Page 20 of The Consort's Curse
“I doubt it very much,” I muttered, though perhaps…I might, if pressed, have had a sneaking, pathetic fantasy that I’d walk into the ballroom and everyone would stop and stare, overwhelmed with desire—and then possibly throw things atLord Stefan and berate him for failing to appreciate me. Did I think it much more likely that they’d all snicker into their fans? Yes. “If I do, it won’t be the right kind.”
“Oh, I think you’re wrong about that, my lord.” His grin grew a fraction and took on a mischievous edge. “Once I’ve dressed you, I’ve a favor to ask. Wait up here for long enough for me to get down the back stairs before you get to the hall. I want to have a view of Lord Stefan’s face when he sees you.”
Apparently Aldrich, bless him, had a similar sneaking fantasy on my behalf. I appreciated the loyalty and the confidence, but I thought we’d both probably end the night in tears.
“I won’t need to delay on purpose,” I said, rather than pointing that out. “I may not be able to go down the stairs at all, let alone quickly, with pants that tight. Or the shoes Madam Carmela seems to think I ought to wear.”
“They’ll do incredible things for your legs.” Unless I broke one of them trying to walk in the damn shoes, but Aldrich didn’t seem to care much for that. He began going around the room and picking up stray bits of thread and debris. “You’ll see, my lord. Every other valet in Nevaia’s going to envy me,” he added, quietly enough that I wasn’t sure he hadn’t been talking to himself.
“I’ll do my best to make you proud. If I do cause a sensation, perhaps Madam’s assistant will allow you to call on her, hmm?”
Aldrich blushed and demurred, but he was smiling when he went to find me something to eat.
His good mood proved infectious, and I managed to eat well at dinner, sleep decently, and feel mostly optimistic throughout the following day, though the shakiness of my nerves never quite left me. I’d be in grand society for the first time…would I spill my wine? Address someone by the wrong title, oruse a familiar first name when I ought to be using a family name? Display my ignorance of the world to everyone I met? Go the wrong way in a dance? Would anyone want to dance with me in the first place? Would anyone know my family or recognize me?
The clothes arrived, interrupting my fussing. Aldrich unpacked everything and hung it all up with a reverence most priests wouldn’t bother giving to relics of Holy Ennolu.
And at last the clock struck eight—time to dress, as Lord Stefan had sent word he’d be waiting with the carriage at nine. I’d dined. I’d drunk too much tea. I’d bathed. I’d felt very sick to my stomach. Aldrich had been nearly vibrating out of his skin with impatience, and I’d been considering jumping out the window and running away.
Tempting, to think that my husband’s choice to escort me from the house the way he ought to meant he intended to treat me with more courtesy from now on. But I thought it much more likely he wanted the chance to make me change my clothing before I got in the carriage if I tried another bit of trickery—so at least I’d made him wary of me, if not respectful.
Honestly,Ialmost wanted to change my clothing before I got in the carriage, mostly because I wasn’t sure I’d be physically capable of climbing into it wearing all of my finery. What if I tripped and fell into the gutter and Lord Stefan laughed at me?
And the possibility didn’t seem so remote. Aldrich had scurried off to the servants’ stairs to be in position at the back of the hall, but he really didn’t need to rush. My shoes had two-inch heels—low for fashionable court shoes, I’d been given to understand, but teeteringly high for someone accustomed to simple leather boots. My breeches might as well have been painted on, necessitating a mincing sort of walk that made me feel like a fashion caricature brought to life with strange magic—or a whore who liked to advertise. The jacket nipped at the waistand flared at the hips, with a gathered kind of bit at the back that made my painted-over ass even more eye-catching.
And my bare upper chest topped it all off, of course, the lace of the shirt fluffing over the front of a green silk corset with so much boning that I couldn’t bend over. Just as well. The breeches would’ve split down the back if I’d tried.
Aldrich had bemoaned the fact that I didn’t have any jewelry; he’d told me at great length that there were neckpieces made specifically for men to adorn this style of clothing, and that one dangling earring had become all the rage ever since Lord Benedict, who always wore one, had married Duke Lucian earlier in the spring.
Any decent husband would’ve presented me with a set as a wedding gift. I tried valiantly to convince myself that I ought to be grateful to be spared the additional attention-getting gaudiness of jewels hung all around my head and neck.
Indecent and neglectful as he might be, I found Lord Stefan awaiting me in the hall as promised as I turned the corner of the last landing, although he was frowning down at a paper in his hand and paying no attention at all to my approach.
His own valet had decked him out in dark red silk with gold trim. At least everyone would gape as much at him as at me, because no one that tall and that broad-shouldered had any business covering himself in that quantity of shiny lace—he risked blinding anyone who looked at him directly. Even though it half blinded me, I couldn’t stop staring at him as I paused at the foot of the stairs, my hand not obeying my command to release its death grip on the baluster. A couple of whispers behind me suggested that Aldrich had company under the stairs. Great Ennolu, the whole household would be talking about this. My cheeks went hot and my knuckles went white. I couldn’t move.
Lord Stefan muttered something that sounded like a curse and crumpled the paper in his hand.
And then he looked up—and went very still, except for the muscle jumping in the angle of his jaw. The air between us vibrated with the intensity of his dark eyes fixed on me, boring into mine.
“You look,” he said. And then went silent again. I waited, heart pounding in my throat. He cleared his own, as if he had a similar problem. “You look ridiculous.”
From behind the stairs came apfftkind of noise, abruptly cut off with a quiet smack as if someone had slapped a hand over Aldrich’s mouth.
I’d thought having an audience for Lord Stefan’s disdain would’ve made it worse, that the stab of hurt under my breastbone would’ve bloomed and grown with the added humiliation. Instead, knowing I was being watched gave me the strength to lift my chin another fraction—in this corset, my spine already had no choice but to be ruler-straight—and take that final step down into the hall with steady determination.
How would that imaginary Remi who’d been raised and trained for moments like this, and who’d been sauntering about Nevaia’s parties in revealing corsets for years, react to such rudeness?
I forced my voice to lightness. “It’s this or the cassock. You may choose which you’d prefer all of your friends to think I wear while we disport ourselves. Or I could put on the cassock as an outer garment instead of the jacket, and tell them you like me to wear both together, and honestly, I’m not worldly enough to know what that would suggest about you except that you have a terrible sense of fashion, but it’s probably not all that flatter—”
“Enough! Fucking merciful Ennolu, enough!” He bowed to me with a satirical flourish that I chose to ignore, and held outhis hand. “You’ll need my help getting into the carriage. I don’t even know how you can walk in those breeches.”
“Your mother sent me the tailor who made these breeches, I didn’t choose them for myself. What’s your excuse?”
Lord Stefan raised one supercilious eyebrow, and said, with perfect composure, “I look good in these clothes. That’s my excuse.”
He did, the bastard. And he still had his hand out, waiting for me to lay mine in it and let him help me out to the carriage. My last potion dose had been late last night; my next wouldn’t be due until the morning of the day after tomorrow. I shouldn’t have been feeling any trace of either my magic or the curse’s symptoms. But as I reached out, I could sense the heat of his skin before we touched, a tingle of awareness traveling up my arm. What would happen when I touched him?
“What do you think I’m going to do to you? I told you that you didn’t need to be afraid of me.” Underneath his irritation, could that possibly be a thread of genuine hurt? Surely not.
