Page 19 of Dance with the Dragon Duke

* * *

Tomorrow

Seated at a central table, Tomorrow couldn’t shake the feeling that every gently-bred person behind her was staring at the back of her head. Suddenly, the dress which had felt so smooth on her skin a few minutes ago itched unpleasantly. The lace of the flounced sleeves tickled her arms. She couldn’t get comfortable.

“Everything all right, love?” Margot asked. She and her business partner sat on either side of Tomorrow. She found reassurance in their nearness.

Tomorrow tugged at her sleeve. “I feel a bit like an imposter in this,” she confessed quietly.

Susan slid an arm around the back of her chair. “But you aren’t an imposter. That duchy is yours by right and by blood. There are just a few silly mortal hoops to jump through before you claim it.”

“Hoops of mortalmen,” Margot said, her mouth full of bread. “Don’t lump us all together with that lot. If they insist on having all the say, then they can keep all the blame, too.”

Susan raised her glass of chilled champagne in agreement and drank to that.

Tomorrow studied the table of the Earl of Westarow and felt intimidated. He’d been a nice enough man when she’d met him before. Would he buy into her fake engagement with Dark? Would he create more hoops for her to jump through before she collected her inheritance? How much time did she have before the Freests did her in and won?

Though she hated to think on it, time was a commodity Tomorrow didn’t have enough of. She needed her inheritance now, her revengenow.

The earl’s family came to join him, a fae couple and their human daughter, a child no older than seven. It surprised her, seeing a fledgling at a formal feast of all places. Children were often tucked out of the way by the gentry, never to be seen or heard until they’d aged appropriately.

Susan saw her staring and leaned in. “That’s Jonas sitting across from your executor,” she said of the Lunar fae with warm brown skin and bracketed horns. “He’s good people. There’s his wife, Frances. They’re the Lord and Lady of Whiteholm, and that’s their adopted daughter, Glasmorra, between them.”

Glasmorra was the name of a Seelie nature goddess with black hair made of ravens’ feathers. It suited the girl with her long unbound ebony locks and curious eyes. Her dress was a bright green. Glasmorra’s blood was famously that same shade.

“You don’t see too many children at events like this,” Tomorrow noted.

“No, you don’t,” Margot chimed, “and it’s a shame, really. Jonas is our friend. He and his wife had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that because they’re immortal and their daughter is human, they’ll have to lose her someday. It’s the curse of time.”

Tomorrow sucked in a breath, saddened by the notion. Time was such a brutal goddess. “How heartbreaking.”

“It was, but instead of dwelling, they’ve decided to make every moment count.” Margot lifted a champagne glass toward the couple’s table in salute. She sipped it. “They take her everywhere with them so they won’t miss a thing.”

Tomorrow thought of her mother, a woman she knew only through the lovely stories her gran told, and her eyes stung. Though both of her parents had fae in their ancestry, neither of them had been immortal, but they’d carried in their blood the potential to pass on that blessing to their offspring. According to her gran, her mother had wanted that for Tomorrow, had prayed for it and purchased an assortment of good luck charms favored by humans to help make it happen. That’s why she’d given her such a unique name: to tempt the divines into granting her that gift. She wanted her to always have the promise of tomorrow.

Now all Tomorrow had was her gran. She needed her revenge, not just for her own sake, but her gran’s too, the only kin she had left.

The string music switched to a more festive tune, and some guests began to partner up and dance in the open space between the tables. Watching the others made Tomorrow’s heart ache. She’d used to dance often before poison had caused the illness that made her clumsy. Her feet slid along the floor beneath her, remembering the steps. Tomorrow picked at the lamb on the plate before her, not eating anything. She was beginning to notice the absence of her escort. She canted her head about the room, looking for him.

“Care to dance, cousin?” The voice at her side was syrupy.

Tomorrow froze. The hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention, and she felt the color draining from her face.

“Glen,” Tomorrow gasped.

“This is your horrible murdering cousin?” Susan shouted.

“You’re making a scene,” Lord Glen Freest said reprovingly, alabaster face placidly pleasant. He waved off a concerned server who’d slowed his pace just then.

“You’re the one making a scene, you tosspot,” Susan spat.

“You just know he says that to all the ladies in his life,” Tomorrow said acidly. “Tells them they’re making a scene to keep them under his hairy thumb.”

Margot brandished the fork in her fist like it was a dagger. “You haven’t seen a fucking scene yet, you ugly little mop of a man. Come closer so I can get at your eyes, and I’ll show you a blimming scene.”

Contrary to Margot’s words, Lord Glen Freest was annoyingly handsome. Tall and lean like most Lunar fae, he had winter-blue hair that brought out the indigo in his gaze. His skin was an unblemished white. He wore a pin on his cravat with a stone as big and gaudy as his ego.

“Cousin,” he said through his teeth, “I need to have a word with you. It’s time we put things behind us once and for all and discussed matters like family. Let’s start with a friendly dance between—”

---