Page 13 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

“I’m ready!” I declare and dash out the door.

“Kat!” she calls after me in pure frustration. But I don’t have time for her perfectionism.

“You’re incredible!” I shout from the stairs.

“I hate you!”

I’m still laughing when I climb into my waiting carriage and set off for the ball.

Chapter 4

Kat

“LadyVandermore!”

My name, called so loudly into the ballroom of sparkling chandeliers and twirling gowns, draws a wave of attention I’m never prepared for. Practically every young man in the room whips his head in my direction. Their abandoned dance partners pout in frustration—or in some cases, sigh in relief. All the mothers of said ladies scowl darkly.

One particular set of eyes sears into me like fire, as though the potency of her hatred could simply burn away the fine gown I wear. My stepmother leaves her two daughters and hurries to join the throng of young men waiting at the bottom of the staircase.

“Forgive me for my tardiness, dear stepmother,” I say with a little laugh. “My horse had a bad shoe, and I had to walk all the way back from the Biltwalls’.”

Her smile is all teeth. “You could have summoned the carriage, darling.”

“I didn’t want to trouble you! I didn’t want to make you late too, after all.” The lies come so easily, even though Agatha isn’t fooled at all.

She believes I have tarried on purpose, to avoid the young men. Which, to be sure, is definitely something I would have done—if I hadn’t been sneaking into Caphryl Wood and robbing fae princes and nearly getting myself killed instead.

“You are always so thoughtful of your stepfamily, Lady Vandermore,” says one of the gentlemen with a kind face and slightly crooked cravat—bless him—as he reaches for my hand to bow over it. “Would you care for a dance? If I remember, the waltz was your favorite.”

“Oh!” says Agatha, stepping forward to pat the young man’s arm. “I’m afraid she’s already promised the first few dances to Lord Boreham. But I’m sure she will have openings later in the evening for you.”

Fabulous. Just fabulous.

I still don’t know what Agatha’s obsession with Lord Boreham is or why, of all the young men, the rather short and rotund one boasting allergies to everything outside the confines of his house wasthe oneshe decided I should wed and bestow my fortune upon.

“I believe the lady can answer for herself,” says the gentleman, lifting his eyebrow at me.

How dare he give me an escape and put my stepmother in her place? Now I must begrudgingly like him, even though Iknowhe only cares about my money.

This is why Mary’s plan can never work. I’m much too eager to like these young men’s attentions and if I am not careful, I will fall under the spell of so-calledloveand give my fortune away to someone who will squander it on foolish things.

I withdraw my hand with an apologetic wince. “I’m afraid my stepmother is right, and I am otherwise engaged for these next few dances.” I force myself to smile and add, “But do find me later.”

At least, with Lord Boreham, I am not at all at risk of falling for him.

The young man—the son of the Baron Cranswick—smiles politely as he accepts my dance card and scrawls his name.Oliver.When he looks up, he says, “I have some news for you. I’ll tell you when we dance.” He winks at me, then drops his tone so Agatha cannot hear him when he adds, “It’s about the fae and the Long Lost Wood.”

My attention whips to him as I’m passing my card along to the others waiting. He grins, happy to have my attention—though I am instantly terrified to know why he thinksIwould be interested. Has rumor gotten out about my escapades as the Ivy Mask? Surely not!

My full card is pressed back into my hand before I walk away. My stepmother’s low voice tickles my ear with a tight, “I’m glad you made the right decision.”

That only makes me want to retract my decision and snub her choice. If for no other reason than to prove I didn’t do this for her.

I donothingfor her.

Instead, I hide my fists in my skirt and paste a smile on my face as I follow the bane of my existence to Lord Boreham.

The gentleman is nowhere near the dance floor, sprawled across a settee and laughing hysterically at something the group of men near him are saying. He clearly has no intent of dancing—least of all with me—and I have a particular dislike for the man gripping the back of the settee with one hand and holding his wine goblet the other. Sir Alsbee tried to seduce me when I was much younger, to force me via scandal into marriage with him.

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