Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DAPHNE
T he Cyllene Ballroom is even more beautiful in person than any of the pictures I’ve seen. It’s a circular room with a domed ceiling painted in the most exquisite hues from the darkest blue to vibrant pink, purple, aqua, and gold. I haven’t seen anything more breathtaking. It’s a meteor shower brought to life with paint and paint alone. No enchantment like the ceiling in the main part of the hotel. No tricks of light.
“Your reaction isn’t much unlike my own when I first saw this,” Briony says.
I realize I’m gawking, but at least I’m not the only one. Angela and Tilly look equally as impressed. I draw my gaze to the rest of the room. Tables and chairs have been set up around the perimeter behind the row of intricately carved columns that separate the dining area from the dance floor. The room is half set up for an event—for Briony’s wedding, I assume—with ribbons tied around the columns and half the tables set with silk cloth and empty vases, the rest bare.
“May I practice my dances, Mama?” Tilly asks, grinning wide to reveal adorable buck teeth.
Briony strokes her daughter’s hair. “Of course, love.”
Angela leans down slightly and speaks in a gentle tone. “May I dance with you?”
Tilly’s cheeks turn pink, but she gives a bashful nod. The two scurry to the center of the dance floor.
“The porter will bring your art supplies as soon as your luggage arrives from the station,” Briony says. “I’ll wait with you until then.”
“You don’t have to,” I rush to say. “None of us brought much, so it won’t be long.”
“Well, I can hardly interrupt their fun now, can I?” Briony nods toward Tilly and Angela, who’ve begun dancing a reel. “How about we take a turn about the room?”
My pulse quickens. I haven’t been asked to take a turn about the room since my debutante days. It was always an opportunity to sneak in gossip or make some clever quip that was meant to be overheard by the room at large. Never for me, of course. I never understood the veiled humor or the subtext beneath my companions’ beautiful words. When I spoke, I spoke plainly, and I expected the same in return. We were taught to be polite and demure, after all. Polite and demure ended up being nothing more than a mask for some of the girls. And I was their easy target. I was the prey that used to be the hunter.
“We can simply walk and talk,” Briony says as if reading the tension in my posture. She clasps her hands behind her back, not making any move to touch me or pull me close to whisper salacious gossip in my ear.
My stomach uncoils. Right. Briony isn’t like the debutantes who teased me to my face. And I’m not the same girl I was then. I’m now familiar with the scent of dishonest assholes. Briony isn’t one of them.
We take a leisurely stroll around the perimeter of the dance floor while Angela and Tilly continue to practice the reel. Angela appears to be a skilled dancer, but I’m surprised that Tilly is as well. From what little about Briony I managed to learn from Monty, I know she loves to dance and teaches lessons to the girls at the convent school where she was raised. Turns out the former princess thing really is a long story. Something about a sleeping spell and family curses.
“I hope Monty doesn’t get Thorne into too much trouble tonight,” Briony grumbles.
“There isn’t a boxing arena here, is there?”
“No, I don’t believe so. But there is ample liquor. Thorne will probably end up spending his whole evening sobering up Monty like usual.” She says the last part with a chuckle.
I frown. “Monty doesn’t drink, though.”
Her face whips toward mine. “He doesn’t? Since when?”
“He hasn’t since I’ve known him. I believe he quit shortly before we set off on the tour we managed. So a couple years, perhaps.”
She tilts her head to the side. “I had no idea. How unexpectedly responsible of him.”
As her eyes grow distant, I wonder if I’ve given away some secret of Monty’s. He did nothing to hide his sobriety from us on tour, though he didn’t make a big deal out of it either. He only stated he no longer imbibed because he was a working man now and needed to be responsible. Maybe he just never found it pertinent to mention to Briony and Thorne.
“Equally as unexpected,” Briony says, recovering from her momentary shock, “is that he brought you. I never thought Monty would bring a date to my wedding.”
I shrink down a little. “Oh, is that offensive? Since he’s your former fiancé?”
She barks a laugh. “Stars, no, that’s not what I meant at all. It’s more…I haven’t seen him court anyone.”
“We’re not courting,” I say, waving my hands. “We’re former colleagues, but now we’re just…friends.”
“ Just friends?”
