“I hope it’s enough. One more pull and you would have cracked my ribs,” Alison said. She released her grip on the footboard and stood erect—well, it was the only way she could stand, strapped into this cage of metal and bone and fabric, her breasts pushed up high and her waist almost small enough for her to circle it with her two hands. She let Belle dress her like a life-sized doll in the bodice of yellow satin the color of fallen linden leaves, sewn with tiny pearls along the neck and hem, and the matching skirt Belle tied tightly around her impossibly narrow waist. Alison kicked at the layers of the skirt, making it bell out around her, then slid her feet into golden dancing shoes and waited for Belle to fasten them. Pearl ear-drops and a double strand of larger pearls that hung to her navel completed her Equinox Ball costume.
She sat gingerly on the bench in front of her vanity table, lit softly by a dozen Devices the size of her pearls, while Belle arranged her long, tight curls into something elegant that would probably be frizzy before the night was over. It would be a long night. She knew no one in the capital except the Dowager and her ladies, none of whom could dance with her, and she felt herself begin to freeze up when she thought about dancing with strangers. All those men who only think about one thing, her inner voice said, and she tried to tell herself it wasn’t true. It was possible the Dowager would allow her to leave after only an hour or possibly two, and she could escape the ball and her corset and spend the rest of the evening reading.
“That’s all, milady, and you look so beautiful,” Belle sighed. She was young, sixteen or seventeen and fresh from some frontier town in Barony Steepridge Alison had never heard of, but she had come highly recommended and after two days of her service Alison could see why; she was bright, quick to anticipate Alison’s needs, and had a cheerful disposition. Tonight she wore her brown hair parted in the middle and coiled in two knots at the base of her neck, and she’d done something to her pink uniform that made it look fashionable. Alison wasn’t sure that was permitted, but Belle’s initiative in doing so had impressed her so much she didn’t want to chastise her.
“Thank you, Belle. Though most of my appearance is due to your care, so I think you’re complimenting yourself,” Alison teased, and the girl’s cheeks went pink. “I’ll wake you when I come in. I certainly can’t get out of this getup on my own.”
“Very well, milady. You’re sure you don’t mind if I borrow your books?”
“They’re here to be read, and I’m so pleased you want to. Now, please check to see that my hem is straight, and then I suppose I’ll have to join the others.”
The other ladies were waiting in the antechamber for the Dowager, all of them as erect as Alison was. Elisabeth caught her eye, gave her a slow once-over, then smiled a nasty smile and turned away. Alison suppressed her laughter. She’d learned, finally, that the Vandenhouts were an old Tremontanan family, wealthy but not titled, and that Elisabeth was terribly proud of her lineage. She seemed to think, because of the state Alison had arrived in and despite her extensive wardrobe, that Alison was an impoverished noblewoman from the rough frontier, and Alison hadn’t bothered to correct her. Only ignorance could prevent anyone from recognizing the name of one of Tremontane’s eleven governing districts, let alone paint County Waxwold uncivilized, and Alison Quinn’s personal fortune could no doubt buy the Vandenhouts several times over.
“Oh, Alison, you look incredible,” Simone said, hurrying over to embrace her. The tall, dark-skinned woman wore shades of cream just barely acceptable as autumn colors; white made her skin glow. “Those pearls are just the perfect touch. I’ve never seen any so well matched.”
“Yes, and I have to admit I’d never have guessed yellow would suit you so well, with that hair,” Philippa said.
“Neither did I, but my couturier insisted, and she’s always right,” Alison said.
“Well, I’d try to steal her from you, but I doubt she’d be willing to move all the way to Barony Daxtry for me,” Philippa said. She shook out her copper skirts, perfectly coordinated with her red hair, and added, “We all do look stunning, don’t we?”
