suite at the Ritz–
She broke his train of thought as she broke the silence. "What did you want to talk about?"
He frowned at her diction more than at her unnecessarily coy question. She did not only look like a princess; she sounded like she was born and bred at la Place Vendôme. She also sounded like she had a bit of a cold... He kicked himself inwardly. What did it matter, anyway? Their acquaintance would end tonight. Or rather, tomorrow. Chuck Bass had never been with a girl more than once, loosely speaking.
"Actually," he pulled up a chair so that he was facing her, "I would prefer it if we didn't talk." He leaned in.
"So," a hint of a smile appeared on her ruby lips, "I gather you wanted to sit in silence, then?" Her voice was pure innocence.
He dug his fingers into the knees of his trousers. He wasn't sure whether she was mocking him or not.
Either way, the more she talked, the more he itched to hoist her onto that desk behind her and take her without bothering with the dozens of pearly buttons of her dress. For starters.
"I find some other positions more... desirable." He let his eyes roam her body. "Although this room does not provide too many possibilities. I suggest we move–"
"Did Monsieur Durant not explain my terms clearly enough, perhaps?"
As she spoke, she jutted her chin out. That – or maybe that haughty look in her doe eyes – stirred something in the recesses of his mind. A memory. He paused for a moment, trying to catch the fleeting thought and bring it to the surface, but – not unexpectedly – it escaped him. He kicked himself mentally once more. What did it matter what other girl he had met had the same mannerisms?
He needed to focus.
"Satine..."
She bit her lip. It took all his restraint not to lean in and bite it himself. He could not remember the last time he had wanted a woman this badly, and it was truly disconcerting.
"I cannot deny," he drawled, "that playing an ingénue suits you, but we both know why you agreed to meet me."
Her lips pressed into a line before their corners curled upwards. "Enlighten me, please; do tell."
She was outright mocking him now; there was no doubt about it. Rather than the rage he would expect, he felt that strange fascination growing stronger. Not that he was not going to revel in her breathy begging later, when she writhed beneath him... He was going to revel in every second of it.
Her little teeth had just finished another attack on her lip, and she swiftly healed it with the tip of her tongue. God, she was an expert in torturing him, and yet something was telling him that she wasn't even doing it on purpose.
"Who are you?" he wondered out loud. "You don't belong here."
She didn't look, talk or act like a Moulin Rouge girl. She was proving, though, to be quite a spirited little riddle. Which he was going to solve.
She played with her gloves, her eyes glued to her lap. "You have a lot of experience with girls of... my kind, then?" she asked. After a beat, she lifted her eyes to his. "Does your wife not mind?"
"I'm not married," he said absent-mindedly. He hoped her spunk translated into everything she did.
"Your fiancée, then?" she pressed.
He didn't know what to make of the look in her eyes. For a long moment, it seemed she was about to cry. He had no idea why, but the very thought of her crying because of him made his stomach sink.
"That's more than enough talking for my liking," he snapped, at himself far more than at her, as he grabbed her hand.
Her intake of breath was audible. And it wasn't a reaction to his breaking her rule, he knew. He knew because never had a woman's hand in his made him paralyzed, nor had it made his blood boil like this.
That such a little touch could be so electrifying... it was unreal. It almost frightened him, but he couldn't let go of her hand.
She spoke first, her voice quivering only slightly. "It is not enough until I say it is."
"Ah," he smirked, voice and reason slowly returning to him, "a little Wanda von Dunajew in the making."
To his utter amazement, at those words, she tore her hand away from him and jumped off her chair.
He didn't know if it was all just an illusion fueled by the poor lightning or if her cheeks had turned almost as red as her lips. Surely, she could not have gotten the reference?
"I wish to be neither a slave nor a despot," she murmured to the tips of her little satin slippers. Then she lifted her chin and looked him in the eyes. "I wish to be an equal."
God. She did get it. A doe-eyed little princess talking about von Sacher-Masoch. Had he fallen asleep after one scotch too many? Or was this really happening? Taking in her wide-open dark eyes, her parted lips, her heaving breasts... he found himself hoping, desperately, that she was real.
"'This," he quoted, as he got up and came to stand in front of her, "she can become only when she has the same rights as he and is his equal in education and work.'"
For a split second, her eyes got even bigger. But then she squared her shoulders, and he was secretly delirious that she was not backing out of the challenge.
"Although equal rights may not be granted to me by the flawed society we live in," she said, her voice laced with something akin to arrogance, "I can assure you that I am in many matters at least as well educated as any man who was expelled from your famous Harvard University, or maybe even one who graduated from it."
He stared at her, his mind spinning. Was it possible that she knew about Harvard? How...?
"Who are you?" he whispered, taking a step forward.
She shrugged the question off with a graceful little tilt of her head. "So, what do you want to talk about, Mr. Bass?" She flashed her teeth at him in a joyless smile. "More obscure German literature? Or Parisian real estate, perhaps? I am certain you will agree with me that the prices will not go any lower..."
