Strings of lights extend from the tree to lampposts around the drive, so it feels like the stars are dripping down around us. My breath catches, and all of a sudden I’m wrapped up in the beauty of it all. I don’t feel like an outsider right now, I just feel like a little girl about to meet Santa Claus.
When a footman opens the door and helps me out of the vehicle, he treats me with the exact same deference as everyone else. “Lady Belcourt,” he says with a bow, and I wonder how many hours he’s spent studying pictures of all of tonight’s attendees. “Please,” he says, leading me up the stairs.
Two other footmen help my mother and father out of the car, and I take the first step up the wide marble staircase to the doors. There’s a rich red carpet laid out, its edges inlaid with gold thread.
Everything oozes elegance and wealth and holiday spirit. A massive wreath hangs above the door, and when I pass under it another thrill pierces my gut.
I’m at Farcliff Castle. I’m wearing a long silver gown, and my inky black hair is styled to perfection. Even if I feel like an imposter, how could I not enjoy this?
Another member of the royal staff greets me, giving me a slight curtsy as she asks for my jacket. I strip the white faux-fur off my shoulders, tugging the ends of my long gloves off and handing them to her. Holding my clutch close to my stomach, I turn to wait for my mother and father.
The three of us are led in a long procession of people toward the main ballroom, where a delicate, classical rendition of a Christmas song is being played. My nerves relax ever so slightly at the comforting sounds of a violin, a cello, and I think I hear a flute and a piano, too.
I can do this. I can attend this ball and act like a lady and make a good impression on Count Gregory. I can make my parents proud and do right by my sister, even if she can’t be here herself.
My insecurities are just that—insecurities. My family is still called Belcourt, and the King is still my second cousin (or first cousin once removed…or whatever). I have as much right to be here as everyone else, even if I didn’t arrive in a Rolls Royce.
But when I step through the tall archway into the ballroom, the air is ripped from my lungs. This is beyond opulent. Beyond beautiful. Beneath my high-heeled shoes, the polished floor is inlaid with intricate designs made from semi-precious stones. Tall columns hold up an arching roof, where four massive chandeliers drip with crystals and lights above our heads.
Garlands of pine and tinsel are strung up around the room, with gold and red and silver wrapped around the branches.
And the people.
Oh, my goodness. Silk and sequins. Fine, tailored tuxedos. Diamonds and pearls and emeralds on every earlobe and neck and finger. Literally everything is glittering.
A waiter presents me a tray full of champagne, and I take a flute with a nod. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. I don’t normally drink, but I feel the need to do something with my hands. Hold something. Help the illusion that I belong here. As my mother and father trail in behind me, I’ve already finished the drink. Oops. A waiter whisks it away without me having to ask.
My mother’s hand appears on my elbow. “There’s the Count,” she says, nodding to a tall older man across the room. “We should say hello.”
I nod, letting my mother and father flank me on either side. My eyes are still adjusting to the twinkling jewels and richness in the room when I feel a prickling on the back of my neck. The sensation turns to a warm rush that spreads down my spine, bathing my body in heat.
In the opposite corner of the ballroom to where Count Gregory is standing is the Duke of Blythe…
…and he’s staring straight at me.
3
Heath
I don’t want to be here.
Or rather, I didn’t until about two seconds ago.
Who…?
I watch a black-haired beauty enter the room, her eyes widening. She stares up at the ceiling, those red, plump lips falling open.
There’s a twitch in my pants, and I remember I’m a man. A man who hasn’t slept with anyone in far too long, no matter what the tabloids write about me.
My eyes drift down the woman’s slim figure, drinking in the shimmering silver gown that hugs her curves like it was painted on her perfect body. She spins around, and I suck in a breath at the sight of her bare back. Her dress plunges down to reveal her spine, a single twinkling strand of crystals holding the two sides of her dress together.
