“No.” I dodge another ball. “What in the name of the saints is it?”
Ember hurls another ball. Then another. “It’s fun, Miss Bellefleur. My parents and I always did this when we went on holiday here in the Winter Court when I was little. Try it!”
I glance from her, expertly shaping fluffy snow into a solid orb, to the children, unrestrained joy lighting their faces. With a grimace, I crouch down and try to mimic Ember’s motions in creating a ball, grateful I wore gloves today. I’m surprised to find it’s easier than it looks, requiring nothing more than pressure to get the snow to clump together. Ember and I rise to our feet at the same time. Her arms are loaded with several balls, and she laughs with every hit she both gives and receives. I throw my first ball, which lands at one of the boys’ feet. He sticks out his tongue in a teasing gesture, then throws a ball that barely misses my face.
I crouch back down, my lips spreading wide as I create more ammunition. Ember bends down to do the same, only to get struck in the head. She laughs as she falls to the side, then quickly returns to her efforts. When we stand, arms laden with snowballs, something unusual catches my eye. I glance at Ember, finding streams of long, lustrous, turquoise hair streaming around her face. Her bonnet appears to have been knocked away. When her eyes meet mine, I see their color for the first time. No longer shadowed by the bonnet, they too reveal the most striking shade of aqua.
I’m so surprised, I’m not able to dodge the next strike, and a snowball hits me in the neck, sending icy moisture dripping down my front. With a yelp, I return the attack, and soon we’re all dusted with snow and ice, our laughter ringing over the front lawn as we continue our battle.
“Ember!” A shocked voice comes from behind, startling me and my blue-haired friend. We turn to find Imogen, still clasping Elliot’s arm, eyes wide and furious as they shoot daggers at her stepsister.
Ember stops and holds Imogen’s gaze for a few moments, defiance flashing in her turquoise eyes. Then, with a sigh, she fetches her bonnet from the snow and replaces it on her head, tucking every strand of hair out of sight. The mood is clearly broken, and the children disperse, none daring to continue our battle.
Imogen gathers her composure, plastering a fresh smile over her lips. “Oh, Gemma, I must tell you the great news.”
“What is it?” I ask as they walk toward us.
She removes her grip from Elliot’s arm to clasp her hands excitedly at her chest. “Mr. Rochester has agreed to host a ball. Here at the manor!”
My eyes widen. “Is that so?”
“Apparently,” Elliot says through his teeth, lips stretched into a grin that doesn’t match his eyes.
“He’s so gracious,” Imogen says. “With the Verity Hotel’s ballroom still under construction, Vernon’s social season has yet to truly begin. But this—this—will be perfection. We mustn’t invite the whole town, of course, for I assume the ball will be held in the dining room. It’s spacious enough, but certainly won’t suit a large crowd. Besides, do we really wanteveryonethere?”
“Certainly not,” I say dryly.
“I cannot wait. I’ll draw up the invite list this afternoon and send it back in the evening. Then we only have to wait for Friday.”
“Friday,” I echo. That’s five days from now. Five days to plan a ball. I glance at Elliot, seeing the resignation in his face. That’s when I remember the rapidly falling petals. Perhaps a ball is exactly what we need to secure Imogen’s attachment. There’s nothing more romantic than dancing. Which is, of course, why I’ve sworn never to attend a ball again. Good thing I’ll be working this one and not dancing at it.
“If it’s too soon to hire proper musicians,” Imogen says, “we can just have Ember play the pianoforte. She’s tolerable enough.”
I frown. “Won’t Ember want to dance?”
Imogen turns her nose to the air. “Of course she doesn’t.”
I meet Ember’s gaze with a raised brow. She in turn gives me a crooked grin and a quick roll of her eyes that Imogen is too busy staring at Elliot to notice. “I’ll be happy to play, should you want me,” Ember says.
“See, it’s settled,” Imogen says. “Now, there is much planning to do. I’ll need a new dress and shoes. Oh, and the guest list, of course. We should be going so I can get started.”
“It was so good of you to call on me today,” I say.
Imogen’s brows knit together, as if she can’t comprehend my words. Then, as if seeming to recall the false pretenses she visited under, she smiles. “Yes, so wonderful it was to see you today. And you as well, Mr. Rochester.” She faces him with a curtsy, then stands before him, the hem of her skirts and coat swishing as she sways expectantly side to side.
Elliot looks to me for help, so I tap the back of my hand, then pucker my lips slightly. His gaze rests on my mouth for a beat too long. Then, with a shake of his head, he returns his attention to Imogen. Gently taking her hand in his, he lifts it slowly, then bends down to plant a soft kiss on the back of it.
A flash of anger strikes my core at the sight of his lips brushing her flesh. I breathe it away.
“I shall see you Friday,” he says, then releases her hand.
“I’ll dream of it every waking moment,” Imogen says wistfully. It seems to take some effort to pull her gaze away from him, but she eventually does and then stands before me with a nod. “Gemma, you can expect my lists tonight.”
I return the nod, and Imogen takes Ember by the arm. Their footman helps them into the coach and closes the door behind them.
I exhale a heavy breath and watch as the carriage drives away. “That went well.”
Elliot comes up beside me. “That went terribly.”
