“Alfred was King of Wessex and held back the invading armies of the Danes,” she said. “The Anglo-Saxon kingdoms weren’t united under one ruler until Alfred’s grandson Æthelstan did so in 927.”
The glint in his eyes turned dangerous. “Thank you for that history lesson. You and your friends represent the Olympic pantheon, I presume?”
That wildness reared within her. She wanted to bite something, to break through that cool façade of his and find what lay beneath. A living man with a heart, or a cold manipulator?
“Yes, we thought it would be too obvious to dress as Gorgons, and besides no one might identify us. The Gorgons are never fully described in the early sources, you know, aside from Medusa, known for her unusual hair.”
His cool detachment was an arrow through her heart. Jem had been the one to pronounce her Medusa—Clara Bellwether made sure that witticism reached her ears. To think he had lether into the bosom of his family while esteeming her so little! She tried to swallow the painful catch in her throat.
“So which goddess are you?”
If only she were a woman of power. She would not feel so naked and vulnerable.
“Hera. Take care you do not cross me, or I might turn you into a cow and send flies to sting you.”
He raised a brow. “I thought it was only the unfortunate mistresses of Zeus who incurred Hera’s wrath.”
“She’s changing her methods. Why punish the poor women who are merely toyed with at the whim of powerful men?”
A muscle clenched in his cheek. “Will you walk with me?”
“Will you invite me onto a boat, tip me into the canal, and drown me?”
“I see the goddess is angry. With all mortals, or one in particular?”
He’d discerned her feelings, which was itself so surprising that Lucasta felt her ire waver for a moment. He was a perceptive man, one of the qualities she most admired about him. He must have known what it would mean to her to organize the benefit concert. He’d seen that his lonely cousin and isolated sister needed companionship, and he’d brought them all together.
He’d done her a service, really. Why was she stung over his motives, whatever they were or had been? She ought to simply take the opportunities—and the beautiful gowns Mlle. Beaudoin had made up for her—and take a dignified leave.
Be done with him entirely, leaving him the board of whatever game he was playing. The thought made a hole in her heart.
“Great Hera, goddess of Heaven, patron and protector of women. I beg leave to discuss with you that most sacred provenance of yours. Marriage.”
“Ugh. It’s the Mongol Khan again.” Annis hissed through her teeth as the furred emperor, shouldering his way through thecrowd around them, managed a deep and flourishing bow. His eyes didn’t have the aspect of a suppliant; they held the gleam of the hunter. A sheen of sweat across his brow hinted that his layers of costuming, combined with the abundant light and heat within the Rotunda, did not contribute to his comfort.
“Who dares address the Queen of Heaven?” Jem stepped closer to her. The low growl in his voice sent a thrill down Lucasta’s spine. That rich, velvety tone held a hint of menace. Was he jealous?
“I am Kubla Khan, great ruler of the Mongols and Emperor of?—”
“Yes, yes, we know.” Minnie angled her spear at the intruder’s chest. “The Queen is otherwise engaged.”
“She looks at liberty to me,” the khan challenged, brackets of tension forming around his mouth. Lucasta had seen that scowl before. “I beg a moment of her time, to stroll among these fair gardens and enjoy the music floating on the breeze. Our Hera delights in music, does she not?”
Lucasta shivered at the alert stare directed at her. He knew her, but she could not fathom where she had made his acquaintance.
“How inconvenient,” Jem drawled. “Hera has just agreed to accompanymeon a stroll through the gardens.”
He drew her hand into the crook of his arm, bringing him close to her body. Her glove extended over her elbow, leaving only a thin band of skin between it and her sleeve, but that skin erupted in gooseflesh as she recalled the last time she’d been this close to Jem.
Draped in gorgeous silk, caught in an embrace both reverent and hungry, feeling her world change and shift around this new information of what it felt like to kiss a man—not just any man, but Jeremiah Falstead, Smart Jeremy, Lord Rudyard. Jem.
So many names for him, and she still couldn’t be sure the man she’d seen—the man, God save her, she’d let herself grow attached to—was real.
The crowd outside had grown in size and boisterousness, and torches studded the tall, slender trees lining the path as Jem drew her along. Light flickering over his face showed a set jaw, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He was furious. With her? The wildness reared again. Perhaps this was why proper young unmarried girls weren’t to kiss men. That awakening, like the sleeping beauty stirred by the brush of the prince’s lips, brought all manner of hitherto unacknowledged desires to life.
Besides, she was the one furious with him.
“The evening is very pleasant, is it not?” he asked after they had walked a good distance in silence.