Curling my fingers into a fist, I let my tongue drag over my lips. My mouth is dry. I watch the woman take a flute of champagne with a nod, drinking it down in only a few gulps. She turns to listen to an older woman speak.
I want to feel her silken skin beneath my fingers. I want to bury my head in her soft black hair and inhale her scent. I want to drag my tongue over every inch of her skin and reveal all the secrets that dress is hiding.
I try to look away, but my body feels alive for the first time in years. Heat curls in my core at the sight of her leaning toward her mother, the long column of her neck exposed.
I’m not here to meet anyone. I’m only here to say congratulations to the monarchs and then slip out without anyone noticing. The King and I have become closer since he took the throne, as he’s trying to rid Farcliff Court of all the corrupt, venomous courtiers his father supported. Ever since my brother died, I’ve wanted to do the same.
But tonight isn’t about business. It’s about congratulating the royal family and making an appearance, then leaving before it gets so torturous I want to follow my brother to the grave.
Flicking my eyes to the opposite corner of the room, my mouth tastes bitter. I pinch my lips together as I watch that snake, Gregory, pretend to laugh at someone’s joke.
I can’t be in the same room as him. I can’t watch him swan around the room like he doesn’t belong in jail. Every time I see his name in the papers, extolling his virtues and congratulating him on his donations to medical research, it makes me want to wreck something. Or someone. Mostly him.
The Count lifts his eyes, and my blood turns to ice. He’s seen her. His lips have tugged into a horrid smile, and I watch his hand drift unconsciously toward his waistband.
Disgusting. He wouldn’t be worthy of kissing her shoes, let alone touching himself at the sight of her.
I glance at the woman again, feeling a tug in the center of my chest. Her mother—at least, I assume it’s her mother, based on how similar they look—grabs her elbow and whispers something in her ear. They start walking. Count Gregory watches my girl’s every move, and I realize she’s heading toward him.
No.
Fuck no.
No fucking way.
Anger bubbles through my veins. Everything’s hot. I tug the collar of my shirt, wishing I hadn’t tied my bowtie quite so tight.
Then, as if she senses me, she lifts her eyes to mine. I’m nailed to this spot on the floor. I can’t move. For the few seconds that she keeps her eyes on mine, the pain inside me dulls ever so slightly. Ever since my family died, there’s been a high-pitched humming in my ears. It quiets down, and I almost feel like myself again.
God, I want to touch her. I need to know what she tastes like. I need to wrap my arms around her and hold her close.
But she drags her eyes away from mine and paints a smile on those perfect lips, the guests parting to let her pass as she walks straight to Count fucking Gregory.
4
Ada
Every cell in my body is tuned into the Duke of Blythe’s frequency. Even from across the room, his eyes are magnetic. I can’t see the color of them, but I can imagine the shifting green within them. My heart thumps as my whole body heats, caught somewhere between walking and stumbling as my parents drag me across the room.
Reluctantly, I look away from the Duke to make sure I don’t fall flat on my face. I’m breathless.
Stealing a glance across the room, disappointment crashes into me when I see he’s gone. The space he only just occupied is empty, and I feel an
ache in the center of my chest.
Silly. That’s all I am. I had a glass of champagne on an empty stomach and I’m already a little tipsy. That’s the only explanation for my light-headedness and the feeling that my tongue is made of lead.
My mother comes to a stop, giving a warm greeting to Count Gregory.
His thin lips curl into a cold smile, and he drops them to touch my mother’s extended fingers. “Duchess Belcourt,” he croons, smiling as his eyes remain dark. “Ravishing as always.” He greets my father, then, and finally turns to me.
The warmth that ran down my spine when the Duke of Blythe looked at me evaporates. In its place, a slimy, cold feeling inches over my skin, crawling across my pores. I shiver.
“Good evening, Lady Belcourt. I was saddened to hear about your sister’s accident, but I’m so very glad you were able to take her place.”