“Oh, my dears, that you do,” said the Dowager. She entered the room and saluted each of her ladies with a light kiss on the cheek. She smelled of lilacs and powder and her lips brushed Alison’s cheek like the softest rose petals imaginable. “Now, I hope you will all enjoy yourselves tonight. I will be returning at midnight, but you need not feel obligated to attend me. I simply want to remind you we will all rise for our normal breakfast hours, and I expect you to exercise the good sense each of you has. Now, our carriage is ready, so if you don’t mind?”
They left the Dowager’s apartment and went, not to the ballroom, but to a door where two carriages waited to drive them the three hundred yards or so to the palace entrance. Alison wasn’t sure whether that was to gratify the Dowager’s fancy or to give her ladies a proper entrance, but the oversized white and gilt carriages certainly drew the attention of the other waiting guests. The palace glowed with thousands of fairy lights, making its patchwork construction look like the set of a play, something out of scale and not quite real. It made her feel a little disoriented, like an actor waiting for her cue, costumed and not quite sure what her lines were.
She followed the Dowager up the black granite steps that shone gold with reflected light and across the threshold, trying not to bump up against the other guests. There were so many people pressing forward across the marble entry Alison couldn’t imagine the size of the ballroom that could hold them all. She passed through a gallery, half-paneled in dark walnut and painted an eggshell blue above, that was lined with pedestals bearing busts of famous dead Tremontanans, their blank eyes staring past her as if looking at something far more important than any of the people passing now. She glimpsed the bust of Landrik Howes, one of her favorite playwrights, and wished she could stop to ask what play she’d walked into and what her role was this evening. She would have welcomed a script and a director.
They came out of the gallery into the rotunda, four stories tall and capped with a dome depicting the great deeds of King Edmund Valant, last king before the North dynasty took the Crown. Willow North must have had a robust sense of humor to leave those paintings intact—or possibly she just knew most of King Edmund’s deeds had been exaggerated or fabricated and therefore were no threat to her. The real power in those days had been the Ascendants, men and women with inborn magical abilities who used their magic to dominate Tremontane’s government and society, and Willow had been the cause of their downfall. Alison had trouble picturing anyone capable of bringing an entire magical caste to its knees being afraid of anything. She realized she was lagging behind and hurried to catch up to the Dowager, who’d swept her party past the rotunda, down a sloping hall covered in a dark green woven carpet, and past a pair of golden grilles, currently open, to the top of a landing overlooking the ballroom.
Alison’s imagination had fallen short of the reality; the room was easily one hundred feet wide and twice that in length. She blinked and turned her head to avoid being blinded by the chandelier of brass and crystal, lit by thousands of tiny Devices, that hung from the center of the ceiling and was level with the top of the stairs. Looking up and away from it, she saw the midnight blue ceiling was painted with constellations that resembled those of Midsummer Day, probably the exact configuration of stars that hung over Aurilien on that most important of holidays, when the lines of power drew heaven and earth closest together and family bonds were at their strongest. Music beckoned Alison to enter, and she turned her head, trying to discover where the music was coming from; it seemed to emerge from the air itself.
“The Countess of Waxwold,” the herald at the top of the stairs said, and Alison jumped a little and stepped forward to descend to the ballroom floor. This would be a perfect time for me to trip over my shoes and go tumbling down all these stairs, she thought, and held her head high and stepped very carefully. A forest of trees had been sacrificed to make the shining surface where men
and women danced. The highly waxed, almost black floorboards were parallel to the stairs and became paler the further they went from the staircase until they were almost white, then gradually darkened until at the far edge of the room they were nearly black again. It gave Alison the illusion that the couples dancing at the center of the room were turning and dipping in a valley, or possibly atop a ridge, and she had to look at the walls to keep from getting dizzy. Doors painted pale rose to match the walls stood at long intervals around the room; from her reading, Alison knew they opened on smaller rooms where business had once been conducted, long ago when this had been the throne room. She suspected they were now used for lovers’ trysts, though how anyone could bear to conduct a courtship with so many people moving around just outside was difficult for her to understand.