Her voice trembled a little before it trailed off as he put his hands on the sides of her face.
"What game are you playing?" he asked in a low voice. The feeling of her skin on his was driving him insane. But first he had to know who she was. She couldn't be nameless, she couldn't be masked, she wasn't another girl for the night.
"Aren't you afraid that your husband will return early from one of his business trips one evening and not find you all prim and proper in your mansion at la Place Vendôme?" he prodded. Clearly, she was married, probably to some old pig. What upper-class girl who hoped to marry well would dare enter an establishment like this one?
"Aren't you afraid that one of the men who come to afternoon tea with their darling wives will recognize you while you're undulating on the stage, seducing the audience?"
She remained silent. He wasn't sure if he was only imagining that her lower lip wobbled. There were no tears in her beautiful eyes, which hadn't left his face, however, so he insisted further. He had to know.
"Is your life so uneventful that you need take the risk just to feel alive?"
When there was no reply, ever so slowly, he reached for the satin ribbon holding her mask in place.
As if he had finally woken her from reverie, she gasped. Her hand flew into the air to intercept his.
Fear emanated from her gaze. He didn't know what was stopping him from doing what he wanted to – hell, he was bound to recognize her from a soirée at the Waldorfs or the Shafais as soon as the mask fell – but something was. Instead of undoing the ribbon, he interlaced their fingers and stroked her hand with his thumb. Hell, if making her reveal her identity right now scared her, then he would not do it.
"Will you at least tell me," he smiled when her hand stopped trembling in his, "why Durant is willing to risk a heart attack every time he lets you dance?"
Her lips spread into a genuine smile this time. "I may know a little thing about him that he does not want anyone else to know."
He chuckled. She was... incredible. She had blackmailed the poor man and was proud of it. She was... what he had never thought he would find.
Gingerly, he lifted her chin and brushed her lips with his. He relaxed when she didn't jump back.
Instead, she closed her eyes. He lowered his lips to her ruby ones again, something in his stomach making him... sort of sick, in an oddly pleasant way. He had no time to ponder on that, though, because he soon wondered what was wrong. For a willing participant, she was being... He was already on the verge of giving up for a few minutes when she started responding, and then some. He felt her fingers curl in his hair. Her entire body arched into him. Those insolent butterflies in his stomach and in his chest were getting worse, but he didn't mind them. God, she was amazing... And he could stay like this forever.
Or... not as long as she could, apparently. She turned out to be a real little glutton who didn't need air. In the end, he had to nip at her lower lip gently to break the kiss.
He rested his forehead against hers as they regained their breath.
"Come to New York with me."
"Why?" she breathed out.
"Because you're my equal, Satine."
Her eyes darkened at the name. Idiot, he shook his head at himself inwardly. Why would he remind her that they had just met and that he still didn't even know her real name?
"Y-you want to marry me?" she asked quietly.
He said the words before he could think anything through. "I'm not the marrying kind."
He felt her stiffen in his arms.
"I see..." she said slowly, extricating herself from him. "I am an equal you would have to hide."
"It's not like that."
He didn't say anything else, even if her eyes were colder than Siberia. Something was choking him. It was one thing to find her a nice townhouse on Park Avenue...
He watched her snatch her gloves from the chair and leave. It occurred to him too late that he had told his men he didn't need them any longer. Now he had lost her again.
For once, Blair was glad that her mother preferred having breakfast in bed and her father preferred not having breakfast at all. Her eyes weren't red any longer, but there were ugly dark bags under them. At least everything was over, she told herself as she scratched Bianca behind one floppy ear. Chuck would not see Satine ever again. That was little consolation, though. He had offered to take her to New York, to make her his mistress... He was going to cheat on her as soon as they said their vows.
She let her head hit the pillow again. And tears started rolling. She could not understand any of it.
Satine had known about the dirty book she overheard those two gentlemen discuss after dinner last year – no decent girl was supposed to have ever heard about something like that. Dorota had caught her and lectured her for a week. Well, to be honest, she still didn't understand why she had been so ruffled, but... that was beside the point. The point was that Chuck had thought that Satine was oh-so-special and his equal and... He wanted her to be his mistress... Her heart skipped a beat. If he wanted to make Satine his mistress only and make her his wife, then... Mother was right.
That comforted her for a moment, but then she shook her head. It wasn't like that nothing similar hadn't already occurred to her. But she didn't want Chuck to be unfaithful to her! What could she do? Maybe... maybe if she was just a tiny bit more similar to Satine... That made sense, right?
She sighed. It didn't make sense, not really, and she knew it. Straws were all that she had left, though, so she grasped at them. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt so helpless, so little and lost. Another tear rolled down her cheek. She lifted her hand to wipe it away but Bianca was faster.
"Ew!" Blair scrunched up her nose. Still, she had to laugh at her little helper. "Don't to that, silly girl!"