His lips curl up farther, but I wouldn’t quite call it a smile. With a hawk nose and dark eyes, the Count looks more dangerous than friendly. He extends his hand toward me, and I slip my fingers against his, fighting the urge to shudder.
When his lips touch my fingers, I want to puke.
My sister can’t marry this man.
No way.
No, no, no.
Panic swells inside me as the Count straightens, his eyes dropping from my face down the length of my body. That slimy, cold feeling follows his gaze. I don’t care how rich he is, how well-connected and well-titled he is. He shouldn’t be looking at anyone like that when he’s promised to my sister. Especially not me.
His gaze lingers on my chest, and I suddenly hate the fact that this gown is backless. I’m not wearing a bra, and I feel so incredibly naked. Exposed. Oh, I wish I were wearing a thousand layers to cover myself up! My hands itch to cross over my chest, but I hold them straight at my sides, my clutch gripped against my thigh.
Sucking in a breath, I clear my throat. “Lovely to meet you,” I lie. “Maggie tells me you enjoy hunting.”
From the time I was a toddler until now, I’ve been trained to act like a lady. That’s the only thing working right now. It’s keeping my spine straight and my smile from slipping. It’s helping me nod and smile and ask follow-up questions as the Count tells me of his hunting trips and many rifles.
Panic trills inside me as my breath grows shallower.
I don’t like this man. I can’t let Maggie marry him. We’ll figure something else out. We’ll find another husband for her, or me. Kiera can get a scholarship. A loan.
Anything but him. Not Count Gregory.
A trumpet sounds, and everyone in the room hushes at once. We all turn toward the entrance as an expectant whisper ripples through the audience.
The King, Queen, and newborn Prince are arriving.
A sick feeling still churns in my gut, but I shove it aside. My eyes drift over the audience, searching for the Duke of Blythe. Maybe the sight of him will steady me. But as I scan the crowd in the ballroom, I can’t see him anywhere.
All the guests in the room are being ushered into a long line across the room, presumably so the King and Queen can greet us all one by one. I make sure to put as much distance between me and the Count as possible, even though my mother gives me a disapproving glance.
Can she not sense the predatory energy he’s giving off? Does she not have alarm bells ringing in her head from his nearness?
Closing my eyes, I take a spot next to my father. That puts both my mother and father between me and the Count, but it’s still not enough. Nervous energy ripples through the guests as the King and Queen approach, their steps echoing in the long hallway leading to the ballroom.
That’s not why I’m nervous, though. My cheeks feel red. My heart is hammering. My mouth tastes of metal, and I wish I could get out of here.
“I never liked Count Gregory,” a male voice says in my ear. “I don’t blame you for that reaction.”
His voice sounds like warm honey with a hint of spice. Gravel rattles around at the edges, with the depth and resonance that screams male.
I open my eyes, but I already know who it is. The Duke of Blythe stares back at me, his face mere inches from mine.
The pictures didn’t do him justice.
A thousand shades of green with little speckles of gold. A fine, long nose and regal brow. When my eyes drop to his lips, my breath catches. Full and pink, they make me want to lean in and feel them against my own.
“Your Grace,” I stammer, racking my brain for the correct title. Is it Your Grace? Or just Lord Blythe? Sir? Mister? Suddenly, my training doesn’t seem so foolproof.
“You’re blushing.” His eyebrow arches as a smile quirks his lips.
I blush harder, which makes his lips tug even more.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
God, if I could bottle his voice up and sell it, I’d make millions. It sends little thrills rushing through my veins, warming me up from top to bottom. I’d swoon to him reading me a recipe book.
“Ada,” I answer simply.
Before he can say anything, all attention turns to the entrance. The King and Queen have arrived. The King is dressed in his ceremonial uniform, with a gold crown nestled in his hair. His broad, muscular shoulders taper down to a thin waist, and he keeps one hand on his queen’s lower back.
