Page 6 of Gilded Locks

Maybe one day James would come out with whatever he was hiding and open up possibilities for them.

“Quiet. We need quiet,” Mayor Nautin called above the gentle beginnings of a minuet. A strangled screech cut through the commotion of the party as the musicians halted mid-stroke.

The toasts!

With a thrill of excitement, Grace shifted to find a comfortable position facing the mayor and directed the most defiant expression she could manage his way. This was the strongest statement she got to make against the mayor publicly, and she’d savor every painful minute.

Mayor Nautin caught sight of her, and his face twisted into a snarl before he yanked his attention away. “A toast. To Fidara.” The mayor raised a glass in the air.

Gentry around the room grabbed for the nearest glass, raised it, and muttered a hurried “To Fidara.”

Grace and her parents didn’t move.

“In these hard times,” the mayor said, “I am grateful to be the one protecting you from ever-growing dangers.”

Grace rolled her eyes. He was no protector.

The mayor continued, “How fortunate we have enough as a town to support our most valued residents. Our nobles, whose prestige has attracted many to our great town.”

Nobles, ha.

The wealthiest Fidarans were barely gentry. The affluence that had set Grace’s ancestors apart from peasants had been bled nearly dry by the monthly tax collections. The same was true of everyone in this town hall.

Sheriff Clairmont raised his glass. “And to our mayor, for his wisdom in building up his people.” The sheriff gestured around the room, as if there could be any mistake regarding who the mayor claimed as his own.

At the sound of his voice, Grace felt her chest tighten in panic and she pushed away memories of whispered threats. She hated the weak physical response she didn’t seem able to control. But then, the sheriff’s ever-present scowl and silky tenor voice sent a visible shiver through the entire room. The attendees, excepting the Robbinses, raised their glasses with nervous speed and toasted the mayor.

How had her mother ever considered a life with that venomous man?

Grace dragged her eyes away and back to the mayor. When Mayor Nautin’s attention flicked her way, she faked a yawn. How kind of him to allow her a chance to irk him. She felt better immediately.

The display proceeded. Under the sheriff’s chilling eye, every non-Robbins family in the room offered a toast. Even Lizzy’s parents took their turn, blurting a “To the mayor” without any embellishment. Each time Grace’s family silently refused to toast, the vein on the mayor’s forehead grew larger and hissnarl fiercer. By the close of the speechifying, he resembled a bedraggled lion, his long, scraggly blond hair and the sickly off-gold neckcloth he’d taken to wearing over the summer months framing a red face with feral black eyes.

Grace smiled. This was the best reaction she’d gotten yet.

If only she had time to relish the success. But if history predicted the future…

“Miss Robbins.”

Right on cue.

With a familiar wave of disgust, Grace pursed her lips and looked to the man hovering near her. “Mr. Clairmont.”

Garrick Clairmont. She eyed the man standing stiff in the russet shirt and tan trousers he always wore. He was easily the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, even in comparison to James.

What a waste.

Grace eyed him. He had broad shoulders, of course, and lean, well-defined arms—a fact she’d discovered the one time he’d asked her to dancebeforethe second half of a soirée. She’d been so discombobulated by an invitation from the son of the sheriff that she’d sputtered a yes. The young man didn’t inspire the fear his father did, but he was never far from the sheriff and always did his bidding. It was only a matter of time before he became what his father was.

It might have been pleasant pretending she wanted to be held in his muscular arms if he had looked at her a single time. But just like today, just like always, he’d kept his light brown eyes halfway averted.

She’d spent the whole time glaring at his beautiful ebony curls, watching them bounce with the steps. If he wouldn’t look her in the eye, she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

That would have been the end of it if the louse would stop asking her to dance every single month. It irked Grace that he never deigned to fully look at her, yet he always wanted a dance.

At least he was too unobservant to pick a time when she wasn’t boycotting. He’d seemed smarter than that in school. Maybe he did it out of spite.

“I was wondering,” Garrick said, “if you’d dance the next song with me.”

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