Chapter 8
I step back into the ballroom and wind my way through cloaks and feathers and clouds of perfume. The crowd offers its own sort of anonymity. I am just another lady in a mask.
I take a cup of something sparkling from a passing tray and bring it to my lips. The bubbles fizz down the back of my throat and I close my mouth around a cough, swallowing hard. I down the rest in defiance, eyes watering, and pick up a cup of something red.
The bubbles buzz through me as I spot him at the edge of the ballroom, the triangle of his lean body immediately recognizable in midnight velvet.
My heartbeat climbs with every step. I have no plan.
I only have the pull I felt from the stage and the memory of a woman’s pleasure echoing off tile. I let them carry me forward.
He is surrounded, so I approach at his back, slipping between shoulders and perfumed hair.
He seems even taller now that we are on the same level, his large frame blocking my view of the women crowding to be in his line of sight.
His voice carries just enough for me to catch the low timbre of it without the words.
He’s the one I want.
Then I take a better look at the women competing for his gaze, and my courage dies.
All around, women in lace and jewels press close, their bodies angled toward him in quiet invitation. Their fans flutter, fingers twirling hair and grazing clavicles. They are gorgeous, every one of them. Bared shoulders and low necklines and painted lips show these women off to tremendous effect.
One brushes a gloved hand over his sleeve.
Another laughs, tipping her chin so the candlelight catches the jewels at her throat.
They know how to speak this language. If he turned around and looked me in the eye, I probably wouldn’t be able to speak, much less ask for a single thing I want to happen between us.
There is no way I’m going to end up being the one sharing his bed tonight. I’m not sure if I could go through with it anyway, and I shouldn’t waste his time. My fingers tighten on my cup. I take a breath and step back.
A hand lands on my shoulder and shoves. Hard. I lurch forward through the gap between two women, my cup flying.
He whirls astonishingly fast and catches my forearm, halting me mid-stumble with a grip that is firm and immediate.
Unfortunately, it is not enough to still the contents of my cup. My wine splashes down the front of his jacket, soaking his chest and silver-embroidered sleeve.
I watch it drip from his velvet cuff.
“I…I’m so sorry.” I glance behind me. I spy yellow curls moving through the crowd. The woman in a purple dress and black mask twists, gives me a waggle of her fingers, and disappears between two men in feathered hoods.
The woman from the powder room pushed me.
My attention flicks back to the Sovereign of Arastos. His dark eyes absorb the candlelight, giving nothing back. A strand of hair falls across the edge of the mask, molded to high cheekbones. A stone hangs from his left ear on a thin chain, catching the light as he tilts his head.
Oh no. He’s even more beautiful up close. I jerk my arm back and stumble on my magically longer skirts.
“Steady,” he says, his deep voice rolling over me.
Only his grip on my arm keeps me from toppling the other way, silver rings on his fingers cool against my wrist. His eyes flick behind me, then back to my face.
I search them for anger but find nothing I can read.
“Finally. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. ”
I blink.
“I know I promised you a dance, but did you have to toss your wine at me?”
“What? I’m not…I didn’t…”
“It’s alright.” He leans in, his shapely lips curving in a smirk. “I don’t mind getting close and a little sticky.”
I flush, the innuendo not lost on my innocent ears. Not in that purring voice. The sight of his long fingers encircling my arm is practically indecent.
I am out of my depth. I can’t even respond.
“Now let’s get you a fresh cup, and I believe I need a towel. Excuse us, ladies, I must keep my previous commitments to my companion.”
He tucks my arm into the crook of his elbow and stands straight. Against his shoulder, I feel the true impression of his height.
Several of the masked women scowl at me, while others mutter to the person next to them. I meet their glares with wide eyes. I can only be grateful that my face is not my own. Their ire is directed at the black-haired woman in blue, not me.
Before I can open my mouth to object, we take off.
He buoys me through the crowd, heading for the exit.
My steps are quick beside him, barely touching the ground, every one made lighter with the power of his arm.
We leave the ballroom and wind through the current of partygoers in the hallway.
It’s all a blur of silk and candlelight as I try to catch up with this turn of events.
“Now where are the kitchens?” he murmurs.
“Through there,” I answer without thinking. A guest wouldn’t be so quick on the layout of the manor.
“Thank you,” he says, guiding me that way.
“I think you’ve confused me with someone else,” I blurt, finally having found my voice. “We’ve never met before.”