She sat up and put Bianca on her lap. She could feel a little smile curling her lips – this very puppy was a proof that Chuck cared about her. If she was a really good wife... and maybe just a little more like Satine, he was going to love her more, and he would not need a Satine... for... anything.
There was still an entire hour until lunch, so she decided to take Bianca out to the garden. The weather was divine! She was wearing her new ivory dress, in case she later ran into– "Chuck!"
It was very clear to her now that she didn't resent him, even if there was a tiny part of her mind which was telling her she maybe should. It was also very clear that she couldn't wait for him to kiss her again like last night. She felt blood rush to her cheeks and her knees get a bit weak...
"Did you come to see Daddy?" she asked hastily, just to say something.
"Yes." He rubbed his eyes. "Yes, I just talked to Harold."
She grinned. He had dark bags under his eyes, too. Had he spent the night feeling guilty about Satine? Her heart thumped a bit more cheerily. He had just talked to Daddy, after all. And that could mean one thing only.
"Why don't you ask me already, then?" she wanted to ask. She couldn't wait to see the ring!
But if they still had to play this small-talk game, she could talk about Bianca, who was now nudging her slipper with her nose. She tucked the book she was going to return to the library under her arm, bent down and picked the puppy up.
"I haven't had the chance to thank you in person." She smiled. "She is so beautiful! Thank you so much."
"I'm glad she makes you happy."
He had barely looked at her, and her heart sank. She was not giving up, though.
"I've been reading Rimbaud," she chattered. "I prefer him to Baudelaire. Don't you think–"
"Blair-Bear!" Her father exited the library at the most inopportune moment. "Has Charles told you that he will be so kind as to take your package for Serena with him? And that he's traveling on one of White Star Line's ships? Blair-Bear thought their stocks were worth investing in..."
Her father babbled on, but nothing he said registered in her brain. Package for Serena? Ship?
"You're leaving?" she managed to choke out.
His face was as impassive as his voice when he said simply, "Father needs me in New York."
"Well... bon voyage!" she chirped, sounding like her old talking doll to her ears. Everything was turning into a haze, and she bit hard into her lower lip to stop the wobbling.
"Thank you for the package."
He was not going to marry her.
He didn't love her. He never had.
"I'll tell Dorota to bring it down."
She turned on her heel and run up the stairs.
Having declined lunch with the Waldorfs as politely as he was able to, Chuck was pacing the salon of his suite. He was leaving Paris at dawn, but the closer that hour was, the less inclined to run away he felt. He needed to see Satine again. He would find a way to convince his father not to disown him. Surely, if she had been respectable enough to marry someone from Parisian crème de la crème, she was respectable enough to marry a Bass. The divorce could cause a scandal, true, but no one in New York would care too much after a couple of years. He just had to find her. He would promise those incompetents a bonus and he would threaten Durant...
A knock interrupted his feverish thoughts. The boy handed him a piece of paper.
Satine wants to see you tonight, at the same time.
Chapter 4
Her lips twisted into a bitter smile as she turned her face away from him. For years, for almost a decade now, she had thought the day Chuck asked her to be his wife would be magical, the happiest day of her life, at least until her wedding day. Even though her heart would be leaping frantically – with joy – and her gaze would be a bit misty, she would paint every little detail into her memory. Their grandchildren – although she couldn't imagine herself old and with Nana Waldorf's prune-like skin – would beg for that story, the most enchanting of all fairy tales, time after time.
And now... Now he was not proposing to her, but to a burlesque dancer, a tramp. So she hated the way he was holding onto her hands as onto a lifeline. And the way he looked at her. He had never looked at her, at Blair, like that. As a matter of fact, she could not remember the last time he had looked at her at all... She sniffled pathetically, in her best effort to keep at bay the tears threatening to choke her.
One of his hand left hers, and her head jerked backwards a little as he touched her cheek.
She ignored his frown of confusion. "Would you really marry some girl you do not know?"
"I know you."
She squeezed her eyes shut for a beat. She willed herself to wake up, tucked in under her heavy duvet. Surely, it must be the source of this weight pressing on her chest.
His thumb traced her cheekbone beneath the mask. She didn't know whether her heart was beating that rapidly because she feared he might rip that ornate piece of metal off her face or because she had finally made her decision. She bit back a sigh; she could not let him see just how much the brushing of his fingers against her skin affected her, not yet.
"I know we're the same."
She sighed once more, this time at his stubborn, nonsensical insistence. Could he not see that his every word was another twist of the knife he'd put through her heart?
"We are not." Because I... used to love you. "You don't know me." Her voice was a whisper too, barely less hoarse than his. "Why would you marry me?"
She wasn't as stupid as to believe that marriage was a thing of love in their world. Stocks, bonds, gold bars, and mutual interests shared by the heads of the two families... that was what marriage was. Offspring which would have even more opulent mansions, and crucially: even more power. Not keeping up with the Joneses, but putting them in their place. Marriage was just another means to that end.
