Page 26 of Dreams and Dragon Wings
There is nothing at all wrong with Reginald Lockhart. He is tall and clean-cut. His back is straight. His smile is warm. He is kind and well-established without being stuffy—a self-made man dripping with new money and all the eccentricities that come from a lifetime of tinkering and inventing.
But he is nearly thirty years my senior and my father’s friend besides.
And he is no Bene.
“Mira, Aurelia,” he greets Mama and me, kissing the air just above our cheeks. Brown eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile, he extends his arm my way. “Please, do call me Reggie. You know I prefer it.”
“Lord Reggie,” I compromise, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow. “You are looking well today.”
His smile widens, flashing gold-capped molars. “Well, I’m not dead yet,” he teases, patting my hand. “But you, my dear—you are exquisite. The most exquisite woman here, I’d wager.”
Mama watches us with an indulgent smile as Reggie leads me onward toward the tinkle of music and the chime of conversation in the near distance. I rack my mind for what I might ask him as we walk together. I have never been one for small talk.
But it would be rude not to offer small talk to the man graciously saving me from a lifetime of shame and spinsterhood.
I brighten my smile and ask, “Do you have any new inventions you are working on at the moment, Lord Reggie?”
He smooths his silver mustache. “Of course, of course. I always have something or another I am working on.” Lips twitching, he slants me a sidelong look. “But you do not have to pretend as if you are interested, my dear.”
My stomach tightens at his blunt speech.
Have I truly said something to offend him already?
An awkward silence descends between us and lingers as he leads me into the ballroom. The opulence of the space steals my breath. I’m not quite sure where to look first.
Chandeliers drip with crystals, casting golden pools across the marble floor. Metallic rivulets swirl through the stone beneath our feet. On a raised platform, musicians play a gentle tune.
But no one is dancing.
All the ladies wearing golden masks stand along one wall, forming a queue that stretches nearly the length of the room. At its head sits a man who can only be King Friedemar.
I have never seen him in person, but he is unmistakable all the same—handsome in a rugged sort of way, with broad shoulders, black hair, sun-kissed skin, and a well-groomed beard. The crown glittering atop his head rather gives him away as well.
Out of nowhere, Reggie asks, “Shall you like to join your masked companions, then?”
My breath hitches in my throat at the very suggestion. “Of course not. Why would I?” My gaze briefly flickers Reggie’s waybefore it returns to the king. “I am here with you, my lord, and no one else.”
But even as those words escape from me, the utterly unthinkable happens.
King Friedemar’s head turns. His eyes slip past the young lady curtsying before him and seek me out instead.Me. When his gaze locks onto mine, I see that his eyes are gray. Like storm clouds. Or cold steel.
For the briefest moment, I forget how to breathe.
“Are you?” Reggie asks, his voice adopting that teasing tone again.
Hastily, I pry my gaze from the king’s and ask my intended directly, “Have I done something to offend you, my lord?”
Reggie’s smile deepens, revealing a flash of gold again. “Not at all, my dear. I simply want us to be honest with one another.” Lowering his voice, he adds, “Your mother and I have an arrangement, you see.”
“Yes, I know—”
“No, you don’t.” He spears me with a look, as if to chastise me for interrupting him. “We have agreed that these three nights of merriment will be your best chance to find a match more suitable for you than I could ever be. You will wear the golden mask each night, signaling to all the fine young men here that you are available. And I will play the part of the dutiful chaperone in your father’s absence. If no other man shows interest, then and only then will we formalize our engagement.” His expression tightens. “How is old Giles, by the by? I forgot to ask.”
I stare at him.
I work my mouth, but no sound escapes. My tongue lies frozen. Eventually, though, I find my voice again. “Forgive me, my lord, but I don’t understand.”
He shrugs, giving my hand another pat. “What is there to understand? We are speaking of common-sense matters, not advanced clockworks. You are young and beautiful. I am old and not.”
