Chapter 37
Yvette
Yvette brought the mulled wine to her lips.
The flavor of cranberries and spice washed over her tongue.
Its welcomed warmth spread through her body.
It was the traditional drink of the Holly Feast, ideal for keeping the seasonal chill at bay.
The Northall vintage was better than any she had ever tasted.
Yet it was not enough to quell the bitterness lingering beneath Victor’s placid mask.
She’d even worn one of his favorite gowns, with a heart shaped neckline that accented the swell of her breasts, giving them an appearance of fullness they did not truly possess.
Even so, he’d hardly spared her a glance all evening.
His attention was fixed on Lord Caspian, seated at the center of the head table.
To his right, Prince Gilbert laughed as if they were the oldest of friends.
To his left was his Keira. Certainly, he had polished her up from the wild thing she had been when she’d first arrived.
Her hair had been tamed and curled. The gown she wore, satin the color of aged gold, was voluminous in the skirt but hugged her full figure in a way that would be the envy of every woman in attendance.
But there was no hiding the coarseness beneath.
It wasn’t as though Yvette was one to judge meager beginnings, but she liked to think she blended more naturally into this life.
But Keira’s apparent disregard of societal standards was hardly her greatest offense in Victor’s eyes.
He’d gone on for sometime about how it should be Priscilla sitting there, and him beside her.
Then he’d have the opportunity to charm the prince, perhaps begin to repair the trust between his house and the crown.
And yet, to his great chagrin, here they sat, not even at the head table.
Despite all his efforts to make Keira look foolish at dinners, or how many jabs he took at her manners (always veiled enough not to be rude), he was making no headway in dislodging her.
The lord seemed to find her coarse blunders endearing.
It was clear enough, to Yvette at least, that she wasn’t just a favored mistress to him.
He loved her. In fact, Caspian had already approached Victor about altering their agreement.
He’d broken a washbasin before Yvette had been able to sate his temper.
She knew Victor had once hoped to celebrate Priscilla’s marriage on this very night.
At least the preparations for the feast had delayed the inevitable.
Beside her, Victor drained his goblet, a flicker of dangerous intent in his eye.
Yvette swallowed. She’d hardly ever seen him this set on anything, at least not something he could not seem to achieve.
As was tradition, the formal dinner ended with a toast given by the host. Lord Caspian spoke about hopes for a mild winter, thanks for good wine and good company. Yvette barely listened. She was too aware of Victor’s eyes scanning the lords and lesser nobles in attendance, calculating.
When the dancing began, many eager couplings took to the floor.
“Find someone to dance with,” Victor said to his sister, hardly sparing her a glance.
“We can’t have you seen as a wallflower tonight.
” Yvette understood his reasoning at once.
He couldn’t make it seem as if Priscilla had no prospects but to wait for the lord to tire of his new plaything, not when the news of his talks with Lord Caspian were so widely known.
Priscilla nodded and drifted away to speak with Lady Proudmoore’s youngest son. An interesting choice, Yvette thought. He was a rather spindly young man, hardly handsome, though exceedingly rich.
“Come, pet,” Victor said, drawing a finger lightly down the inside of her arm before wandering casually through the crowd. Yvette followed closely behind him.
Royce Highgrove was standing alone at the outskirts of the dance floor.
Though he was passably attractive, his solitude was unsurprising as his reputation was established enough through the noble families to scare off most eligible prospects.
Yvette was familiar firsthand with his uncouth and presumptuous advances.
Even as they approached, his eyes traced shamelessly down Yvette’s form.
Her breath caught as she glanced at Victor, who was ordinarily incensed by such attentions, but he wore nothing but a jovial smile.
“Lord Redfield,” Royce greeted him, nodding to recognize him as the superior of rank.
“Royce, it is good to see you, even if we are frozen half to death.”
“I must say, you seem in better spirits than I would have suspected.” Royce smirked. “The rumor mill has been spinning about the upcoming engagement of the new lord to your sister, and here he is dancing with that lovely creature.”
Victor placed a begrudging mask upon his face as if it were only a minor annoyance. Yvette’s eyes narrowed. What game was he playing?
“Well, a lord is entitled to his toys.” Victor reached up, smoothing his finger over Yvette’s neck.
She stiffened slightly under his touch. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks.
He gave her another possessive stroke. She could read the glimmer in his eye not to take the sentiment to heart. Games are games, darling.
Royce watched the touch with singular focus, before turning his gaze exactly where Victor wanted it. Yvette caught on. He’d baited the hook. Victor took a sip of his wine as he waited for the fool to bite.
“Who is she anyway?” he asked, his eyes following Keira’s movements.
“I believe he met her during his time as a soldier,” Victor said dully, as if the subject bored him. “You know how their tastes run.”
Royce’s eyes widened slightly.
“She propositioned me once. It seems she’s developed a taste for a bit of noble cock,” Victor paused. Yvette turned to him with a startled expression. “Of course I refused her,” he said placatingly.
She knew it was a lie. It wasn’t jealousy coursing through her, but shock that he would imply such a thing, and to Royce Highgrove of all people. He’d all but thrown her to a wolf.
“Of course,” Royce echoed. Clearly, his mind was no longer on their conversation. Soon he drifted away from them without so much as a farewell.
“What are you doing?” Yvette hissed into his ear when they were alone.
“What we came here to do,” Victor said, already setting his eyes on his next target.
Lady Isabel was dressed in garish holly red, her lips stained with the same color.
She had married the elderly Lord Stormhaven, his third wife, when she was twenty.
Even though she had not inherited the Stormhaven lands upon his death, she was now the youngest, and wealthiest, widow in the kingdom.
She was known now for two things: throwing magnificently scandalous riverboat parties in the summer and having an insatiable appetite for gossip.
Yvette’s expression was still set in anger when they came within earshot, a fact that he manipulated to his advantage. “You have nothing to worry about, darling,” Victor said as if he was trying to hide their conversation. “I have no interest in Highgrove’s little game.”
Lady Isabel’s ears perked.
“Why would I need to bed Lord Northall’s whore when I have you?” he whispered, just loudly enough as he brushed her cheek.
Something possessed her as she slapped his hand away without thinking. Genuine surprise flashed across his face.
“I won’t be a part of this. It’s cruel,” she breathed, anger coloring her voice before she turned on her heel to make her escape.
Victor snatched her arm, holding it tight against him. “Don’t embarrass me, pet,” he growled in her ear.
Yvette shook him off, refusing to even look at him again as she stormed through the crowd.
Her heart hammered. She’d never defied him like this.
It was not as if she were blind. She knew he could be manipulative and hot tempered and often thoughtless, but this…
It was cruel. She would have no part in it.