Chapter Thirty-Six
We rode to Summerland Palace in determined silence, lost to our own thoughts as the dark city unfolded around us. Without
the light of the moon, there was a heavy, ominous feeling to the cool air.
Hugh held my hand tightly between his own, his gaze fixed on the window, his thoughts pouring through him so violently I could
have sworn I caught a reflection of their furor in the shadowed glass.
I would be certain for the both of us, then. “It will work.”
He turned to me slowly, forcing himself to relax—for my benefit, I knew.
“Indeed.” Hugh inclined his face toward mine. “But . . . perhaps a kiss for luck might be in order?”
The cheeky bastard stole it before I could reply. And another hot, lingering kiss at the corner of my lips for good measure.
And a third that left me breathless, because everyone knew it was Fortuna’s number. A fourth, because he wanted to drag me
across his lap and hold me there for a deeper, devouring kiss.
“May I have the honor of your first dance?” he asked, a bit mischievously.
“You ask as though you’ll have competition,” I said, still a bit breathless. And as if that wasn’t what we’d been doing all
along. Every day with him had been its own surreal dance.
His thumb stroked my cheek. “I won’t, but only because I’d break the knee of any man bold enough to try.” His tone turned
cajoling. “One dance?”
I flushed. “I don’t . . .” God, it was mortifying to realize, let alone admit. “I don’t actually know how.”
“A problem easily remedied. You’ll only need to follow me,” he said. “Just this once.”
He kissed me again before I could protest.
I was dazed and aching for him by the time the coach arrived at the main gates of Summerland Palace, joining the long line of stately carriages cutting through the forecourt, rounding up to the porte cochere.
Torches blazed between the palace’s many columns, bathing the dark interior of the coach in golden, primordial light.
His stiff cock pressed against my hip as he buried his face in my neck, content to merely hold me. I took in his essence,
unsurprised to find the notes of unease had brightened to the citrus bite of confidence. My breath caught as one of his fingers
teased along the edge of my bodice, toying with the small rosettes there.
“Will you come to me tonight?” I whispered in his ear.
He lifted his head slowly, his eyes searching. I felt unbearably tender toward him then, seeing that uncertainty. “Is that
what you truly desire?”
I wished then that I had his eloquence, but the only poetry that dwelled in my heart was perfume. I nodded and kissed him
one last time, for six was twice the luck of three. With a noise of reluctance, he allowed me to slip back into my seat beside
him. Taking fastidious care, we straightened each other’s clothing and hair. There was color in Hugh’s face now, for which
I was grateful.
The coach rocked as it came to a stop and both Longmount brothers leapt down from their seats at the back. Willie gave us
a quick, nervous smile as he opened the door and set down the steps.
Hugh climbed out, turning back for me, his hand seeking mine. “Shall we?”
“Yes . . . but there’s something I need to tell you,” I murmured.
His expression fell for only a moment before he caught it. Steadying me as I negotiated with my dress down the steps, he sent
me another look of concern. I leaned in closer to him, forcing him to stoop slightly.
“A nib is merely a lesser nob,” I whispered. “And you, my lord, are a nob.”
He swallowed a laugh with a cough, shaking his head.
I was dimly aware of a faint gasp of surprise from one of the sparkling women who had emerged from the carriage just ahead
of us. It may as well have been a clarion call. Startled and reproachful gazes pierced me from every direction, flying like
arrows. Leathery shock and the garlic of disgust turned the otherwise clean night air fetid.
“What gives you the nerve, I wonder?” a lord wearing a wreath of laurel sneered as he and his wife passed us.
“The same thing that gave me the good sense not to wear that silly flower crown, I suspect,” Hugh answered good-naturedly.
“Enjoy your evening, Landsdowne. I certainly will.”
Taking Hugh’s arm, I set my shoulders back, swallowing to ease some of the dryness of my mouth.
He waited for my nod before leading us to join the tittering Patricians bottlenecked at the palace doors.
The spangles and gemstones made the lot of them sparkle like fairies in the torchlights, giving the moment a dreamlike feel.
But the whispers followed. Now and then I caught one like a wasp between my palms, each stinging more viciously than the last.
Poison. Baseborn. Witch. Arriviste. Rosebourne.
Well, yes. That did about cover it. But the reek of their malice and disgust was overcome by peppery excitement—enough that
I sneezed. The nuttiness that usually signaled confusion was likewise sweetened until it turned tart. That was curiosity.