Why is my heart pounding so hard? “We had a falling out, but we’ve recently reconnected. But yes, we’re…friends. Furthermore, he’s helping me find a husband.”
Briony rolls her eyes. “Monty and his matchmaking. The gall of that man taking credit for people’s relationships when he hardly has a hand in it. That’s not matchmaking. That’s just…observation and interference.”
I give her a wry grin. Now that I’ve seen Briony, Thorne, and Monty interact, I understand how much of their affection for each other is layered with insults. It made me bristle at first, but now I know it’s a product of their brutally honest friendship. I admit, though, I am a little jealous. Briony must know Monty a thousand times better than I do. She’s known him much longer.
That does make me wonder…
“So, you’ve really never seen him court anyone?” I ask, keeping my voice level and my steps measured. Just a casual question. No reason to act too interested in the answer.
“Not unless I count Cosette Dervins, but I’d hardly call that courtship.” Her expression sours.
My pulse leaps at the name. “You know Cosette?”
She halts in place and whirls to me with wide eyes. “I’m more surprised you do. Please tell me she isn’t stalking him again.”
I pause too, pulling my head back. “I only heard about her on the train yesterday when Angela mentioned her. She was his stalker? Not his first love?”
“Oh, she was his first love, as far as Thorne has told me.”
We resume our stroll and Briony waves at Tilly. She and Angela link arms and skip in a circle, then switch arms and repeat the move in the opposite direction.
“Monty says he was terrible to her,” I say. “Is that true?”
“I mean, he wasn’t pleasant to her, but she was one of the least pleasant people I’ve ever met.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “She befriended Angela just to get close to Monty. Angie doesn’t know, and no one—including me—wants to tell her. Back then, Angie was bullied by her schoolmates, and Cosette was her only friend. As soon as Monty made it clear to Cosette, once and for all, that he was never going to be with her, she stopped talking to Angie completely. Thankfully Angie has a bevy of good friends now.”
My heart aches for Angela. No wonder Monty was so furtive yet sharp when his sister mentioned Cosette on the train.
Briony speaks again. “Even if not for how she was using Angela, I disliked her on principle alone. She had the audacity to try to interfere with my engagement to Monty, trying to seduce him right before my eyes. I didn’t exactly mind, since I so vehemently disliked him, but she disrespected me regardless. Thorne’s last words to her were something along the lines of fuck off , and that’s a sentiment neither of us are keen on revoking anytime soon.” She gives me a conspiratorial grin.
I return the smile, then ask, “Do you still dislike Monty?”
“No, I like him well enough now. The more I get to know him, the more I feel like we don’t know him at all. That he keeps his heart hidden. Yet I can tell he loves Thorne and Angie. I saw the emotion in his eyes when he met Tilly.”
My chest tightens at the memory. I sensed it before I saw it, my inner hunter alerting me to vulnerable prey. He radiated with a need to hide, to pretend, to camouflage with his surroundings like a mouse in the underbrush. That’s when I did the one thing I could think to do. I slapped his cheeks.
“I wonder if there’s a reason he keeps people at a distance,” Briony says, expression thoughtful. Then she shakes the look from her face and gives me another wicked grin. “I think the worst thing about him is that he hates dancing. Who could ever hate dancing?”
“Does he?” I arch my brows. That’s the first time I’m hearing of this. “I suppose that explains why he was so bad at it.”
Briony halts in place again. “He danced with you?”
I nod. “During the tour we managed. There was a gala and I danced in public for the first time. He claims one of my partners had wandering hands, and he stepped in.”
Briony’s gaze turns assessing. “Is that so?”
“I had no idea he hated dancing. There’s so much about him I don’t know.”
“On the contrary,” she says, her clever grin lifting her lips once more, “I think you might know him better than any of us.”
Several hours later, I’m lost in the pleasure of my art. I’m alone now, Briony, Angela, and Tilly having left long ago, and only have my sketchbook and canvas for company. I didn’t bring my easel, so my canvas lies over a spare tablecloth on the floor. Several sheets of paper are strewn around me, featuring every angle I’ve sketched the ballroom from. Once I settled on an angle I liked best, I began a clean sketch on the canvas. Now I glance from the sketch to the room, dreaming up what colors I might use once I begin the painting stage back home. Cerulean blue here. Cobalt violet there. Titanium white mixed with yellow ochre to highlight the glow of the?—
“I thought I might find you here.” Monty’s voice has me leaping in place. I didn’t hear him enter the room or notice when he leaned against the nearby column.
