The thought is my constant companion, nagging at the back of my mind as I go about my work and continue overseeing all preparations. No matter how busy I make myself, I can’t shake the fact that, even though I won’t be dancing tonight, I will still face public display. As floor manager, I’ll have to interact with most of our guests, responsible for introductions and ensuring each dance set is full. And despite Imogen’s assertions that this will be a small and private event, her guest list says otherwise. It seems her confidence in Elliot’s attention has grown since our dinner, considering she’s invited some of the most well-bred men and women in town. Although I know any decent ball requires a vast number of willing dancers, I’m surprised how many young and eligible ladies she’s invited. Probably to show off what she thinks she’s won.
As much as that makes my stomach churn, I must let it comfort me instead. This is what we’ve been working for—Imogen’s attachment, her pride in Elliot’s affections. Internal arguments rail against me, and I try to take additional comfort in Imogen’s eventual demise, for once she breaks his curse, the king will turn her away, and her smug grin will be wiped from her face forevermore.
When none of those thoughts help, I remind myself of the five petals that have fallen each of the last few days. Based on my calculations, we have anywhere from one week to nine days left to break Elliot’s curse. Imogen must be convinced she’s in love tonight.
She must.
At least I have true comfort in the few invitees I’ve added to the guest list, which includes Foxglove, Amelie, Nina, and the bookseller, Mr. Cordell. Unfortunately, Nina’s invite requires one for Father as well, so I must steel myself against his forthcoming presence.
The sky is nearly dark and the ball just over an hour away when I can safely say the manor is ready for tonight’s event. Standing at the entrance to the dining-room-turned-ballroom, I give it a nod of approval. The lighting has been lowered to a warm, elegant glow, and the marble floor gleams with a dazzling shine, the very essence of the room screaming romance. Ember and the violinist are set up at the far end, practicing for the first few songs, strains of their lovely music floating upon my ears to ease my frazzled nerves.
I sigh. It’s perfect. This will work.
“Why aren’t you dressed?”
I whirl at the sound of Elliot’s voice, my pulse hammering at the sight of him in his shirtsleeves. “I could ask the same of you. What are you thinking, walking around like this?”
“I’ve been in the garden,” he says, voice quiet.
My stomach drops. “Anything I should be concerned about?”
He shifts his jaw. “Nothing but the usual. Four petals have fallen. I’m sure the fifth will fall by the end of the night.”
His tone has me reaching for him, and before I realize what I’m doing, I lay a gentle hand on his arm. My palm buzzes at the contact, sending a rush of heat through me, but I don’t release him. Instead, I give him a soft squeeze, and he relaxes, shoulders dropping. “It’s going to be all right, Mr. Rochester,” I whisper. “If all goes to plan, I’ll speak with Imogen tonight.”
His face flashes with a pained expression. “What if she doesn’t—”
“No,” I say, voice firm. “No what ifs. Just stick with the plan. Dance with Imogen. Treat her like a queen. Smile at her, converse with her. Use that clever fae deception and pretend she’s the most desirable creature you’ve ever beheld. Can you do that?”
It takes him a few silent beats to answer. “Yes.”
I slide my palm from his arm, ignoring how cold it feels hanging loose at my side. “Good. Here’s what to expect. The ball will open with a minuet, so you’ll need to wait for the second, which will be a waltz. That’s when you will ask Imogen to dance. The sixth dance will be the polka, and the tenth will be the gallopade. Three dances with Imogen. Three chances to demonstrate your favor.”
He nods along, as if memorizing my verbal itinerary.
“Now, go get dressed. Hurry!”
He takes a step away but pauses. “Shouldn’t you get dressed as well?”
The question has me assessing my state of disarray. Even without a mirror, I can tell my hair has gone limp, loose strands hanging around my face. And although my dress is clean, I can’t deny I feel less than fresh, considering how much my anxiety has caused me to sweat. “I suppose you’re right. The floor manager mustn’t appear so ragged as I look now.”