Hugh glanced down at me, silently asking if I was still all right. I smiled at him, letting the rest bleed away into the darkness.
Someone tutted disapprovingly as Hugh kissed my hand in response, but a nearby woman sighed in appreciation.
Soon enough, the air turned florid. The intensity of it, trimmed with the edge of death that all cut flowers carried, struck
my senses in an eruption of rose, lily, lilac, and a dozen other flowers. We passed through the doorway into the vestibule,
and there, we found ourselves in the mythical garden of the fairy gods.
Thousands of flowers had been draped and woven together to create a tunnel to guide guests through the long hall. Only some
of the chandeliers had been lit, giving the air an ethereal glow.
The attendees had surpassed my wildest fantasies of what such an event would look like. Some women had come dressed as Venia,
their hair left to drape over their shoulders in shining, suggestive waves, woven with nets of delicate flowers.
Most had taken inspiration from the fairies, their gowns soft and dreamy in color, made whimsical by unexpected embroidery
or embellishments like flower crowns and bodices made of real leaves.
I felt a pang of disappointment Felicity couldn’t be there to witness it herself.
Several House of Rosebourne perfumes and powders had been applied as a finishing touch, some laced with the warm shiver of
beautifying magic, others merely thoughtful bouquets of notes that brought their own sense of wonder.
There was something almost elemental about it all—something that felt closer to the ancient rites that had once been performed
at the very site the palace now stood.
I supposed that was the point. For all we worshipped God, the ancient deities were still part of the kingdom’s tapestry as much as the fairies were. We had groomed and trained ourselves into something like refinement, but there was wildness that lived in our blood still.
Finally, we reached the open doors leading down into the torchlit sprawl of the gardens. I forced my gaze to pass over the
Orangerie, lit from within by lanterns and open to strolling couples; the neatly groomed hedge grove; and the bloomed roses
in their full exaltation for Venia, to the base of the stairs, where Glenmoor stood, flanked on either side by palace guards.
He’d ensured that there would be no missing him. His dress breeches and jacket were ivory silk embroidered with gold thread.
His waistcoat gleamed a deeper shade of gold than even his hair. But it was the mask he wore, covering the top half of his
face, that held my complete attention. It, too, was gold, with gold waving lines rising from it to crown him.
He was meant to be Solarius, the sun king of the ancient gods. Eleanor stood beside him, her spangled mask large enough to
cover the entirety of the bruise on her face.
Her gown was truly unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was made with the same ivory silk as Glenmoor’s suit, only embroidered
with silver thread. Layers upon layers of luminous tulle swirled around her, culminating in two crescent-shaped wings at her
back that looked spun from moonlight and dreams. Her tiara sparkled wildly in the light of the firepots as we approached.
If he was Solarius, then Eleanor could only be Lune. The silent, serene queen of the gods. I burned with contempt at the sight.
Exchanging a look with Hugh, feeling his arm tense beneath my hand.
The plan began now.
A faint breeze swept over us, cooling some of my nerves.
The master of ceremonies, dressed in resplendent court attire, glanced at us, then glanced again, taking such a pronounced
step back he nearly fell arse over teakettle down the stairs.
“Erm.” He cleared his throat, and I could have sworn he made a small holy wheel over himself before calling, “The Earl and
Countess of Foxcourt.”
The hush that washed over the assembled Patricians made the hair rise on the back of my neck. The spite that flooded the air,
the sheer suspicion, turned my stomach.
The terrible spell only broke when the master of ceremonies, with obvious relief, announced, “Lord and Lady Ainsley.”
We stopped again halfway down the stairs, awaiting our turn to be greeted by the ball’s preening host. Behind us, conversation
buzzed like flies.
“I do rather like her dress,” a lady seemed to shock herself by saying.
True. A smile curled one corner of my lips.
“Better than the monstrosity you’ve chosen this evening, Belinda,” came her friend’s retort. The lady gasped as soon as the
words had escaped her, covering her painted lips with her gloves. Her eyes were wide as she sputtered, “I didn’t—that is,
I think you look—”
The feathers trimming the first woman’s dress quivered as she snapped her fan open. “The only monstrosity present is your
hideous nature, sister.”
“Neither of you are worth the trouble it’s taking to foist you on to unsuspecting husbands,” growled the older man accompanying
them.
“Is that how you see me?” his wife asked. “That I was foisted upon you? And here I thought I’d saved you from a miserable existence of plucking your own nose hairs and being made to care