Chapter Thirteen
Mavis was only half surprised when Rafe and Leif wanted to join her at Garlin’s summer regatta a few days after her trip to the modiste. While Rafe gave most Luster social events a wide berth and Leif couldn’t attend them if he wanted to, the summer regatta wasn’t strictly a Luster event.
They’d been hearing about it since they arrived in Garlin—stories of races past, the winners still crowing over their glory—but it hadn’t held much interest for her at first. Just another opportunity for Lusters to show off their magic.
But the regatta was something new—it was the first event Mavis knew of where Lusters and Lacks competed on something of an even playing field.
Lusters might have been able to use their gifts to urge their boats to speed around the peninsula, manipulating the wind, the sea, and plenty of other factors, but the Lacks now had steam engines that did the same thing, and so, after the Lacks and Lusters finished their races separately, the top teams from both would go head-to-head.
A Lack team had yet to win the whole event, but with each passing year and each advance in technology, the final race became ever closer.
So of course Rafe and Leif wanted to see it this year—enough so that Leif didn’t put up a fuss about playing the part of a servant.
The sun was only just risen when they trudged out of the hotel, giddiness filling in where sleep fell short, to set up a blanket on the sand bluff that overlooked the finish line.
Leif carried a wicker basket from the hotel kitchen, filled with wrapped sandwiches, a corked bottle of lemonade, and three delicate crystal glasses that seemed horribly impractical for the beach.
They were far from the first to arrive—from the vantage point of the bluff, Mavis could see hundreds of people gathered along the shoreline, a riot of brightly colored blankets spread out over the sand—but after a moment of scanning the crowd, she realized that none of them were Lusters.
“No doubt they’ll come later,” Rafe said when she pointed it out, reclining on the blanket on his elbows and looking more at ease than Mavis had seen him in recent years, barefoot in his linen suit, shirt unbuttoned to show a triangle of bronzed skin.
His dark-brown hair was windswept, curling rakishly over his hazel eyes.
“They wouldn’t deign to find entertainment in Lack sport,” Leif added.
It was unlucky that he had to wear the starched uniform of a servant—especially given the heat that would no doubt get worse as the day wore on—but Mavis knew he wouldn’t complain.
For now, he could sit with them on the blanket, legs crossed and jacket shrugged off, but once other Luster spectators began to arrive, he would have to keep his distance, standing tall and stoic until his assistance was requested.
It was always uncomfortable when he played the part of a servant—for Rafe even more than her.
Mavis looked out at the sea, placid and even, and the string of orange buoys that marked the path the boats would take.
To mark the finish line, two rowboats were anchored, a bright-red ribbon strung between them.
Clustered on the beach nearby was a gaggle of reporters clutching pens and notepads, and a handful of photographers with cameras perched on tripods.
The mayor stood on a wooden dais where three trophies were set up on pedestals, one twice the size of the others, a bullhorn in hand.
He used it to welcome everyone to the race and explained that in a few moments, the first race would begin and the competitors would embark on their journey around Garlin’s coast. The first three who crossed the finish line would move on to the final race.
A smattering of polite applause followed his words, and a moment later, a shot rang out from across town, barely audible in the still morning air.
“And they’re off!” the mayor bellowed into the bullhorn, and the crowd cheered.
Rafe glanced over at Mavis. “In that dress, Magpie, I worry you might cause a wreck.”
“The dress is the wreck,” Leif added with a laugh.
Mavis smoothed her hands over the crisp cotton skirt, tracing the vivid orange and green stripes.
It was certainly attention grabbing, but that was the point.
The colors clashed with her complexion and copper hair, just altogether wrong, and more than a couple reporters kept glancing their way, scribbling frantically in their notebooks, no doubt describing her ensemble in hideous detail.
Thaddeus would be mortified—which was the goal.
“I don’t know, I quite like it,” Mavis said with a wry smile. “It’s very . . . summery, don’t you think?”
“You look like a rotten pumpkin,” Leif informed her. When Mavis swatted his arm, he gave her a sheepish look. “A beautiful rotten pumpkin, of course.”