He extends his arm with a crooked smile. “Let me escort you to your room, Miss Bellefleur.”
I quirk a brow. “Why? Are you afraid I’ll ignore your suggestion to change as soon as your back is turned?”
“Perhaps. Besides, we can practice conversation on our way and help me get comfortable.”
“Very well,” I say with a resigned sigh as I take his arm. Once again, my palm tingles at the contact, but I shove the awareness to the back of my mind.
We leave the bustle of the main floor behind and head upstairs. Elliot turns to me with a haughty, mocking expression. “What lovely weather we had today, wouldn’t you agree Miss Bellefleur?”
I roll my eyes and answer him with an equally cajoling tone. “Oh, so lovely, Mr. Rochester. The afternoon snow was quite a spectacle. How uncannily similar it seemed to yesterday’s snow.”
His lips flicker with a shadow of a frown, making me recall our last conversation about the weather, one that ended with his unsettling question. Do you think you could ever be happy here in Winter?
My voice takes on a more serious tone as I say, “The snow truly was lovely today, the few times I looked from the windows. Each snowflake seemed to sparkle as it fell, like a dusting of diamonds.”
His expression softens, his smile shifting from mockery to genuine pleasure. “That’s how I see it every day.”
We stop outside my bedroom door, and I turn to face him. “Thank you for walking me to my door, Mr. Rochester. Now, run along, and don’t you dare be late to your own ball.”
He lets out a grumbling sigh. “I promise I’ll arrive in a timely fashion.”
Promise. That’s a weighty word coming from a fae, although I see he’s given himself room with timely fashion. Clever bastard.
“Now promise me you’ll wear the dress that’s laid out on your bed.”
Taken aback, I blink a few times as I try to make sense of his odd request. “What dress?”
His eyes narrow as his lips pull into a devious grin.
Without a second thought, I push open my door and rush inside. An elegant swath of red lace overlaying crimson silk has me halting in place. I look back at Elliot, my eyes wide with equal parts shock, terror, pleasure, and confusion. “What is that?”
He leans against my doorframe, and a hint of trepidation flickers in his eyes. “I had Amelie make it for you. That’s the real reason she came so early today. To drop it off.”
I look from him to the gown and back again, tears pricking my eyes for a reason I can hardly comprehend. “Why?”
“You didn’t have a dress to wear.”
“I have plenty of gowns in the wardrobe to suffice.”
“Not for a ball.”
I open and close my mouth a few times before I can find my words. “Elliot, I don’t need a proper ballgown. I’ll be managing the floor, not participating in the festivities.”
He shrugs. “As my employee, I think I should get a say in what you wear to my events. Think of it as a required uniform.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “So, you’re saying I’m being forced to wear this?”
“No, of course not,” he says with a furrowed brow. “It’s just…it’s a gift. I wanted you to have it. Wear it or throw it away if you don’t like it. I’ll take no offense. However, I can’t say I won’t be disappointed if I am never to see you in it.”
My breath hitches, my stomach swarming with a strange warmth at his words, at the look in his eyes. The timbre of his tone seems to reverberate through my bones, relaying far more than his words can. I know it’s all in m
y imagination, but it makes me eager to change into the gown just the same. “I’ll wear it,” I say, my voice barely above a breathless whisper.
“Wonderful.” He pushes off from my doorframe. “I’ll see you in the ballroom soon then.”
“Wait,” I call before he can step away. He meets my eyes, and I find myself reeling to remember what I had meant to say. A flush warms my cheeks and I clasp my hands tight at my waist to keep them from fidgeting. “Thank you, Elliot. For the dress. It’s…beautiful.”
His face lights up for the briefest moment before he trains his lips into a modest smile. “You’re welcome.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m left with a gift—one more beautiful than all the jewels, roses, and luxuries I’ve ever been gifted before. Not even Oswald had lavished me with anything like this. And it isn’t just what the gift looks like. It isn’t about what it is at all.
It’s about what it does to my heart.