Penelope Shafai, for one, had not seen Lord Marcus but twice – at the opera – before they were wed. Blair felt the ever so tiny flame of dissatisfaction burning slowly but steadily behind the joyful lines of her every letter. Therefore, while Hazel would very literally turn chartreuse with envy at the new Lady Beaton's descriptions of picnics with royalty or dozens of new Worth dresses, Blair could not but feel sorry for her kind-of friend. Just like she could not but pity poor Nelly. (Though, truth be told, she did not pity her only because her father had disowned her but because she had run away with Daniel Humphrey of all people.)
Of course, there were those blessed people who could have it all, even in their world. And, of course, if anyone in their world deserved to have it all – a match made in Heaven – it was Serena, who had never entertained an evil thought. Then, naturally, there were also those who deserved each other because they were both devil incarnates, such as Georgina Sparks and Jack Bass, Chuck's uncle.
Chuck... As silence stretched between them, she let him play with her glove. His bare fingers fussed with the three little pearl buttons that helped hide her skin. Then they drew jerky little patterns both on her forearm and the silk of the glove. He would almost seem absent if it weren't for his eyes. They bore into hers with such heated intensity that she had to lower her lashes.
Her heart was insane again, drunk with hope. The more rational part of her was whispering that her fear may still come true, that he may still declare his love to Satine, but that tedious murmur was dying down. And something warm and almost painfully pleasant was growing stronger and stronger in her heart. She had decided to face her fear, by taunting him to say the words, and she had won! He must have recognized her, her modus operandi, her goading, her eyes, her voice... He'd probably recognized her yesterday; he'd pretended this morning to pay her back... Of course! Why else would Chuck propose to someone who he'd seen once? He wouldn't even take that Vanessa girl to the débutante ball as a favor to Lily...
"I will do anything for you to come to New York with me." He pressed his lips on the inside of her wrist.
Of course. She shook her head lightly, at herself. At him, she growled, "You are heinous; I hate you."
She jumped to her feet just as he stood up. She had no idea who'd made the first step – though it would pain her to think that had been her – but, in a heartbeat, they were in each other's arms. Without much thinking, she allowed her lips to respond to his. She allowed his arms to press her body to his, his hands to unpin her hair, his mouth to explore every inch of her neck. It was easy. She had wanted for him to love her for so long, and she had believed he loved her for almost as long, that it was so easy to pretend she still wanted it, still believed it. Was she even pretending? Or was she so desperate? She'd try not to ask herself that later. And for now she'd focus on this almost unbearable fire they seemed to be able to light in each other.
She barely had any idea what to do – overhearing that despicable Georgina Sparks was proving marginally useful, though – so she let her instincts take over. Judging from the way his grasp tightened and his breathing was becoming more labored, she was doing fine. More than fine. Or at least until she bit his Adam's apple.
"Not here," he rasped out as he pulled away.
"Porquoi pas?" she switched the conversation back to French when she was able to utter more than a word. Her pulse still raced, and she was oddly worried that her heart was beating in her throat.
"You deserve better."
She smiled, without much mirth, at the irony. Yes, she deserved better. But she still wanted him.
The decision was hers. She had dreamt of being his wife, of being his, for so long that it felt right to do this. She would not save herself for some dull Parisian boy or a disgusting old man she would marry eventually – Waldorf women weren't old cat ladies like Miss Carr. No; she wanted that all-consuming passion she'd come to taste on her fifteenth birthday and then again last night. As if this night would mean anything to her future husband if he must find out... Daddy's accounts and the Waldorf name would overrule it in his eyes, without a doubt. Why wouldn't she pretend everything was alright now, then; that the events following his arrival had unfolded in a different manner? Why shouldn't she be happy for a night? So what if he didn't love her? He seemed to be fond of Satine... Wasn't that the same?
Who cares either way? She shrugged her shoulders with only a barely discernible trace of bitterness.
Then she smiled again, fingering the ribbon of her mask. "Blow out the candle."
"Are you insane?" he repeated, considerably more calmly this time.
As the only answer was something that resembled a muffled sob, he buried his face in his hands for a moment. Then he resumed pacing Durant's office. He was doing his best not to look at the figure on the sofa, but it seemed that his willpower was utterly lacking when it came to her.
Her face was pressed into one of the little pillows the manager's wife had decorated with his initials. Her shoulders shook silently, the gold-embroidered ivory silk of her half-done dress threatening to slip from them. For some reason, he felt an overwhelming urge to comfort her. But the situation was surreal. Maybe there hadn't been only tobacco in that cigar? How else could he explain that Blair Waldorf, Harold and Eleanor's perfect little girl, the girl his father wanted him to marry, was in this place? Or that Satine had been a virgin? Or that Blair and Satine were one and the same? How could he have been such an idiot?
"How could you do this?" he hissed at her. It was easier that way.