I set down my graphite and shift on my knees to face him, smoothing my wrinkled skirt to no avail. I probably should have changed from my day dress into my casual attire, but I was too excited to get started after my art supplies arrived. After that, I forgot what I was wearing entirely and hiked my skirt to my knees, smearing graphite along the way. Yet there’s no reason to be self-conscious around Monty. Especially since he’s equally as unkempt as I am right now.
My gaze sweeps over him. His hair is even more mussed than usual, his cravat absent, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his shirt half tucked and open at the collar. His cheeks are flushed and his eyelids are heavy. He looks very much like someone who just rolled out of his lover’s bed. Wait…did he? Was Thorne’s stag party of an indecent nature after all?
A strange sensation tightens in my chest, followed by a pinch of fiery hot rage.
He straightens, pushing off the column as his brow knits into a furrow. “What’s that angry little look for? Are you upset I didn’t come sooner?”
I blink, smoothing my expression as best I can. I hadn’t realized I’d worn my emotions so plainly on my face. “Look? What look?”
He saunters over to me. “I came as soon as the party ended. What a fucking chore. I had no idea being dubbed best man meant I had to do everything Thorne said. I was practically his waiter and jester. Can you believe he made me dance shirtless on a table? It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it, which is why Thorne insisted, but it was certainly the first time I’ve done it sober.”
My rage melts out of me. That’s why he’s in such a disorderly state? Because he had to strip for his friend? A grin curves my lips. “Wish I’d seen that.”
“I bet you do. You’d have laughed or savored every second to draw later. Probably both.”
“You didn’t have to do it, though, did you? You could have refused. I don’t think best man comes with a binding bargain, even if your friend is half fae.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Perhaps, but it was his stag party, and this is his wedding weekend. The least I can do is make a fool of myself and dance like an idiot.”
I’m reminded of what Briony told me. I keep my voice nonchalant as I ask, “But don’t you hate dancing?”
“Not particularly. Though this wasn’t exactly dancing, it was merely me shaking my ass and—ooooh.” He nods, a glint of realization in his eyes. “Briony told you, didn’t she?”
I give him a sheepish smile.
“Of course I told her I hated dancing when we were engaged. She loves it, and I needed her to hate me thoroughly.”
“So you don’t hate dancing? Because you danced with me one time, and I’d feel bad if you’d hated it all along?—”
He steps forward and thrusts his hand toward me. “Come on.”
I stare at his open palm. “What?”
“Just take it. Let me show you how much I hate dancing.”
I frown, then reluctantly place my palm in his. All at once, he pulls me up. As soon as I’m on my feet, he places his other hand at the center of my back and begins skipping to the side. A burst of laughter leaves my lips as I stumble to mirror his movements. We skip and turn onto the empty dance floor, our steps echoing through the room.
“What are we doing?” I ask, my voice strangled with mirth.
“The gallopade.”
“Yes, but why?”
“To show you how much I hate dancing.”
“This doesn’t feel like hate.”
“That’s because it isn’t. You see, I like dancing. With you.” Our eyes lock as he speaks. My heart takes a tumble, and my feet nearly do too before he shouts, “The waltz!”
He leads me into a slower tempo, allowing me to catch my breath. We step and turn in a circle, light on our feet, and I realize this is the dance we shared at the gala so many months ago.
“We were clumsy last time,” I say, recalling how often I stepped on his feet.
“We were. I think we laughed the entire song.”
“We’re laughing now.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “True, but look how much more graceful we are. Especially you. Have you been practicing?”
Every inch of my skin flushes at his praise. I shrug. “I think I’m merely more comfortable in this body. I did learn the steps long ago.”
“Right. During your debut season.”
“My season ended before the first ball.”
“Shame on everyone else for missing out on your company. If only your enemies could see you now, a goddess of grace.”
I scoff. “Goddess?”
“The polka.”