“Oh, I know that’s a lie.” Mavis laughed. “Let’s hope Thaddeus thinks the same.”
Rafe snorted. “I know the man isn’t the brightest star in the sky, but he does have eyes. You don’t think it’s too much?”
It was true that she usually started out more subtly when it came to driving off her fiancés. “After I unwittingly started a new trend in Laskill, I didn’t want to risk doing the same here.”
“Even your powers of persuasion have their limits,” Leif said.
Mavis smiled, pleased with how strong the reactions to her outfit were already. She couldn’t wait for Thaddeus to arrive. He and Oriana were participating in the day’s races, but they were supposed to stop by to say hello before the Luster portion began.
The second phase of the con had always been Mavis’s favorite.
Seducing a man was one thing, but repelling him?
That was where she could truly have fun, and Mavis took her fun where she could find it.
While the first phase had been refined to a precise formula, the second was where she was able to improvise, drawing it out so she could coax a few expensive gifts or investments in Rafe’s made-up hotel project along the way to sweeten the pot. The dress was only the beginning.
Arden didn’t know what to expect of the regatta—especially given his aunt’s insistence that he attend while she stayed home.
“Believe me, Arden, I’ve seen enough races to last a lifetime, and stepping outside feels like walking into an oven—I can’t abide it,” she told him when she waved him off.
He was dressed in the new suit she’d insisted he order for the occasion: cream linen trousers and a matching jacket with a sky blue shirt underneath that the tailor instructed him to leave unbuttoned at the top, which he swore was the new style among gentlemen.
Arden took his word for it, even after his aunt proclaimed that he looked like a dockworker.
He was just approaching the beach near the finish line when a deafening cheer roared through the crowd gathered, camped out on picnic blankets, dressed in an array of pastel shades. A boat whipped into sight, flying over the surface of the ocean like a skipping pebble.
Gods of Old, it was fast. He stopped to watch it tear through the red ribbon that marked the finish line, a full half a minute ahead of the next closest boat.
He might not have known much about boats—as he’d been forced to admit when sorting through the wreckage of what was left of his grandfather’s shipping company—but he never imagined they could move like that.
He tore his gaze away from the boat, which proceeded to celebrate its victory, speeding up and down the shore while the crew shouted and cheered, and searched the crowd of spectators for a familiar face.
The dress caught his eye first—the clash of orange and green sticking out in a sea of pastels like a parrot among doves—and his chest tightened.
He hadn’t seen Mavis since her appointment at the modiste, but the image of her there had replayed so often in his mind that he felt like she was haunting him: standing close enough to touch, her bright-green eyes holding his gaze as she shrugged off her dressing gown in a flutter of peach silk.
As you said, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.
Arden had, indeed, said that, but he’d been proven wrong.
While the memory of her in his bed had haunted him for years, driving him mad with wanting, he was certain his imagination had exaggerated, creating an ideal no woman could ever hope to live up to.
But when she’d dropped her dressing gown and stood there bold as the noon sun in only a pair of lacy bloomers, he understood that his memory had been utterly incompetent.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the expanse of her skin, fair and freckled and flushed.
He saw the generous curve of her breasts, tipped with rose pink nipples that stiffened under his gaze like she could feel every last thing he wanted to do to her in that moment.
He saw the fire in her emerald gaze as it held his, her lips slightly parted on a sigh.
If she’d been hoping to prove that Arden still wanted her, she’d succeeded, but she’d proven something else—that she wanted him in turn.
Arden felt as if his feet were rooted into the sand where he stood, unwilling to approach her or walk away. They still had a deal—he still needed her—but the price had gotten steeper. Two million solas was no longer enough. She wanted his sanity as well.
Mavis didn’t notice him right away, too busy cheering with Rafe standing on one side of her, Thaddeus Mayles on the other. Leif stood a few feet behind them, hands clasped behind his back, and Oriana Mayles remained seated on the picnic blanket, a spill of pale-green skirts spread around her.
Rafe saw him first, and his eyes narrowed as he said something to Mavis, who turned toward him. She hesitated for only an instant before she lifted a hand in a wave, beckoning him over.