She whipped her head to look at him, her soft hair catching light from the nearby candelabra. God, she really was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on.
And probably the least mealy-mouthed.
"Do what?" she scoffed. "As if everything is my fault." There were no more tears, but her eyes looked reddish.
He raked a hand through his hair and started pacing the length of the room once more.
Those doe-eyes... He should have known. He should have recognized the way she jutted her chin forward in determination or defiance; he'd seen her do that a dozen times a day when they were children. He should have known when she'd mentioned Harvard. Hell, he was a fool – to say the least – because he hadn't realized he'd heard: "You are heinous, Charles Bass, and I hate you." before, in the exactly same tone, albeit in English. He could still see her... She had been furious because he hadn't stopped Carter from mocking her for having a tea party for her porcelain dolls at the ripe age of nine. It had taken three days of groveling, and as many Japanese fans, to get her to look at him again.
God knew how long it would take her to forgive him this time.
He remembered her chatter about French poets that morning and her confusion when he'd said he was leaving. Idiot. He should have just listened to his father, he thought bitterly. But how the hell could he have known that his childhood friend, possibly even more intelligent and more devilish than he recalled, was behind that blank façade of a prim society girl? Now that he knew, he was not going to let her go.
She... cared about him, too; he knew that. Although she had won tonight, she had also lost. She would not have done it, she would not have given herself to him if she didn't more than care about him.
He stole another look at her. She was buttoning up her glove. As she was about to pull the last pearl through the hook, her fingers dug into the silk. She bit her lip, her face transforming into a grimace.
"Are you..." He paused for a second, unsure what to say. "Are you in pain?"
She promptly smoothed the frown off her face. "Just leave me alone," she ground through her teeth.
"Blair-"
"Don't."
What chilled him was how quiet yet firm her voice was. She had reached a decision. There was no point in trying to talk tonight. He looked around, but he could not see her coat.
"Come," he picked up his coat from Durant's chair and put it around her shoulders as gingerly as he was able to, "I'll take you home."
"No."
That voice again.
He stifled a sigh. "Don't be stubborn."
"I am not." Standing up, she shrugged his coat off her shoulders. Not paying attention to her gaping dress and the ribbon of her corset nearly reaching the floor, she crossed the room and retrieved her own coat. "Roman will take me home," she informed him.
He felt his hands balling into fists. "Roman?" He was about ready to kill the little weasel. How dared he let Blair Waldorf set foot in this place, let alone dance here?
"Please." Blair rolled her eyes exaggeratedly, in the manner his twelve-year-old self had known all too well. "As though he is a peril to my virtue."
Her smile was cruel.
"Why did you do this, Blair?" he pressed, not truly knowing why.
She remained silent for a beat, as she picked up her mask and twirled a piece of ribbon around her finger.
"Because I loved you, Chuck," she said at last, to the mask. Then she dropped it onto the sofa and exited quietly.
What the hell had he done?
She hurried Bianca back to the salon just as the first raindrops fell on the heads of her favorite, pink peonies. She was trying to spend as much time as she could with the puppy today – she felt guilty for having made her sleep with Dorota last night. It had been hard... Chuck had given Bianca to her when she had foolishly thought they were going to... But that wasn't Bianca's fault, she had decided...
On second thought... she thought wryly as the puppy – obviously ready to be patted – waddled to Chuck, who was drinking tea with her mother.
And who had the audacity to smile at her as he scratched Bianca behind an ear. True, it wasn't a very Chuck Bass smile or much of a smile at all, but it was a smile nonetheless. How dared he?
"Oh," she said in her sweetest voice, addressing her mother solely, "I didn't know we had guests. I'll just–"
But before she could say anything that in reality would mean: "I'm going to my room because I don't want to see his face ever again.", her mother jumped in.
"Blair, darling, we were just talking about Rimbaud." She took a sip of her tea. "You know how I love him."
Almost as much as cheap fabric, Roman and Bart Bass combined, Blair was certain.
"Why don't you join us, Miss Waldorf?" Bass suggested. "I know you like him."
She shot him a sugary smile. So, now he cared, huh? That is, now he pretended to care?
"Indeed." She snatched Bianca from him and took a seat opposite her mother.
She had already decided she would never again cry because of him; he meant nothing to her any longer. So she was now ready to play. She was going to show him what all he had lost.
Chapter 5
"Honestly, could you be any more transparent?"
That was what the haughty roll of her eyes that Blair couldn't be bothered to hide was telling him, he knew. And he couldn't care less.
"Of course, I would be delighted if you could join us, Mrs. Waldorf." He smiled at Eleanor, all charm and politeness, hiding masterfully just how close the end of his tether was.
Blair was making him literally insane, and she was reveling in every second of it. It wasn't that he had not come to enjoy that little game once or twice... or a couple dozen times in the past two weeks, but enough was enough. He had to talk to her in private, to make her see not marrying – and as soon as possible at that – would be madness, to tell her he... he loved her.
