Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DAPHNE
I never knew a wedding could be so beautiful. I’ve heard of lovely weddings. Of the extravagant ceremonies that have become popular amongst humans and seelie fae. But this is my first time witnessing one. It’s so different from how I imagined it could be. When I entered seelie society, all I knew of marriage was its practical aspects. The importance of making a fine match based on certain statistics. Even amongst the working class, most of my peers marry quickly, especially those who favor human values of chastity and propriety, the whole of their relationships formed in view of chaperones and friends. It’s what I resigned myself to when I decided a husband would be the surest way to get out of my handfasting.
It was enough for me. I hadn’t experienced sexual attraction to a specific person before, so what did it matter how I found my husband? I figured I’d enjoy him well enough, so long as he fulfilled my purposes. So long as I could continue to paint.
But now I have experienced attraction. Desire. And, more recently, bone-deep pleasure and satisfaction at the hands of a lover.
I can’t help wondering…will I miss out on something greater, a love of the heart, if I settle on a marriage of necessity?
After the ceremony, I make my way to the ballroom with the other guests. I do my best to keep my breathing steady amongst so many strangers, so much chatter. The wedding party left the ceremony separately, which means I am without anyone I know. For now. Monty promised he’d come find me as soon as he could.
My chest tightens at the thought of him. Of the unfettered emotion on his face during the ceremony. For how often he acts flippant and careless, there’s a deep well of empathy and kindness inside him. And a deep well of pain, too. Pain I don’t fully understand.
Once inside the ballroom, an usher guides me to a table where I find my name on a place card. My heart leaps with relief when I find Monty’s and Angela’s cards at the same table. Other than me, the table is empty, and I’m not sure whether to feel anxious or relieved about that. I’ve done my best to prepare myself for the inevitable—talking to strangers—but I can’t help dreading it. I sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting and mentally rehearse polite small talk.
Finally, once everyone is settled at their tables, the bride, groom, and their wedding party enter the ballroom to soft applause. The string quartet plays a lovely melody as the group makes their way across the dance floor to the empty tables. Monty gives me a wink as soon as our eyes meet, and I feel every muscle in my body relax.
He, Angela, and two others from the wedding party settle in at the table. I smile at Monty as he takes his seat beside me. He leans in close and I find myself leaning in as well, as if magnetized to his presence. “Did you like the ceremony?” he whispers.
“I did,” I say, my voice a little breathless as my eyes drop to his mouth.
Then my breath catches.
Because that’s when I notice the warm hand on my stockinged thigh, just beneath the hem of my skirt. The touch isn’t groping or belligerent. It’s…comforting. The way Monty placed it there felt as natural as breathing. It’s only my mind that realizes this isn’t the kind of touch one generally does in public. Not that anyone can see us, hidden as we are beneath the table skirt.
Monty stiffens, realizing what I already have. His ears burn crimson and he drags his hand away, straightening his posture. I’m grateful he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he gives me a shy smile.
“Mr. Phillips,” says a voice on my other side. My shoulders tighten as the stranger angles himself toward us. He’s a male with rounded ears—human, or perhaps half human like Thorne; it truly is impossible to tell with most hybrids—and expertly styled brown hair. He glances from Monty to me and back again. “Are you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”
I curl my fingers at my sides, bracing myself for the small talk I’ve dreaded. When Monty doesn’t speak, I look his way, finding his jaw tight. Then, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and a tone that lacks all warmth, he says, “Mr. Wright, allow me to introduce Miss Daphne Hartford.”
I startle at the sound of my newly acquired surname. I’d almost forgotten about choosing it, what with the mind-blowing pleasure that followed shortly after its conception.
“Miss Hartford,” Monty says, “meet Patrick Wright.”
“A pleasure,” the man named Patrick says, offering his hand for me to shake. I’m surprised, as a handshake is considered an almost vulgar greeting between opposite sexes—a gender divide I’ve never been fond of. I suppose it earns him at least a smidge of my respect.
I place my gloved hand in his and remind myself of my purpose during tonight’s ball. My courtship lesson. I train my voice into something soft and feminine and reply with the expected greeting. “The pleasure is mine.”
During dinner, Mr. Wright seeks my attention again and again, asking casual questions about me, my work, and my hobbies. To my surprise, he doesn’t so much as blanch when I mention the covers I’m illustrating, nor does he belittle my choice of career. Unlike some men I’ve spoken to in the past, he doesn’t talk about my workplace aspirations like they’re something temporary, a passing fancy until I marry. Instead, he praises my work ethic and my involvement with the arts. He tells me about himself as well. He’s the youngest son of a wealthy family and an attorney.