She took a final step and was safely on the varnished floor that only looked like it was sloping away from her. She was the last of the Dowager’s ladies to descend, and none of them had waited for her; she could see the Dowager moving away in the company of several other ladies her own age. Alison took a few more steps so as not to be in the way of whoever was coming down behind her. Then she stopped and clasped her hands in front of her, pretending she was enjoying the view of all those bright autumn colors darting about as if tossed like leaves, all those dark suits like trees doing the tossing. She felt a familiar iciness begin to spread across her body and descend over her face. She had not been introduced to any of these men and saw no way to gain an introduction, so how on earth was she to spend the evening dancing? Perhaps she should follow the Dowager and her knot of women…but how embarrassing, to go begging like that when she didn’t much enjoy dancing anyway. She should sit down, accept a glass of wine and pretend it was what she wanted to do—
“Excuse me, milady Countess, but would you care to dance?”
Alison turned, startled, to look at the middle-aged man who’d spoken to her. He had a kind smile and his hand was outstretched to her. “I—we haven’t been introduced, sir—that is, milord—”
“Just sir,” he said, a friendly twinkle coming to his eye. “So many people come and go through Aurilien that we’ve dispensed with the need to be introduced to someone before you dance with him. Or her.” He took her unresisting hand and bowed over it. “But if it makes you more comfortable, my name is Jackson Albright.”
“I—yes, Mister Albright, I would be happy to dance with you,” Alison said, still a little off guard, and allowed him to lead her to where the dancers were gathering. He’d looked at her with admiration, true, but he hadn’t leered at her or made suggestive comments, and as they started into the first steps of the dance, he smiled at her with such friendliness that she smiled in return.
She hadn’t realized until that evening that she really did enjoy dancing, when she had the right partners. Was it luck, or was it just Aurilien, that she never had to freeze up to protect herself from unwanted compliments or men trying to see down the front of her gown tonight, never had to turn down an invitation to dance with an unwanted partner? She stumbled once, was caught by her partner, and rather than feeling mortified she was able to laugh with him at her mistake. She felt for the first time in years as if she were not defined by those externalities of title and fortune that had nothing to do with who she really was. Part of her warned Don’t be so incautious, and she found it easy to ignore that little voice.
Finally, her feet beginning to ache and her throat dry, she politely waved away more invitations to dance and went in search of a glass of wine. Small tables and chairs stood scattered near the walls, occupied by dancers in need of a rest or people carrying on boisterous conversations loudly enough to be heard over the music. Alison tried to sit, but her corset dug into her hips and thighs, so she stood well out of the way of the dancers and sipped her wine, which was a little fruitier than she liked but soothed her dry throat. She had no idea what time it was. Perhaps she wouldn’t return with the Dowager at midnight, after all. She took a somewhat longer swallow and patted her lips with her fingers. She’d purchased several dozen pairs of gloves only to learn they were unfashionable in the capital for evening wear, and now her hands felt naked, as if the absence of gloves meant something more sensual than mere bare skin. It had felt a little scandalous to dance hand in hand, skin to skin, with her partners, scandalous and a little thrilling. She needed to get out in society more often if something that prosaic thrilled her.
“Alison, dear! Do join us!”
Alison turned and saw the Dowager waving at her from a nearby table. She was seated with a number of other women about her age and a dark-haired man who half-turned to see whom the Dowager was waving at. He was astonishingly good-looking, with a strong, smooth jawline, firm lips, shapely cheekbones, and a pair of vivid blue eyes that set off his fair skin. Alison approached and made her curtsey to the Dowager, then glanced back at the young man, who had those blue eyes fixed on her with an expression that was far too familiar. Alison felt herself begin to freeze up for the second time that evening. So much for my good luck. She ignored the man and gave all her attention to the Dowager, praying to ungoverned heaven she could extricate herself from the conversation quickly.