At the very thought of admitting that to her, verbally, out loud, instead of kissing the confession into her lips, he squirmed in his chair a little. He had never been a man of many words when it came to women; he had never said anything similar... But then, he had never felt anything too similar, either.
It was settled, then. He would tell her that very same day. As soon as he had her all to himself at the Musée du Luxembourg.
His grip on the handle of Eleanor's delicate teacup tightened as he remembered the last time they were alone. Since that evening in Durant's office, he did not spend more than a second alone with Blair. If Eleanor or Harold was not there, their daughter would keep a maid at her side at all times. The timid little blonde that knew approximately five words of French had seemed likely to be easily bought until Dorota murmured something in Polish to her and followed it by a murderous stare. Chuck knew better than try to convince Blair's former nanny to help him. Dorota somewhat liked him, he knew, but she adored Blair, and if she thought he had hurt her... Well, he felt lucky he had still not been served a healthy dose of Polish curses, spiced with a quick note or a telegram to Lily. Dorota was going to be taken care of today, though. His new valet Vanya, who was – as it happened – going to join them in the museum, was – quite un-accidentally – Dorota's suitor.
Then, with Dorota and Vanya on their own merry way, he was going to repay Blair with kisses for all the torture she had inflicted upon him in the past two weeks. At least a kiss for each time she hid the milky silk of her neck with a gauzy summer shawl and then exposed it briefly, for each time she bit her lip, played with a lock of her hair, bent down to pick up Bianca... At least a kiss for each moment they had spent together without him being able to touch her, to tell her... At least a dozen kisses for every word battle he'd enjoyed having with her, and at least three dozens for the one they'd had just after they had gotten the news about Serena's still-unofficial engagement to Nathaniel.
They had established that they both had received similar letters from Serena that morning and that neither was surprised at the news. Blair was glowing as she was describing to her mother her plans that included going to New York for a couple of months to help his sister with all the preparations. A half of Chuck's mind was thinking about how gorgeous a bride, his bride, Blair was going to be soon (long before Serena and Nathaniel's wedding, if at all possible), and the other half was going down a list of ways to get both Eleanor and Dorota out of the room. That is, until Eleanor started flipping through the pages of an old, yellowed book, and Blair directed one of her most dazzling smiles at him, her eyes sparkling with something he couldn't quite pin down.
"But you must be sad that your best friend is getting married, Mr. Bass," she said, a bit too softly. She had taken up to calling him Mr. Bass all the time, even though – as childhood friends – they had tended to use their Christian names when the only other company in the room was family or close friends.
"No, not at all." He smiled back. "I could not be happier for Archibald. I know he'll be happy for me when I marry the love of my life someday, too."
Blair's eyes widened in mock-amazement. "You surprise me, Mr. Bass. I was certain you belonged to the 'A sweetheart is a bottle of wine; a wife is a wine bottle.' school of thought."
"Well, now, that depends on your interpretation of that quote, doesn't it? But if you wanted to imply that I may not seem to be what some would call the marrying kind, Miss Waldorf, you would be right. However, when a marriage is between soulmates, I would be the last to object. As they say, 'Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments.'"
"That's a fine sonnet." Her lips curled upwards, but the smile was cold, cruel even. "I do, however, prefer a different one. I believe it ends with: 'For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,/Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.'"
Chuck somehow managed to wince only inwardly. Surely, she didn't truly mean that?
"So, might that – per chance – mean your love is 'as a fever longing still,' Miss Waldorf?" He soon smirked, pleased with his quick recovery.
"I would not deign that an answer," her dark eyes were shooting daggers, and her cheeks were rapidly becoming a hot pink, "but I feel I have to do a good deed and inform you that no one can be happy if their love is a horrible illness. And I most certainly am happy."
"I am delighted to hear that."
She responded by turning up her nose at him.
"And, as a matter of fact," he said conversationally after a moment, "I don't think I have ever cared much for the Bard's idea of passion. I find John Donne's works, for instance, much more appealing."
Her eyes made a furious, full circle, like a carousel of sorts. "Please, Mr. Bass, be so kind as not to quote 'The Flea.' It's boring, and it's too late... in the day... for me to listen to a pitiful little poem about a pitiful little man trying to convince a girl to mix her blood with his."
He bowed a little. "Miss Waldorf, how little of me you think... I would not dare quote anything similar in such polite company."
She narrowed her eyes at his smirk, as if to say she didn't like the implications of his words.
"I am much fonder of 'The Good-Morrow,' for example."
He could almost swear he heard a little snort.
"You do amuse me greatly, Mr. Bass."
"Is that so?"
Blair shrugged. "As long as you do not truly believe that morning can bring an entire new level of... affection... I can still respect your intellect."
A reply was at the tip of his tongue, but she was faster.