A squeal leaves my lips as he increases our tempo and transitions us into another skipping dance. This time, he leads us off the dance floor and straight for the perimeter, which is crowded with tables and chairs. I gasp as we skip along, Monty expertly leading every twist and hop around the furnishings. Then he does the last thing I’m prepared for.
He leaps onto one of the chairs. Before I can collide with it, he reaches for my waist, hefts me up, and plants me on the chair next to him. From there, he steps onto the table and pulls me up after him, where we seamlessly continue our polka. Thankfully, this portion of the room hasn’t been set up for the wedding yet, so the tabletops are bare and free from items we could damage or trip over.
My heart slams against my ribs, both from my surprise and the pace of our dance. After we skip across the table, Monty leads me down the chairs, to the floor, then onto the next table over. His shoes slide on the surface, but he manages to keep his balance.
“This is dangerous,” I say, my cheeks aching from how much I’m laughing.
“But so much fun.” His grin is as wide as mine, taking years off his visage. “I see the way you leap on your furnishings at home. It feels a lot like how you move when you’re a pine marten, doesn’t it? That’s why you do it.”
My cheeks grow hot. “You noticed?”
He nods, his dimples deeper than ever. “It’s cute.”
Cute. I may have been offended at being called cute when I was a pine marten, but now…
Now it makes me feel seen in a way I never have before. He’s seen and known both sides of me. The little fae creature. The woman who isn’t quite at home in her body. He’s witnessed those sides collide when I’m in the comfort of my home…and thinks it’s cute.
Something warm and bright spreads through my chest, my limbs.
“The waltz,” Monty says, and we return to our previous dance, shifting and swaying upon the table. With our foot space now limited, I step in closer to Monty, the fronts of our bodies only inches apart. His hand moves lower down my back, making my breath hitch. I’m suddenly aware of the heat of his palm, the firmness of his shoulder beneath my hand, the feel of the two hands we hold clasped together.
I can’t tear my gaze from his face, from the intensity in his gray eyes, the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, the bob of his throat, the nearness of his lips. I’m struck by the urge to taste them, to run my tongue over his bottom lip and drag my teeth over it. To press our mouths together and breathe in the scent of him?—
He lowers his head and heaves a sigh, our dance slowing to stillness. “It’s late.” His words come out rough, and it takes him an extra moment to release my hand. The palm at my back is the last to come away as he takes a slow step back. Though the mirth hasn’t left his face, there is something like fatigue in his eyes. Fatigue or…regret, perhaps? “We should retire to our rooms. It’s past midnight.”
“It is?” I blink at the ballroom with fresh eyes. I hadn’t realized I’d been drawing so long.
He hops down from the table and offers his hand to me. I take it, and he helps me down, even though I don’t really need his aid.
“I’ll come see you tomorrow, after I’ve fulfilled more best man duties,” he says as we return to my canvas. “We can go over our lesson plan.”
My mind is slow to process his words. “Oh, right. The case study.”
“The case study,” he echoes, a distant quality to his voice. This time I know for certain there’s regret in his tone, but he shakes the mood away as I gather up my supplies. “Speaking of, do you have any requests for the lessons you’d like to demonstrate?”
I grimace.
“You still haven’t read my book?”
“I will.”
“You said that last week, and you, Daffy Dear, aren’t supposed to lie.”
“It wasn’t a lie at the time,” I say as I carefully tuck my sketches back into my book. “I had every intention to read it. I simply…didn’t.”
“Why not? Are you worried I’m a terrible writer?”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m worried it will be full of perversion and lecherousy.”
He huffs. “Lecherousy. Is that even a word? If you’re worried about tainting your angelic perception of me, then do avoid Chapter Eight.”
I hug my sketchbook to my chest and heft my canvas under my arm. “What’s in Chapter Eight?”
“I said don’t read it, didn’t I? Just read the first seven chapters. That’s all we need to focus on for now.”
I smirk, knowing I most certainly am going to read Chapter Eight, just to see what he doesn’t want me to read. We leave the ballroom, our shoulders nearly brushing as we stroll down the main hall toward the staircase that leads to the suites. Every now and then he glances over at me, just as I’m glancing at him. We look away each time, grinning to ourselves, and I can’t help but wonder if he feels the same way I do: regret that our playful dance had to end.