Page 97 of Monsters in Love

“Thanks,” Belle muttered. “Not sure I’m cut out for social disapproval. I can’t think of what to do next.”

“This is why I don’t follow rules.” Her sister snorted softly. “And why I’m here to help. When in doubt…” She nodded at platters of tiny bowls of soup being circulated by servants.

Right. Food.

There were hundreds of ways to fumble social niceties when it came to eating, especially at the ball. “Thanks, oh wise miscreant.” Isabelle grinned at her younger sister and gave her a quick, one-armed hug. “Now, please try to be better than me for the rest of the evening?”

“Maybe.” Emmi’s dimples flashed, then she vanished into the throng.

Shaking her head, Isabelle followed suit.

She made her way to a platter of neatly cut pork pies, garnished with perfect dollops of apricot jam and bright sprigs of parsley. Her stomach rumbled and she repressed a grin—apparently misbehaving was hungry work. And she could raise eyebrows while enjoying a snack.

“This looks wonderful,” she said, snatching the largest piece from the tray with her bare hand and popping it directly into her mouth.

The servant gaped at her. “Mm… miss?”

“Delicious.” She spoke around a mouthful of pastry and meat.

The servant seemed to pale before her eyes. She cringed internally, but made herself continue. As terrible as she felt for those working on the day of the ball, needs must. Normally, young ladies took a sliver of embossed parchment before allowing a servant to place a treat—normally the smallest on the tray—on the paper. That way their bare hands never touched food.

They also never spoke with their mouths full.

Oh well. Tonight, she was in for a penny, in for a pork pie.

The poor servant was still staring at her in obvious horror. “M-miss, there is paper for—”

“No need,” she said blithely, and snagged another piece.

Mmm. She didn’t need to fake her delight. It had been too long since she had a real meat pie—months since she’d had bacon. This whole misbehaving strategy was surprisingly tasty—

A hand grabbed her arm.

She was whipped around, and Jaston’s face filled her vision. “Jaston, I—”

“Be silent and smile.” His mouth was a flat line, his eyes cold as the outer wall in the depth of winter. His fingers dug cruelly into her forearm and her back as he pulled her into a dance. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Isabelle. But you’ll stop now or regret it.”

She forced her lips to curve upward into a bland smile. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Don’t play the fool with me,” he snapped.

They whirled across the floor.

Her hair threatened to fall out of its pins as he whipped her through a series of vicious turns. Pale strands tangled across her view, but did nothing to blur her view of his anger. Her knees wanted to quake, but she refused to crumble into defeat in the middle of the ballroom.

“I have been enjoying the evening,” she said defiantly, tilting her chin.

“The bishop had noticed your little activities, and suggested you might not be a wise choice for a wife.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “I assured him it was nerves, and that you would prove your worth.”

“What if I don’t want to?” She tried to spin free.

He yanked her closer and spoke softly. “You’d better change your mind. Or your family will pay the price.”

Please, Gods, no.

She’d done all this to avoid such a fate, convinced he’d never argue with the bishop. How wrong she’d been.

“Why—” Her voice broke. “Why do this?”

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