Queen Elle was a commoner not long ago, but you’d never guess it now. Dressed in an emerald gown with a sparkling tiara in her short, dark hair, she looks as regal as any regent who went before her. A member of staff whispers names of attendees to her before she greets them, smiling warmly at each and every person.
In her arms, her first child sleeps soundly. The three of them—the King, Queen, and their heir—make such a perfect image, it makes my heart ache. I can almost feel the love radiating between them.
My sister will never have that. Will I? Or will I be married off to some rich old man who can elevate our family’s standing?
Her Majesty the Queen greets Count Gregory, and my mouth sours. My sister won’t get everlasting love like the Queen has. Not if she has to marry the Count.
I stiffen as I watch the older man give a deep bow to the monarchs, unable to hide my aversion.
Then, a warm hand slides over my lower back. “Try not to make your distaste so obvious, Ada,” the Duke whispers in my ear. “If everyone knows exactly how you feel about them, you’ll make lots of enemies around here.”
He takes his hand away, but not before my whole core blazes. I can feel the imprint of his hand on my lower back, and the spot where his thumb just brushed against my exposed skin. Heat rises up my neck.
Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.
I look at the Duke, but I should have listened to myself and resisted the urge. His eyes bore into mine, and heat whips through my body like a fire through a field of dry grasses. It carves a wide path down my spine, making every part of my body burn hotter. My nipples pebble against the silver fabric of my dress, and I suck my lip between my teeth, drawing the Duke’s gaze.
His eyes darken at the sight of my mouth, and the heat in my core cranks higher. A man has never looked at me like that before. Like he lives to look at me. Like he wants to eat me.
“Lady Belcourt,” the Queen says, and I snap my head back to meet her gaze. Standing before me, she’s at least six inches taller than me. She used to be a rower at Farcliff University, apparently. An athlete.
I mumble a greeting and sink down in a curtsy, dropping my head as I rise again.
“I saw you at the Farcliff Jubilee Concert Hall last month,” the Queen says. “You played beautifully.”
“You…you were there? And you saw me playing?” My father stiffens beside me, and I know I’m messing this up. I gulp. “I mean, thank you, Your Majesty.”
The Queen smiles just as her child blinks awake. He makes a soft noise, spittle bubbling at his lips. The Queen’s eyes soften as her son reaches for her. The baby turns his head to me and giggles, reaching a tiny, clos
ed fist in my direction.
“I think baby Charlie likes you.” The Queen laughs, and the King leans over to chuck his son’s cheek.
The King meets my eyes. “We’re looking forward to coming to your Christmas concert in three weeks’ time.” He smiles at me, as if he isn’t the literal King of Farcliff.
They’re looking forward to my concert? What?
I dip into another curtsy, and the Queen moves over to speak to the Duke. Vaguely, I notice that the King seems very familiar with the Duke, and even shakes his hand and calls the Duke by his first name. Heath. Yum.
When the monarchs move on to the next guest, I steal a glance at the Duke of Blythe. He meets my gaze, his eyes impossible to read. It’s not until the greetings are over and the King and Queen announce the official start of the ball that I remember to take a full breath again.
By the time I come back to myself, the Duke has disappeared from my side.
5
Ada
My head is a mess. Count Gregory keeps asking me questions, and my parents keep staring at me like my brain is leaking out of my ears. I can’t seem to make sentences. My body is still on fire, and my eyes search everywhere for the Duke. I need to get away from all these people.
I ignore my mother’s disproving stare and drink another glass of champagne. It only makes me feel worse. My stomach churns as the alcohol hits it, and…oh, shit. I shouldn’t have drunk that so quickly. My mouth fills with saliva, and I have that horrible sensation rising in my throat…
No, no, no.
Stumbling to the bathroom, I throw open a stall door and puke into a toilet. As my eyes water and I spit bile into the bowl, I realize the toilet is inlaid with gold buttons to flush. Lovely. What a nice touch. Only the best for a duchess to hurl into.
Yours for Christmas: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected) Page 2