He Won’t Let You Get Away
Hugh chatters inanely as we make the drive from the tenement district to Lady Hitchingford’s manor, but I barely speak. He doesn’t seem to notice until we’re pulling down the brightly-lit drive.
“Looking forward to your evening, Miss Smith?”
“I want you to know I am not here by choice, and I do not intend to have a pleasant time.” I get a glimpse of a jungly sort of garden around the corner of the house. I’ll sneak out there to explore if Hugh ever leaves me alone.
“Don’t you?” Prince Hugh looks at me with wonder. “Well, you shall anyhow.”
He stops his horse, and a groom steps forward to hold the reins while he jumps down and then lifts me out. He leans close to my ear and murmurs, “I’m determined that you shall have a very pleasant time, indeed.”
I push him away, but he only chuckles and pulls my mask from his pocket. “Allow me.”
I stand frozen as he ties the mask behind my head. His long fingers skim my hair, one hand fluttering down to tickle the base of my neck. I twitch away with a scowl.
Hugh smiles absently and puts on his own mask. The knot in my stomach relaxes just a trifle. Perhaps I shall be anonymous. Perhaps no one will know I was here.
And by “no one,” of course I mean Lucas.
He probably won’t even be here.
The groom drives the phaeton away while Hugh leads me up the steps into the house.
“I suppose we’re quite late?” he says to the gray-liveried footman who takes my cloak with a faint sniff.
“The dancing began an hour since, Your Highness.”
“Good, good.” Hugh tugs me into a corridor.
I’ve been at the palace often enough that this house shouldn’t awe me, and yet it does, and a tiny portion of my heart is gladdened by the thought that I have not lost my wonder. I have not yet lost myself, and I don’t mean to. I allow myself to look around with admiration.
The Hitchingford’s house is nearly as opulent as the palace, with lofty muraled ceilings and a long row of marble statues watching us walk down the hall. I blush when I realize some of them are rather unclothed, and Hugh must notice, for he chuckles as I quicken my footsteps down the corridor.
The ballroom is filled with even more dazzling couples than I had seen at the Commoners Ball. Masked men and ladies in long gowns twirl gracefully in the center of the room, while more stand or sit around the edges, idly talking. I see jewels and feathers and even an enormous floral headdress, but not a single soul wearing head-to-toe orange like I am. We pass through the crowds, and people bow or curtsy with a murmured “Your Highness.” It’s impossible not to recognize Hugh. I get glances—sometimes merely curious, and sometimes sharply calculating—and whispers follow me. I only hope my mask is large enough to prevent anyone from recognizing me as the wayward peasant from the palace.
The dancers on the floor come to their final bows, and the musicians begin a new tune. I brighten. “This is a country dance! I didn’t know you danced it here!”
Hugh grins. “You know it, then?” He doesn’t wait, or ask permission, simply twirling me around to join the dancing couples. For once, I don’t mind his presumption. I used to dance this at harvest time at Lower Splott’s yearly fete. My feet find their rhythm quickly, and I accidentally smile at Hugh as we prance down the line. A vigorous twirl reveals the crystalline slippers underneath the silk dress, and even though they pinch, they look so pretty that I can’t help but admire my own feet. Even when another lady—dressed in all white and topped in feathers, like a swan—wrinkles her nose when I twirl too close, I only give her a cheerful smile and spin away with the prince.
When the dance is over, I am laughing and breathless. Hugh claps. “Bravo, Miss Smith!” His voice is as loud as ever, and I wince as several of the other masked dancers look our way. “I didn’t realize you could dance so well!”
“Only the country dances,” I warn. “I’m not familiar with the newer ones here.”
“Yet,” he laughs, and though I frown at his presumption, the musicians have chosen another familiar tune. My feet are already tapping the quick rhythm, and we’re off again. It’s fast and whirling and glorious, and I can almost forget how out of place I am, simply enjoying the freedom of movement.
After that dance finishes, a stout man in some sort of military costume taps Prince Hugh on the arm. “You don’t mind if I steal your charming partner, Your Highness?” His mustache bounces as he bows.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I stammer, but Hugh is already handing me over, not waiting for my opinion on the subject, and replacing me with a woman in rose-pink ruffles. I try to keep hold of his arm, but he shakes me off and shimmies away. I turn desperate eyes on my new partner. “Please excuse me, sir,” I try again. “I don’t know this tune.”
He doesn’t bother listening and drags me into another dance .
It’s a disaster.
I can’t follow this man at all, and keep turning left when I’m meant to turn right. My cheeks were already flushed from the exercise, but now they’re flaming from embarrassment. My partner scowls as he yanks me back and forth. “You did credit to the prince,” he mutters.
I should probably be polite to him, since he’s likely someone important, but since I’ve already insulted Hugh more than once, what’s the harm in snapping at this man? “I tried to tell you that I didn’t know this one.”
He quivers his mustaches disapprovingly and deposits me at the side of the dance floor without a backward glance as soon as the music ceases. I roll my eyes at his retreating back.
“Why do these men never listen ,” I mutter, turning around to survey the room. There are several clusters of people near me, but none look particularly friendly, so I slowly wander the perimeter.