Despite coming across as a respectful and decent man, I’d rather be talking with Monty or even Angela. Still, I force myself to maintain conversation, to continue to modulate my voice, speak in a feminine tone, and keep eye contact at the right times. Tonight isn’t about enjoying my time with Monty. It’s about performing for his case study.
Aren’t I doing this to find a husband too? a small voice inside me asks. It’s almost mocking, as if it’s aware of the doubts that have taken root inside me. But of course it’s aware. That voice is mine, just like the doubts are. The doubts that question whether I truly want to secure a husband like this.
I must get out of my handfasting , I argue back to those doubts.
Do you?
Yes.
But do you truly need a husband to do so?
My mind goes blank at that. It won’t be entirely necessary if I’m promoted during my performance review. If I can state, without an ounce of deception, that my career is so secure and so important to me that I must remain living in Jasper, Clyde and Elder Rhisha will free me from my vow. But that’s only if I’m promoted to full-time illustrator. My position as an editorial assistant isn’t enough. One short-term commission for four book covers isn’t enough. I know that down to my bones, and belief is everything when it comes to speaking truth as a fae. Which means marriage is still the surest way. A legal bond that’s stronger than my year-and-a-day engagement to Clyde.
Yet my doubts pierce my heart whenever I catch Monty watching me and Patrick. The tightness that never leaves the set of his jaw. The way his hand brushes my thigh now and then, his touch too lingering to be accidental. Though he does nothing to pull me from my conversation with Mr. Wright, I can sense how badly he wishes to.
Or perhaps I’m the one who wishes he would.
After dinner, Briony and Thorne take their places at the center of the dance floor. The string quartet plays a waltz, and the couple swishes and sways alone under the beautifully painted dome, their steps graceful. Then the air shimmers and the painting…moves.
No, it’s not the painting but an enchantment that casts the room under an indigo haze, glittering with luminescent auroras that ripple overhead. My mouth falls open at the magic on display. Monty told me Briony is a succubus with powerful dream magic. She can pull subjects into dreams and can even conjure dreamscapes for others to see while awake.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Monty whispers. A shudder runs down my spine, doubling as his knuckles caress the back of my hand beneath the tablecloth.
Keeping my gaze on the elegant couple dancing beneath the dreamscape, I splay my fingers, gently catching his, and lace them together. His hand stills, and I wonder if my touch was too bold. Then he adjusts his palm so he’s holding mine tighter. Firmer. He runs his thumb over my hand in the sweetest, softest caress. My lungs tighten, my heart fluttering, tumbling, like it might fall out of my chest.
“Daph,” he whispers, quiet enough for only me to hear, “dance with me?—”
“Miss Hartford.” Patrick rises from his chair and extends a hand. “Will you do me the honor of your first dance?”
I blink at him, then at the dance floor. Only now do I notice other couples have joined the bride and groom. My heart falls as I realize Monty was about to ask me the same question. He’d just been too quiet for Patrick to hear, our linked hands hidden from view. Our connection invisible.
Yet how can he not see it anyway? How can he not feel the pulse in the air between me and Monty? The magnetic force that nearly has me leaning into the man I?—
Monty’s grip loosens and he rises from his chair.
Relief washes over me as I expect him to correct Patrick, to inform him he’d already been in the process of asking me.
But he doesn’t.
“Excuse me,” he says, voice tight, then walks away.
My hand feels cold where his palm had been.
“Miss Hartford?” Mr. Wright’s smiling face wrinkles with a furrow. His hand remains extended toward me, awaiting my answer. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” I say in a rush, my mind whirling to catch up with what’s happening. What needs to happen. Monty didn’t leave because he’s upset or jealous. He left to give me no qualms about accepting Mr. Wright’s offer. Because that is what I’m supposed to do. That is the purpose of this weekend’s lesson—demonstrating courtship during formal events.
I bite the inside of my cheek to fight the urge to run and hide. To refuse.
“I…yes, I will dance,” I say with feigned warmth. I can’t even bring myself to say I’m honored or I’m happy to . Because I can’t lie.
We stand at the edge of the dance floor until the waltz comes to an end. Then we join the other dancers preparing for the quadrille. My pulse rackets. I may have grown more comfortable dancing in this body than I was at the gala two years ago, but in other ways, I’m more anxious. Maybe it’s because Mr. Wright has made his interest in me so clear.
Or maybe it’s because I wish I was dancing with Monty instead.
We begin our dance, circling each other to a jovial beat, then skipping to the side. Mr. Wright smiles all the while, his eyes on me even when we separate to weave through the other dancers. I’m grateful for the part of the dance when we momentarily trade partners, my lungs easing with every inch of space I’m awarded from him. Why the hell do I feel this way? This man has been nothing but respectful. He’s handsome, and even though I’m not personally attracted to him at this moment, I’ve learned attraction can grow through a deeper acquaintance.