"Be that as it may, I am grateful that you did not quote that man, but – after all – 'a dandy can never be a vulgar man' – isn't that what your precious Baudelaire once said?" She was talking fast, too fast. "And I know you prefer him to Rimbaud. Just another piece of evidence that shows you and I will never agree on anything, Mr. Bass."
"Surely, you mean 'on a few trivial things,' Miss Waldorf." Which would just make life more interesting. Were she his wife, they would have been in their bedchamber long before the Donne part of the discussion.
"You cannot tell me what I think..." She trailed off and smiled innocently at her mother.
Eleanor gaped at the two of them, her book long forgotten.
"More tea?" she asked dryly after a moment, pretending – as well as any good New-York-City-bornand-bred hostess would have – that she had not noticed anything out of the ordinary.
She had since come to resume reading or roll her eyes and disappear from the room when their bickering started. (Lately, she seemed as though enough problems not related to Blair and her suitors were plaguing her anyhow. Chuck was not certain he wanted to know what was happening.)
At this moment, Eleanor declined his invitation politely, just as Chuck had predicted – not unexpectedly, Realism was Mrs. Waldorf's favorite style, so she did not care much for the latest acquisition of the Musée du Luxembourg, a Monet. Blair, on the other hand, would absolutely adore it. She'd always loved Impressionism.
"You may still go if you wish, Blair," Eleanor tilted her head a little at her daughter, "as long as you take Dorota with you. I need Nina here. She has a great eye for color."
Which might be useful if she could name a color in any language but Polish, Chuck thought to himself. He knew that Eleanor wanted Dorota with Blair only because Dorota would be a far better chaperone. Not that he had not predicted and solved that problem.
Blair smiled sweetly. "Thank you, Mother. I so do wish to see this new painting!" Her eyes sparkled with genuine excitement, which did strange things to Chuck's heart. "It's M. Monet's and you know how I love his work."
"I do, ma mignonne," Harold Waldorf smiled from the door, "that's why we're going to the exhibition opening next week."
Blair jumped from her chair and glided to her father.
"Thank you, Daddy!" She kissed the man on the cheek. "I'm also going to see it today. Mr. Bass has kindly offered to take me. M. Dupont has agreed to let us see it! Isn't that merveilleux?"
Chuck was careful to smooth the creases of puzzlement off his forehead immediately, although he couldn't but keep wondering whether Blair really was... happy about going to the museum with him.
Harold's brow did remain furrowed lightly for a few moments, though. Chuck hoped that did not mean the man was going to offer to join them. Naturally, he would not be able to give an honest answer and refuse, and his entire carefully concocted plan would fall through. Not to mention that Harold would know why Vanya showed up, so there would be no new opportunity to be alone with Blair.
"It certainly is, my dear." Harold smiled. "As long as you take Dorota with you."
Chuck breathed out an inaudible sigh of relief, while Blair rolled her eyes a little.
"Don't worry, Daddy," she said. "Although I don't really need a chaperone – Mr. Bass only fancies himself to be 'mad, bad, and dangerous to know.'" She laughed, throwing her head back a little (and making Chuck a bit too hot around the collar). Then she planted another little kiss on her father's cheek and disappeared from the room, presumably in search for Dorota.
Harold looked after her for a moment before he turned to Eleanor, who shrugged nonchalantly, and Chuck; he seemed ill at ease, as though he wasn't sure what to make of his daughter's words. Neither was Chuck.
The painting was exquisite, but Blair could not focus on it, could not fully enjoy it. She let herself participate in Chuck's charade, coming to the museum with him and practically ordering a worried Dorota to go sit with Vanya at the other end of the room. She knew he didn't bring her here because he thought she would enjoy the Monet; he didn't care about her, not in the way she wanted... she had wanted him to. He brought her here so that he could talk to her in private. She was not particularly looking forward to that conversation – she feared there was still a chance of her turning into a sniveling fool who would accuse him of ruining her dreams. The truth, the truth that stung awfully, was that her dreams had been stupid. And that loathsome Daniel Humphrey was right – she'd been a child crying for the moon... She barely managed to force herself to stop separating the lace from the silk of her handkerchief.
Then she stood up and approached the painting for a final look. She liked looking at Impressionist works from a close distance. It felt oddly reassuring. People still loved these paintings even though they knew they were such messes at their core. Maybe, then, someone could still love her if they found out that she wasn't a perfect uptown princess but a bundle of schemes and arrogance laced with insecurities.
She felt Chuck's presence behind her, and – once again that day – she was grateful that he remained quiet. Sometimes he would do such little things, right things, as though he knew her... She stifled a sigh. That was precisely why she had decided to come here with him. They had to have that conversation at last. Because she had started to think dangerous thoughts – she'd started to think he may love her after all, the real Blair, the Blair he used to know, not the Blair her mother told her she should be; she'd started to think that she loved this Chuck more than the one she'd dreamed up in her head. They were similar, for sure, this Chuck and that Chuck, but the real one was... more real, more like her. He was infuriating at times, of course, but he was also fun and... She shook her head. No. Those thoughts were dangerous. He had broken her heart, and she would never forgive him. Never.