30
Once dressed, I stand before the mirror with my jaw hanging on its hinge. To say the dress is beautiful is an understatement. To say it is proper for a ball amidst the stuffy townsfolk of Vernon would be a lie. And yet, there’s no way I can take it off now that I’ve put it on, for never have I had the pleasure of wearing something so completely and utterly perfect.
The concoction of scarlet silk, chiffon, and lace reminds me of the fashions popular in Isola when I was a girl, and the gold accents give it a regal flair. It fits like a dream, which tells me Elliot must have given Amelie access to the dresses in my room last time she was here so she could take approximate measurements. Additionally, Amelie must have also guessed the necessary adjustments she’d need to make to those measurements, because where my borrowed gowns are slightly too tight, this one fits like a glove, hugging my curves and allowing generous room for my broad shoulders and hips.
The style itself is certainly what I consider fae, with its plunging neckline, low-cut back, and flowing skirts. The sleeves are close-fitting from my shoulders to my elbows, where they open to sheer chiffon that trails away from my forearms. The bust and waist are snug against my form, then flare out at the hips into layered skirts that sway with my every move.
Saints, Gemma, I say to myself. You’re going to draw way too much attention in this.
But it’s too late for second-guessing, for I’ve already committed to wearing it. Still, it takes no small strength of will to prepare myself to meet the masses that are sure to be gathering downstairs already. Like I always do when fear tries to get the better of me, I breathe in deep and count to five.
After that, I do it again, because I’m still not ready, nor can I stop my arms from shaking or the nausea churning in my gut. Names of those I know I’ll have to face tonight flood my mind. Father. Imogen. Mrs. Coleman. Mrs. Aston. Gavin Aston. Strangers I’ve yet to personally know. Voices. Whispers. Eyes staring like daggers. Taunting, leering—
I shake my head and try again. This is here. This is now.
With a deep breath, I force my mind to empty. Once my breathing grows steady, I conjure images again, but not of those I dread. I think of the people I’m looking forward to engaging with tonight. Nina, Mr. Cordell, Foxglove, Amelie, Ember. And of course…Elliot.
I don’t allow my mind to take me anywhere else but here, in this place of warm anticipation. Then, bottling that warmth deep inside, I wrap my false persona around it like a cocoon, building an aura of confidence thicker, higher, until it feels solid and impenetrable.
I’m ready.
Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I leave my room to greet the townspeople of Vernon. With the poise of a military general facing the greatest battle of her life, I make my way to the ball.
Excited guests have already arrived by the time I make it to the ballroom. The hired footman and other servants expertly go about their tasks, taking coats and cloaks, escorting the guests, serving refreshments, as if they’re regular fixtures at the manor. It gives me far less to attend to myself, but also less to worry about. And fewer worries mean more idle time to overthink and notice the way certain people look at me—
No. Not tonight.
I wander from guest to guest, keeping my false persona firmly in place as I engage in small talk and ensure everyone’s needs are being met. Some give only curt, polite responses, while others ask me about my employer, keen on drilling me for details about my job, why I was offered it, and furthermore, why I accepted it. These latter conversations I extricate myself from at once, using my armory of prepared excuses with hardly a flicker of anxiety on my part.
My nerves aren’t nearly as strong when a familiar head of blonde hair comes bobbing into the ballroom—Imogen. She assesses the room through narrowed eyes, her sister Clara at her side. And on her other side…my heart nearly skips a beat at the sight of my sister. I want to run to Nina and wrap her in a hug, but propriety has me keeping my steps slow and even as I approach.
If propriety hadn’t been enough to stop me, the sight of the figure bringing up the rear of the party certainly would have been. I nearly stumble as Father’s shrewd eyes meet mine, his expression full of disapproval as he escorts Mrs. Coleman. With a deep, steadying breath, I return my gaze to my sister, her wide smile acting as my anchor, my strength.
