He gives me a surprisingly sharp-edged look, the corners of his mouth curling down. “If I wanted to be babysat, I would’ve invited Lord Ambrose.”
I fix him with a dead-eyed stare. “Excuse me?”
He holds my gaze for only a second before dropping his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. He lowers his wine glass and rakes his free hand through his curls. “I didn’t mean that. I’m just on edge. It’s been a while since I’ve been to one of these events.”
There’s an ember of resentment burning in my stomach—doesn’t he realize I’m nervous, too?—but after a moment I relent and offer my wrist. He presses a kiss that feels like an apology to my skin before he drains my blood into his cup again, and then seals the wound with another, bloodier kiss.
After he pours himself another large glass, I grab the bottle from his hand and take a swig directly from the neck of it.
“Best to follow the party expert’s lead, I guess,” I mutter.
Claude grins, his lips red with blood and wine, and clinks his glass against my bottle before we both drink again.
* * *
As the car pulls up to our destination a half hour later, I’m grateful for the wine taking the edge off my nerves. I only drank about a half bottle, but I’m not much of a drinker, especially just after breakfast. My mind is pleasantly hazy.
“Oh, shoot,” I say, craning my neck in an attempt to see my own back. “I forgot about the laces.”
“Oh, here.” Claude pulls me so I’m nearly on his lap.
I try not to squirm. “You better not mess them up because you’re drunk.”
“Fear not,” he murmurs, close to my ear. “I’m very good with my hands.”
And he is, his fingers firm and sure and far too clever as he navigates the lacing on my dress. Blushing, I try to come up with a retort and fail miserably. I’m silent as Claude eases me off his lap and steps out of the car. Thankfully the heat has faded from my face as he bends to take my hand and help me out behind him.
All other thoughts fade as I find myself on the steps to a mansion.
“Wow,” I breathe, staring up at it. The place sprawls against a mountainous backdrop, all brick exterior and gambrel roofs and Venetian windows. It looks huge, and old, and intimidating.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Claude offers his arm and I accept, trusting him to lead me as I stare around the beautiful building.
The ballroom isn’t as large or crowded as the venue that hosted the Valentine’s Day Ball, but it is somehow even more intimidating. Not the least because I recognize several faces from my guilty-pleasure magazines. Actors, models, and musicians flow through the crowd, each of them shockingly beautiful and dressed to the nines.
It’s a relief that none of them spare me a second glance, because I feel even more plain and underdressed than usual. Claude, however, earns himself a handful of curious glances and startled double takes. He seems oblivious to it as he brings me past a gathering of tables and a sprawling dance floor to a bar. I’m still a little drunk from the car ride, but when he presses a glass of wine into my hand, I’m grateful for something to hold.
He touches his own glass to mine. “Santé.”
“Cheers.” I sip; the taste is far richer than whatever we had on the way over. “So… what now?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Have you never been to a party before?”
“Not like this.” I fidget with my wine. “Not… much ever, really, no.”
Claude’s eyebrows rise in a silent question, but before he can voice it, a young man approaches to greet him. I stand with a smile frozen onto my face as they launch into an easy conversation about parties of days past.
The young man—a model, I gather from their discussion—is the first in a steady stream of beautiful people whose names I can’t seem to remember. I spend the whole time standing stiffly at Claude’s side, drinking my quickly dwindling wine, murmuring pleasantries when he introduces me before swiftly getting left behind in the conversation. Every time I try to think of something to say, my throat tightens with the sudden certainty that I don’t belong here and everyone knows it.
“Sorry,” I mutter, when the last of them walks off.
Claude slides closer to me, his hand brushing over my elbow. “Whatever for?”
“I’m not very good at this.” Just another part of my job that I’m failing at. I haven’t been a successful muse, nor a successful party guest. What am I getting paid for?
“You’re fine. These people are dull,” Claude says, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Let’s go find Lady Viktoria. I’ll tell her what a huge fan you are.”
“Don’t youdare,” I sputter, clinging to his arm as he heads to a quieter corner.