Without looking at him, she found her way out of the building and into the park. The Jardin du Luxembourg had always been one of her favorite places in Paris, not because of Cosette and Marius (God, those two were so boring!) but because it was so different from Central Park and still so similar to it. Yet, today she barely saw it. The flowers, the statues, people... everything was a blur as she searched for a tranquil, secluded spot to calm her nerves before the inevitable.
Chuck found her in the shadow of an old elm tree. She didn't hear his footsteps. She recognized his cologne; she recognized the fluttering in her stomach and the tingling down her spine. Drawing in a long breath, she turned to him.
"Come on, tell me what you have to tell me, but it won't change anything." She wanted to throw the words in his face.
But no words came out of her parted lips. Perhaps this wasn't the right time for this conversation, after all. Because there was no way to deny it, even for her. She loved him still. But that didn't mean a thing. There were more important things than love. What was love, anyway? Maybe she didn't love him; she just had... certain feelings towards him. Yes, that was it...
"Marry me."
As prepared for something similar as she was, the words caught her off guard.
"No," she managed, although the word was not as scathing as she would have hoped. It was hard to be strong when she had wanted to hear those words so much only a fortnight before.
"I am so sorry for the pain I have caused you, Blair."
She thwarted his attempt to take her hand into his.
"I know I cannot take it back, but I want to atone for it, even if it takes me my whole life."
She felt tears in the corners of her eyes. It wasn't fair! It just wasn't... He was supposed to be a villain.
And she was supposed to hate him. And to be furious at his audacity. But he looked so earnest, and his eyes – those eyes she loved so much – were pleading with her, and she wanted nothing more than say yes and kiss him. She couldn't, though; she simply could not.
"You wanted Satine, not Blair," she said because she desperately needed to speak and she couldn't think of anything else to say.
"I didn't know Blair."
She did not let the regret that seemed to be seeping into his voice affect her. And she moved her hand so that it was beyond his reach again.
"Because you didn't want to!" she accused. "I thought I was doing everything right. I was doing everything wrong."
She looked down at her gloves for a second, not liking how small her voice had become towards the end of her last sentence.
"Blair-"
"You preferred a burlesque dancer," she took a step back, "one you believed was a tramp, as well, to me."
He ran a hand through his hair. "But you are Satine!"
"No, I am not."
"Changing your name doesn't change who you are."
"But it does, don't you see?" she insisted stubbornly. "When I was Blair Waldorf, I was of no interest or importance to you. I... I loved you and you didn't take a second look at me. When I was Satine, you worshiped me."
Chuck sighed. "That still doesn't change the fact that Blair and Satine are the same person." He finally managed to capture her hand, and she wasn't sure why, but she let him hold it. "I am sorry."
No, he was not. He could not be. Because she couldn't change her mind. She couldn't let him hurt her again.
So she started her little speech, the one that had been in her head for quite a few days.
"And yet, I am grateful to you," she said. "You made me see that there is no such thing as love. At least not for men. Love – all that is an illusion. We fool ourselves to feel noble. For, how undignified it would be to think that all those sonnets were written about carnal desires only."
He shook his head, resolute. "A few weeks ago, Blair, I would have been inclined to agree with you. Now I cannot."
She could not handle that look in his eyes any longer.
"For now I know that love is real. What I feel for you is real."
Their intertwined fingers disappeared from her sight, and she felt his lips on the inside of her wrist, on her pulse point. She let herself savor the kiss, just this once... But she couldn't let him gain an advantage...
"I don't believe you," she said, perhaps a tad too breathlessly.
"Be that as it may," she added moments later, her voice firm, "I don't love you anymore."
He squeezed her hand lightly. "You didn't love me, Blair. You couldn't have, not when you didn't know me. But, for these past two weeks..."
He touched her chin and she looked up, reluctant. She knew all too well that those amber eyes could do indescribable things to her heart and her mind, they always could.
"I know you feel it, too. You and I are magnetic. We are so different, yet the same. We were made for each other."
His voice was all but irresistible, and he was so convincing... If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was sincere, she would have believed him.
"I will never marry you," she snapped, pulling her hand away. "Or, were you intending to keep me as your mistress now that... now?"
"You know I want to marry you. I always have."
She could feel her nostrils flare. "Funny, I don't remember things the same way."
"I love you, Blair, and you will be my wife."
It must have been the utter conviction in his voice that definitely set her off. "I. Will. Not." She gathered her skirt. "Go ahead, tell everyone if you want to, ruin me for good, but I will never be your wife. I would rather die!"
It didn't matter if that was true or not, not now. Now she just needed to get away from him. Clutching her skirt with one hand and her handkerchief with another, she walked as fast and as far as her feet (or rather, her uncomfortable shoes) would carry her.