“Oh, Gemma,” Nina says, coming to the fore of the party to take my hands in hers. “The manor is beautiful! I had no idea to expect such elegance. And a ball! Although,” she lowers her voice, her smile slipping, “I must say I am so disappointed you haven’t visited, even with the books I’m keeping hostage.”
I squeeze her hands in mine. “I’m sorry, Nina. But as you can see, I have my hands full here. Perhaps after the ball I’ll have some downtime to visit.” I catch Father’s scowl over Nina’s shoulder and quickly avert my eyes.
“Miss Bellefleur, the ballroom looks sufficient,” Imogen says, stealing my attention to her. “I must say, this space serves as an even better dance floor than it did a dining room. It makes me regret we don’t have a finer orchestra to go with it. I hope Mr. Rochester isn’t too displeased that I encouraged Ember to lead our music tonight.”
I glance at Ember and the violinist, playing a slow, mellow tune. “On the contrary, the music is lovely.”
“That was poorly done, my dear,” Mrs. Coleman says to Imogen, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “If you hadn’t already offered your stepsister’s services to Mr. Rochester, I would have forbidden it. You know how much it irks me when she shows off like this.”
I turn my gaze to Mrs. Coleman, keeping my smile firmly in place despite my urge to snarl at her. “How fortunate it was that you weren’t there to prevent it then. I daresay my employer would be quite put out to have had to deny dear Imogen the opportunity to dance.”
“I too am so grateful this ball was able to happen,” Nina says, diffusing some of the growing tension with her sweet voice, “for I’ve yet to dance with James. I’m not sure I can consider myself properly engaged to a man I haven’t danced with. What a night this will be!”
“Where is Mr. Rochester, anyway?” Imogen asks, as if my sister hadn’t spoken a word. “Is he always late to his own events?”
“He’ll be down shortly, I assure you,” I say.
“Who might he open the ball with? Does he recall I was in charge of the guest list? One would consider me hostess.”
“Oh, he considers you hostess indeed,” I say, “and you will open the ball with a minuet. He, unfortunately, will not be participating in the opening dance.”
She gasps. “Not participating in his own—Miss Bellefleur, I know your employer is an unconventional creature, but surely he mustn’t be so contrite as this.”
I take her arm and gently pull her away from the others. “Can I let you in on a secret, Imogen? Mr. Rochester spent the last several days learning a selection of human dances for this ball. For you. Not all fae are versed in these kinds of things, you know.”
A pleased smile flutters over her lips despite her attempts to ap
pear nonchalant. “When I encouraged him to host a ball, I confess it hadn’t occurred to me that Mr. Rochester wouldn’t know our popular dances. And never in a thousand years would I have considered he might have chosen to host a fae ball. I am so glad he didn’t. Oh, how dreadful would that have been with their wild, unrestrained dances?”
I want to laugh at the look of disgust on her face but keep my expression neutral. “Can you now see what lengths he’s gone to please you? You cannot expect him to know our most complicated group dances.”
“No, I suppose I should feel honored. But please tell me he isn’t an awful dancer.”
“He isn’t, trust me. Just be patient with him tonight. He will dance, but he may spend a greater amount of time watching you dance.”
Her eyes widen with delight, and she opens her silk fan to flutter over the bottom half of her face.
The music picks up with a sudden tempo change, a tune I recognize from the musicians’ earlier practice. A tune that denotes my employer’s entrance at the ball.
My pulse increases, and it seems everyone in the room turns to face the doorway with me. There Elliot strolls in with slow, confident steps, just the slightest hitch in his cadence. There’s a collective silence at his entrance, all eyes upon his striking appearance. Dressed in an impeccable black suit with a silver brocade waistcoat and ruby cravat, he stands out as a specimen cut far above the rest. I’ve grown so used to his company, especially when he’s either at ease or sulking, that it’s easy to forget just how fae he truly is—a wild, beautiful creature in both looks and poise. For the first time, I can almost see his seelie and unseelie forms as if they were one, the man and wolf united, indistinguishable. He has the same prowling grace as a wolf, the same dangerous stare, the same powerful build.
Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae) Page 22