Hugh has found another willing partner, and no one else approaches me, so I stroll through the room, admiring the finery of both the house and the people. I’ve never seen such gowns in my life, and wish Chemmy were here to admire them with me. There’s an idea—if Hugh ever comes up with a madcap scheme like this again, I shall insist that Chemmy join us. She’d give these outfits the respect they deserve. I try to notice as many details as possible, wanting to give her a full recounting of everything.
I’ve nearly circled back to where I began, Hugh still dancing away, when I’m startled by a sweet voice addressing me over my shoulder. “Miss Smith?”
I turn to see a tall woman in shimmering lavender and blanch when I recognize her. Even I know what the queen looks like—and if I didn’t, the golden crown topping her equally golden hair would be a clue.
“Your Majesty,” I bleat, dropping into a curtsy, and thankfully not tripping over myself this time. She’s backed by a retinue of sycophants, who all stare at me. I recognize the look: my herd of hogs made the exact same expression when a lost owlet wandered through their pasture once.
The queen says nothing for a long moment, while I squirm under so many gazes. “Forgive me for my rudeness,” she finally says. Her eyes are the exact same bright blue as Hugh’s. “I should have waited for Fitzhugh to properly introduce us, but I have been so curious to meet you.” Her gaze flicks over my orange ensemble, eyebrows drawing together slightly.
“You have? Erm, Your Majesty?”
A smile appears on her face. “He talks about you often, you know.”
I scrunch my fingers into one of the skirt’s many ruffles and gulp. “He—he does?”
“Oh, yes. He seems to be quite infatuated.”
“I didn’t mean—well, I’m not trying to—” I stammer.
The queen looks out over the crowd, then back to me. Her smile relaxes a touch. “I would like to see my sons happy, Miss Smith. I suppose you might be an opportunist, but that is a possibility regardless of class, is it not?” She tilts her head to one side as she studies me. The ladies behind her do the same. It makes the room seem suddenly lopsided.
“You are very gracious, Your Majesty.” I presumed she would be stuffy and pompous, but there’s a curious goodwill in her gaze. I bite my lip. “But I’m afraid that Hugh—His Highness, that is—has given you the wrong impression.”
“I know my son very well.” The twinkle in her eyes is so like Hugh’s that I have to blink to make sure I’m not imagining this whole thing. “He won’t let you get away, I don’t think.”
I blanch. How do I contradict the queen herself? “I’d rather—that is, he is agreeable enough, but—I didn’t mean—” I stammer.
The queen laughs. It’s a merry, tinkling sound; not unpleasant, except for the fact that she’s laughing at something I said, and I don’t know what it is. “Well, we shall see what it comes to.” The queen opens her fan and waves herself gently. The retinue behind her mimics the motion, and I shiver in the sudden gust of air. “My husband may not be so agreeable to the match as I am,” the queen adds in a lower voice. “But he’ll understand in time, yes?”
“Yes?”
The queen nods, apparently satisfied, and clicks her fan shut before turning away. I remember to curtsy just in time, although I don’t know if I am supposed to hold the pose until each of her goggling ladies has strolled past me. I do, just to make sure I’m not offending any of them, and by the time they’ve all left, my legs are cramping.
Well, this has been an interesting evening.
If I could just find a snack, I’d be ready to return home. Despite the queen’s unexpected—kindness? approval? There was a subtext to her comments that I didn’t quite understand—anyhow, despite whatever it was, I’m not interested in Hugh like that, so I’d better try to slip off without him. I haven’t yet seen Lucas, so maybe I’ll be spared at least one embarrassment.
Hugh intercepts me before I can get out of the room. “I see you’ve met my mother!”
“She’s a very gracious woman,” I say. “Although I believe you’ve misled her concerning our relationship.”
“Have I?” Hugh asks, taking my hand and tucking it in his arm. “How so?”
“She seemed to think you fancy me.”
“Me, fancy you?” Hugh echoes, his eyes twinkling. “I wonder why I gave her that impression.” He glances across the room, and I follow his gaze.
Lucas is watching us. I wilt.
Hugh chuckles and pats my hand. “A depressing figure, is he not? I wish he’d let me dress him! Don’t you think he could use some color? Orange, perhaps?” He casts his laughing eyes down at me, and I roll mine in return.
Hugh tugs, and I allow him to lead me across the room, over to where a servant stands with a tray of refreshments, I hope. But before we get there, he whisks me into a dark alcove. “What are you—” I begin to ask, and then I realize. His hands are around my waist, and he’s leaning toward me—I yelp and turn my head just in time. His lips land on my cheek, leaving a trail of saliva.
I scrub it off, glaring at him. “Let go of me!”
“What! Don’t you want to kiss me?”
“When have I ever given you an indication that I want to kiss you?” I push on his chest, but he’s too strong.
“You came to the ball with me.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to kiss you!”
“You might like it,” he says, a laugh in his eyes. “Most girls do.”
I grit my teeth. “Let me go, or I will—”
“Scream?” Hugh suggests. “That would be interesting.”
Before I can reply, Lucas’ voice, cold and hard, comes from behind me. “Take your hands off of her, Hugh.”