Page 36 of The Traitor's Curse
My voice hitched, but I managed, “And if I were contemplating matrimony, Lady Violetta, I would certainly take the reputation of the ducal family into account, but—”
“Hah!” She snorted another kind of scoffing sound on top of that, rearing back as if I’d tried to bite her. “Do you perhaps feel you’re doing so by confining your…activities to within the ducal family? Because I wouldn’t have thought that would assist in any efforts to bolster its reputation. Hah!”
Oh, buggering unmerciful gods. A group of young lords standing nearby all stared, eyes wide, and then tittered behind their hands, leaning in to whisper to one another. Could I fake falling down in some kind of fainting fit, and then let my guards carry me out to safety?
Wouldit be fake?
“Come, Violetta,” said one of her friends, taking her by the arm and glaring daggers at me. “Let us rest and compose ourselves a moment. You!” This to a passing footman. “A chair and a glass of wine, if you please…”
He led them away, bowing and scraping and being berated by all three of them.
Wine. Yes. My staff had brought out a good vintage for this occasion, a lovely dry sparkling rose that effervesced on my tongue and went down far faster than was probably wise. I raised a hand, and another glass appeared in it instantly, the page hovering at my elbow having anticipated me.
I knocked it back. It tasted even better seasoned with the knowledge of how annoyed Benedict would be if he could see me. My brain took on a bit of a sparkle too. Oh, thank Ennolu.
The group of lordlings approached and made their legs, rising with matching smirks on their faces. “Lord Griset, Your Grace, and I am honored to pay my respects,” said the handsomest one, who’d put himself in the front of the quartet.“My mother presented me to you last year.”
“I remember you,” I lied, and nodded.
“Oh, how flattering. But Your Grace, I’m surprised to be able to approach you! Lord Benedict is so very intimidating, and I’d thought to find him fending off those of us who’d be so bold as to admire you.” His smirk grew into more of a leer. “Is it possible you might wish to honor some other gentleman with a dance tonight, Duke Lucian?”
In other words, was it possible that Benedict had already tired of me, thrown me over, and abandoned me to the court wolves?
Gods preserve me, I’d set myself up for this when I begged Benedict for his help and protection, and even more so when I’d put on that performance for the footmen eleven days ago, and triply so when I’d allowed myself to live in a fool’s paradise in which the opinions of sappy girls and clerks who thought Benedict’s earring made him dashing were the ones that mattered. I had no one to blame but myself for an embarrassment so hot and violent my flushed cheeks actually ached.
But before I could try to answer, and as if Benedict had somehow heard my internal screaming, a pause, a gasp, and then a wave of murmurs swept the assembly.
My skin prickled with heat, with awareness.
And I knew before I even looked up whom I’d see standing at the top of the stairs across the room.
“Lord General Benedict Rathenas,” said the herald, his voice carrying to every corner of the suddenly much quieter ballroom.
I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of staring at him along with the rest of the gaping throng. But I turned to him and stared all the same, as if he’d had me on a string. He hadn’t dressed appropriately for the occasion, of course—because I couldn’t imagine a world in which society’s dictates would matter more to Benedict than his sturdy boots and his sword hanging from its worn belt. But he had made the effort to change into a black taffeta and velvet doublet, the sleeves all embroidered in silver and gold. It was more than enough to catch the glow of the chandeliers, with their cascades of soft alchemical lights reflected by dangling crystals.
But even as he smiled at everyone and sauntered down the stairs, fondling the hilt of his sword and playing to his admirers, his eyes found mine—and held.
For a long moment everything else fell away, the music and chatter of the ballroom fading to a faint drone. Benedict’s eyes seemed to shine more brightly than the lights, and a shudder went through me, from the top of my head all the way down.
“Oh, there he is, isn’t he!” said Lord Griset, too loudly, too shrilly, and I jumped as everything in the room came rushing back in again. “Strong, powerful men have their disagreements, of course,” he continued, fluttering his eyelashes at me. Ugh. He had the wrong object for that sort of display. Perhaps he ought to try it on Benedict. Perhaps I might revive my father’s practice of sending insolent courtiers to the dungeon under the palace when I had a whim. “But I, oh, I did understand your reconciliation had been…complete. What a—a delight to see him attending on Your Grace after all!”
The ballroom had almost filled, and the current fashion for headdresses made from an aviary’s worth of feathers and for wide, ornate skirts stuffed with petticoats made it seem even fuller, especially as their wearers stepped and turned through the figures of the dance. Benedict had made it down the stairs, but his progress across the crowded room was slow. The lights shimmered off of gold earrings and jeweled necklaces, enameled fans and rich silk brocades—and a hundred pairs of avid eyes, asthey all turned to follow Benedict’s approach.
In a sudden panic, I shoved my empty wine glass at the page beside me, hoping Benedict wouldn’t see it, and then awaited him with what I had left of my dignity.
“Surely nothing could give Lord Benedict more gratification than attending His Grace,” one of Griset’s friends said in a tone of unflattering insincerity—right as Benedict came close enough to hear him.
I bit my lips as Benedict’s twitched, the gleam of his eyes the visible overflow of his suppressed laughter.
Damn it. He’d say something mocking, and I’d be a laughingstock forever. I’d stolen a week and a half of not feeling like a fool from the jaws of society’s defeat, but now I could feel them closing around me after all.
Griset and the other three chattering twits, clearly delighted to have a front-row view, withdrew just enough to allow Benedict to stand directly before me. He stopped and bowed precisely low enough to show he knew he had to, the bastard, rising to his full, commanding height again within an instant, tossing his hair back and making his earring bounce and glitter.
He opened his mouth.
Oh, here it came.
Benedict spoke directly to me, but he pitched his voice to carry as only a trained actor or courtier could—though thankfully he didn’t use the full bellow of a battlefield general.