“I’m aware.” His eyes glint as he peers down at me. “Women have tried worse than a glass of wine to get my attention. Though I’d prefer a method that spares the velvet.”
I blink. “I wasn’t trying to get your attention.”
“Oh? You weren’t hovering behind me, working up the courage?”
Heat flares in my cheeks. I shake my hair back, catching black curls in the corner of my vision. Princess Lysandra would accept his accusations and apologize. But I’m not her tonight.
Tonight is going to be a night of firsts, even if I don’t take anyone to bed.
“I’d rather have kept my distance and saved the wine. And for your information, someone pushed me.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you…?” I swallow my frustration. “So you know it was an accident.”
“Was it?” The glimmer in his eye tells me he thinks otherwise. “The woman who pushed you is an acquaintance who tends to get her way. I assume she tossed you to me as a rescue.”
I jerk away, my hand almost coming off his arm. “I wasn’t in need of a rescue!”
He pulls me back. “Not you. Me.”
“With that crowd of women hanging on your every word? You looked like you were suffering terribly.”
“And I was going to keep suffering until I found a polite way to close twenty conversations at once.” He steers us around a couple half-collapsed against a pillar. “Let’s just call it a mutual rescue.”
“What exactly was I rescued from? Maybe I was enjoying the party.”
“Indecision.” He gives me a quick once-over. “And I would call that unlikely.”
“Just because I’ve been kidnapped doesn’t mean I wasn’t enjoying myself,” I mutter.
One side of his mouth ticks up. “Kidnapped?”
I gesture at my hand on his arm. “I don’t recall giving you my hand.”
“If my memory serves, you threw your hand at me, along with your cup. At the expense of my jacket.”
Before I can object further, he steers us into the kitchen.
The kitchen is smoky and loud, crowded with staff I don’t recognize. Norville must have hired temporary help for the event. Every face gets a second look, as I search for the cowl, the mask, the silhouette. Young men in masks carry trays while others haul casks, and a few new faces help the cook.
I am careful not to show my familiarity with the layout, letting my escort lead as he finds his way to an unclaimed towel.
It takes a moment for the room to register him. A boy near the cook looks up, then bats the person next to him. Nudges and whispers pass around the room. By the time the lord sits on the edge of a counter, the entire staff is paying attention.
I don’t think anyone expected a sovereign to walk into the kitchen.
He doesn’t seem to notice anything is awry as he dabs at the stain on his chest, his own gaze traveling around the room.
His eyes linger briefly on each person…or at least, on the women.
The unfamiliar woman restocking a tray, the graying maid folding napkins, and the cook each get a glance before he moves on.
“This is never going to come out,” he announces, throwing down the towel. I would argue that he hardly tried, but I don’t know how to remove a stain from velvet either.
“You can barely see it,” I say, rather unhelpfully.
He gives me a look. “Wine only ages well in the bottle.”
He catches the attention of a passing attendant, who almost drops his tray. “Where would I find the laundry?”
The man fumbles but recovers the tray and shakes his head. “Sorry, my lord. I was only brought on for tonight.”
The lord nods and projects his voice. “Who in this room is permanent staff?”
My hand twitches but I keep it down.
A man near the hearth looks up from a roasting spit. “I am.”
“Good. Where is the laundry?”
“Through that corridor, down the stairs, past the stillroom. I can fetch someone to take that for you…”
“I’ll take my chances.” He stands, offering his arm. “Shall we?”
I look at it. “You want me to come with you to the laundry?”
“It’s easier to move through a manor with a lady on my arm. Think of it as repayment for the state of my jacket.”
I want to refuse, on principle, but I find my hand reaching for his arm anyway.
We weave through the crowd toward the laundry, down hallways draped with fabric and vines. I glance up and catch his gaze bouncing from guest to guest.
In the kitchen, I thought he was just a lord curious about the workings of a household beneath him, but now I see he is still scanning the people around us. Almost every person we pass gets a look, particularly the women.
We turn off the main corridor and down some service stairs. The smell of lye and soap fills the air.
The laundry is warm and damp. The laundress is elbow deep in a basin of suds, scrubbing. She looks up when we enter, and her hands go still. She straightens so fast she nearly overturns the basin.
“My lord.” She wipes her hands on her apron, flustered. “Do you need something? You shouldn’t have to be here. I’ll fetch someone…”