Chapter Fifteen #2
I laughed. “And who is going to contest it?” I asked bitterly. “Your father? I am sure the honorable Councillor has a defense prepared already, in case the issue is brought to Parliament.”
Eliot’s gaze sparked at my mention of Reginald. Turning away from the armchair, he faced me directly. The fullness of his attention was confronting; it was a struggle not to waver under the force of his stare, but I held firm, meeting him head-on.
“I did not know,” he said after a minute had passed. He spoke flatly, his tone honest. “Noé made no mention of it, and I wasn’t present for the proceedings last year.”
I remained still once he fell silent, waiting for him to go on. When it became evident that he had no intention of speaking again, I scoffed. “A denial, but no apology,” I said. “How touching.”
He huffed. “Why don’t we make a pact, Miss Lovett?” he countered, narrowing his eyes. “I will apologize for my faults when you apologize for yours.”
Loathing welled in me, as hot and fast as blood from a wound. For a moment, we existed in a wordless stalemate, neither of us bowing to the other, until at last he shifted and said, “I hear nothing. You must not truly want one, then.”
Our gazes met again, iron sparking against iron.
Victory had sharpened his features, honing his ever-present beauty—which I had become practiced at ignoring over the course of our dealings—like a knife held to a whetstone.
Suddenly, I was aware of the elegant slope of his jaw, his skin glazed with lamplight, and I was horrified when, upon observing him, I felt heat rise to my cheeks, tickling at my throat like a feather—
I looked away, embarrassed and astonished by my own reaction.
My anger had been diverted by a tight, throbbing emotion I couldn’t name, which pounded like a fist in my chest. The conversation seemed to have gotten away from me; at some point, he’d taken the reins, and I could not fathom how to get them back.
“I have another question for you,” I started again abruptly. “Were you aware that Sybil Dabos and Ophelia were friends?”
Eliot blinked, frowning, though he didn’t protest the change in subject. “I was not, but it comes as no real surprise,” he replied. “The maidens all got to know one another last year—I’d reckon there are many sets of friends amongst the group, and enemies, for that matter.”
I shook my head. “That wasn’t how it was phrased to me,” I said. “I spoke with your All-Seeing Eye today—Marie-Louise Rochefort. She said Sybil seemed interested in your sister last summer.”
Eliot snorted, collapsing into his seat. “Sybil again?” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, eyeing me moodily. “Why are you so fixated on her? There are six other silkwitches remaining in this competition, and yet up until now, your suspicions have centered on only one.”
“Only one has caught my attention thus far,” I replied. “Where was Sybil when Ophelia died, do you know? Can anyone attest to her whereabouts at the time your sister fell?”
“As far as I recall, she was in the ballroom with the rest of the maidens.” Eliot’s tone was exasperated, his shoulders bunching with frustration as he spoke.
“Don’t you think if I had noted any suspicious absences, I would have told you about them by now?
” he snapped. “That I haven’t spent the past year attempting to piece this all together myself? ”
I glared at him, unconvinced. “Thus far you have insisted to me that Sybil is innocent, that Noé and Bastian are innocent,” I said. “Tell me, Mr.Lear, is there anyone in Fortblanche whom you would consider a suspect? A ghost, perhaps?”
When he gave no reply, I shook my head.
“If you’ve finished condescending to me, I’ll be going. I’d like to get at least a couple hours of sleep before tomorrow.”
“Wait.”
Eliot’s voice caught me midcurtsy. Alarmed, I glanced up at him, the strange knot behind my sternum contracting when I made out a faint tinge of pink along his neck, like a swipe of paint. It seemed to have emerged suddenly; when he cleared his throat, it faded away. “You can’t dance,” he said.
I furrowed my forehead, confusion a welcome distraction. “What?”
“I should have realized it sooner, but I suppose I gave you the benefit of the doubt,” Eliot said.
“During the introduction ball, I overheard you turn down a gentleman who asked you for the Harvest March. You said you did not favor the waltz.” My blush returned—guilty, this time—as he cocked his head to the right.
“The Harvest March is a polka. At the Diplomat, you told me you’d been trained in ballroom dancing. ” His eyes narrowed. “You lied. Why?”
“I…” My words stuck in my throat. Of all the traps he could have set, I hadn’t expected this one—and now he’d caught me unawares, swept my legs out from under me.
Sighing, Eliot shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, rising.
“Even an old recluse’s ward will be expected to know how to handle herself on the dance floor—you must learn, or it will look suspicious.
” Extending his arm, he brought his fingers to the heel of his palm, beckoning me closer. “Come here.”
Panic surged through me at his command. Acting on impulse, I stumbled backward. “No.”
He blinked, disbelief spasming across his features. “No?”
There was a warning in the word, but I ignored it, standing my ground. “I don’t want to.”
Eliot laughed—a blunt, incredulous bark. “You don’t want to,” he repeated with a slow nod. “I’m sorry, Miss Lovett, but I don’t think Noé will accept that excuse. Now—”
“You are not Noé.” I spoke without thinking, unsure where the words came from—I knew only that they were born from an instinctive, fundamental part of me, which feared his touch above all else.