“Ladies, this is Alison Quinn, the Countess of Waxwold. She’s my newest companion and I do so enjoy her company!” The Dowager reached up and laid a soft hand on Alison’s wrist. “Alison, dear, I want you to meet my son, Anthony. Anthony, Alison Quinn.”
The young man rose, a little unsteadily. “Milady Countess,” he said, and his voice was a rich baritone every bit as handsome as the rest of him. Alison tried not to flinch at the smell of alcohol that came off his breath. She let him take his hand and kiss it, his lips lingering much longer than was socially acceptable, and kept herself from yanking it back when he was finished. She bowed her head and curtseyed politely, murmuring, “Your Highness.”
“Anthony’s just returned from the country and I’m so glad he was able to attend this ball,” the Dowager said. “Anthony, I wish you would dance with Alison. She seems quite without a partner. Alison, you’d like to dance with Anthony, wouldn’t you?”
Alison was certain the Dowager didn’t realize her son was drunk. She looked up at the Prince—he had to be almost a foot taller than she was—and froze a little more at his lazy smile and the light in his eyes that said he knew exactly how handsome he was and that his looks could get him anything he wanted, including, naturally, the Countess of Waxwold. He surveyed her body once again and said, “I’d love to dance with you, milady Countess,” and offered her his hand.
For half a second Alison considered rejecting him. But the Dowager was sitting right there, smiling with innocent pleasure at having arranged things so neatly, and it would offend her so much if Alison refused. So she took the Prince’s hand, smiled a frozen smile, said, “Thank you, your Highness,” and allowed him to lead her to the center of the floor.
Alison was conscious of being stared at for the first time all evening; she hoped it was actually her partner they were staring at, though she had a momentary wild thought of what a beautiful couple they must make despite the difference in their heights, her blond curls, his dark hair. Half the room was no doubt envying her right now; the other half was probably envying him. Alison caught a whiff of stale brandy again and breathed through her mouth until it passed. How fortunate the corset wouldn’t allow her to breathe any more deeply than that.
North stopped under the largest of the crystal chandeliers and rather abruptly took Alison in his arms. “No need to be tense,” he said, “this is a very simple dance.”
“I realize that, your Highness,” Alison replied. It was a familiar and popular dance, and it was also a very intimate one, requiring partners to dance close together, his arms around her waist, her arms around his shoulders. An old, painful memory of dancing like this with another man, one who’d said he loved her, flashed through her mind, and she focused on the shoulder of North’s frock coat to dispel it. He’d said so much more when she’d turned
down his advances: frigid, tease, haughty. Probably a terrible lay. As if her current situation weren’t painful enough without reminders of her equally painful past.
She stumbled a little through the first steps, disliking the feeling of North’s strong arms drawing her close. North was a good dancer, despite being drunk, and Alison tried to focus on the steps and reminded herself it was only one dance, because two would mean they were interested in one another and two in a row would be a declaration of courtship. North would certainly not return later for another dance no matter how much he admired her body.
“How long have you been in Aurilien? Milady countess,” North said as they circled each other and then drew close again, clasping right hands.
“Nearly a week, your Highness.”
“Are you enjoying my mother’s company?”
“I am, your Highness.”
North leaned in until his mouth was even with her ear. “You can just call me Anthony, you know. Milady.”
“I’d prefer not to be so informal when we’ve only just been introduced, your Highness.”
North laughed. “Very well.” He slid his hand from the base of her spine up to caress her back and the bare skin at the base of her neck, a swift stroke that probably no one noticed. Alison’s cheeks went blotchy with anger and embarrassment. And to think she’d been having such a nice time. This always happened, always, she would let her guard down and some man would take advantage of that, as if she were nothing more than firm breasts and a well-rounded bottom. They were in the middle of the ballroom, spotlighted by a hundred thousand sparkling rainbows. She had nowhere to go. She felt ice fill her from deep within her chest, radiating out to the rest of her body. Frozen, where this arrogant Prince couldn’t touch her.
Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1) Page 3