We return to each other, linking hands and skipping to the side again.
“You dance well,” he says.
I don’t know whether the compliment is genuine, and my first instinct is to make some wry jest about how he must say that to all the ladies. Then I recall that’s not who I am tonight. Tonight, I’m a well-behaved woman seeking a suitor. Even though Monty told me not to pretend to be someone I’m not, I don’t know how else to act with a man like this. Being myself feels worse than putting on a subtle act. So instead, I return his hollow praise. “As do you.”
“I hope it’s not too bold of me to secure your company in the next dance as well.”
I nearly trip over my feet but somehow maintain my composure. “Two dances? In a row?” I know what two dances with the same gentleman means. It is undoubtedly a show of interest on his part. I remember this well from my days as a debutante. One dance is polite. Two dances are a demonstration of romantic intent. Three is scandalous.
“If you’ll have me,” he says.
We separate, circling the other dancers in the square, and giving me another break from Mr. Wright’s attention. I nibble my bottom lip, my urge to flee stronger than ever. Then the most welcome sight comes into view—Monty at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes on me, stalking me like prey as I move between the dancers. Our eyes remain locked, even as I return to Mr. Wright and skip to the side with him. Monty watches me with undeniable hunger, and I’m suddenly taken back to the first time we danced, at the gala.
I hadn’t donned seelie form in public since my debut several years prior. I was equal parts giddy and terrified as I danced with a partner for the first time. I was surprised by how quickly my dance card filled up and how eager my partners were to dance with someone as unskilled as I was. It was a charity event, after all, and a full dance card meant an ample donation from a benefactor. Then I saw Monty, circling the floor, watching my every move. Until one of my partners held me a little too tight, his hands roving a touch too low. That’s when Monty charged up and cut in on the dance, but not before squeezing my partner’s shoulder like he’d mangle it.
A tableau of the past plays out now, and my pulse quickens as I expect it to repeat in full. For Monty to stride over at any minute and cut in. Or, at the very least, claim my next dance before Mr. Wright can remind me of the question he left hanging between us.
Yet Monty doesn’t. Instead, he hovers, watching us, running a hand through his hair, over his jaw, like it’s taking all his restraint not to come over to me.
But I want him to. So badly I do, and not even just to rescue me from Patrick Wright. I don’t need to be rescued this time. Mr. Wright is gentlemanly and kind. He’s just…
He’s not Monty.
Monty is the one I want to dance with. I want the ballroom empty save for just the two of us. I want to leap on tables and laugh while we waltz. I want to run through the rain and hold hands while mud soaks the hems of our clothes.
I want Monty.
I…more than want him.
The dance comes to an end, and Monty still hasn’t interrupted us, though his shoulders are tense, his stare fierce.
I curtsy, thanking Mr. Wright for the dance. I already know what he’s going to say before he asks the next question.
“About the next dance?”
My stomach plummets, even as I reply, “Of course.”
Monty looks mutinous as we get into our places for the cotillion. The music starts. We exchange curtsies and bows, first with each other, then the other dancers. Mr. Wright takes my hand and we step from side to side, then do a skip and a hop, before joining hands with the others to skip in a circle.
“I’d like to call on you next Friday,” Mr. Wright says as we stand side by side, waiting our turn to perform the next steps.
I glance at him with wide eyes. “Pardon?”
“I’ll be in Jasper next weekend for work. I’d like to call on you then, if you don’t mind.”
My words stick in my throat. This is all moving so fast. I only met him an hour ago. Now he wants to call on me? There’s no convincing myself it isn’t out of romantic interest. This is how I always expected a courtship to go. I was taught they move fast. It’s why I thought my marriage solution was such a feasible one.
I open my mouth but I still don’t know what to say. Monty and I never got this far in our lessons. I only expected to engage in Lesson Three tonight, if anything. Though I suppose this is where Lesson Four comes in—waiting to see if his words align with his actions. Even if I allow him to call on me, there’s no guarantee he’ll follow through with it.
It’s our turn to skip forward and dance in a circle, which is when I catch sight of Monty again. Thorne is at his side, but Monty doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes watch only me.
Why doesn’t he move?
Move, Monty .
Don’t leave me to answer Mr. Wright’s question on my own . Not that he can hear our conversation. Not that he knows what’s running through my head. The wish that’s begun to burn in my heart.
Finally…he moves, taking a step onto the dance floor.
But Thorne stills him with a hand on his shoulder. Whispers something in his ear, expression serious.
Monty freezes.
His shoulders fall.
He watches me for a few beats longer, then marches out of sight.