In front of me, Eliot paused. There was a strange expression on his face, similar to confusion but with an undercurrent of…
something else. A quieter, almost cautious emotion twisting beneath his features, which I was unable to name.
“…And that matters,” he said slowly, “why, exactly?”
My cheeks burned. “It matters not at all,” I said. “It is only that Noé does not know me as you do. With him, it would be…” I shook my head, uncertain of my own meaning. “I can’t explain it,” I finished weakly. “False.”
For a long breath, Eliot was silent, the only sound the fervent hurtle of my own pulse in my ears. I waited, tensed, for the sound of his mocking chuckle.
It never came. Instead, Eliot exhaled, combing his fingers through his curls. “All right, then,” he said curtly. “Hold your palm up.”
He sighed at my doubtful expression, my eyes darting skeptically to his.
“I could have exposed you to my friend tonight, Miss Lovett, but I didn’t,” he said. “On this, at least, can’t you trustme?”
There was mirth in his speech, though not cruel—a bolstering kind of amusement like a joke exchanged between friends—and at it, I felt my defenses lower a fraction. Begrudgingly, I lifted my right hand into the air, then arched a brow at him.
Inclining his head, he approached. Raising his own palm, he hovered it an inch or so away from mine, then smiled at me.
“How’s this?” He proposed, “If you wish for falseness, we shall make the dance false for you. I won’t touch you—we will simply walk through the steps apart, just as we are now, until I’m confident that you won’t make a complete ass of yourself at the next ball.
It will all be a charade.” He gazed down at me, close but unmoving, his palm held up as though in solemn vow. “What do you think? Can you bear it?”
Warmth coated the base of my stomach. I was afraid if I spoke, he would realize the depths of my gratitude, and so instead I simply nodded, letting the gesture communicate what I could not.
“There we are.” Eliot’s tone was hushed; where previously, he had worn his ire like a suit of armor, he now appeared tentative, his stare gentle where it brushed my own.
“Compromise, Miss Lovett—I knew I could find one,” he said.
“We’ll begin with the Kotoran Waltz—it is the least complex of the modern favorites, and among the most popular.
The hold is simple: Your right hand will grasp your partner’s, like so”—he nodded to the arm I held up—“and the left should come to rest on my shoulder. Mine will go just here, near the middle of your back.”
He came a half pace closer, his movements cautious enough that I knew he would draw back at my slightest signal. I inhaled when his arm curved around me, his presence tangible though his hand hovered an inch above my skin, like an unspoken word, felt even in its absence.
Eliot’s throat bobbed, his eyes flicking away for a moment before returning to mine. The golden hazel of his irises had darkened, like a forest at dusk. “To start, I’ll take my left foot forward, and you’ll follow—right foot back,” he instructed levelly. “There we go, just like that.”
Clumsily at first, then with increasing gracefulness, he led me through the beats of the waltz, guiding me back, then sideways, then forward again to meet him.
He hadn’t lied—once I grasped the mechanics of the dance, the steps came naturally, each one flowing into the next.
After I mastered the sequence, we shifted to another—the Harvest March—its jaunty ducks and weaves more difficult than those of its predecessor, but manageable nonetheless.
Aside from his instruction, we danced in silence, the night cool and formless around us.
In the darkness, I could not sense the turning of the hours; the little turret room felt curiously free of time, as if Eliot and I were a pair of swans, spinning endlessly against a black velvetsea.
Then: the toe of my slipper caught on the frayed edge of the rug, unbalancing me. Muffling a cry, I tripped, tumbling across the safe chasm of space between myself and Eliot and colliding directly with his chest.
Without thinking, I gripped his shirt, struggling to steady myself.
After our deliberate separation, the feel of him was shocking—his body firm beneath my touch, his shoulders tensed with the shock of my fall—and then, as I breathed against him, his hands found me, one catching at my waist and the other tilting my chin up, toward him.
“Are you all right?” His words were urgent but amused, gusting over my skin, and abruptly, it was all too much—his face, his voice, his fingers pressing into the bodice of my dress.
What was I doing, agreeing to a charade like this?
My thoughts were nothing but a scream; I felt as if I were dying, as if my every nerve were awake and starving and scared.
I wrenched free of his hold, wrapping my arms protectively around my rib cage. Immediately, Eliot’s expression collapsed, remorse usurping his astonishment.
“Forgive me,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I think that’s quite enough for tonight, Mr.Lear.” I sounded cold, icily so—yet to soften myself even a fraction felt dangerous. “Thank you for your generous instruction. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am exhausted and must be getting to bed.”
I turned on my heel without curtsying, the stairway door my sole focus. Behind me, I heard Eliot step forward. “Lovett—wait a moment—” he called out.
But I was too quick for him, and when I raced down the turret steps, he did not follow. Only the echo of my name chased after me, fallen like a plea from his lips. Lovett , he’d called me. Not Miss Lovett . Lovett.
All the way back to my room, I heard it. And when I crawled beneath my bedsheets, I held the memory of it like a charm pressed against my breast as I lay down to sleep.
Lovett.