“Yes, of course,” I said. “I understand.”
Her gaze flicked over my shoulder, doing a quick scan of the room behind me, from where my suitcase sat mostly unpacked, to the still-made bed, to the wardrobe yawning open with one green dress missing.
“Dinner begins at seven-thirty,” she said. “If you’re ready, I’ll escort you to the dining room.”
She stepped back and I grabbed my heels from the floor beside the bed and slipped them on in the doorway, pulse thudding in my ears.
One more misstep and I’m done. No prize. No money. No chance to give Granny Irene anything more than the bare minimum I could manage on my paycheck and a miracle.
And Jacob?—
I cut that thought off at the knees before it could get its hands around my throat.
He told me not to touch him, told me if anyone found out, I’d be out and God only knows what Mr. Stonewood might do to punish him. And what did I do? I touched him anyway, like some kind of unhinged idiot.
Worse, I’d told him that I’d wanted to kiss him for four years, even though we only met that one time at the hardware store when I bandaged up his cut hand.
The maid smoothed her perfectly coiffed black hair and set off down the hallway. I followed, the soft thud of my heels swallowed by the old wood and thick runners. The guest wing smelled like furniture polish and wood-burning fireplaces, something warm threaded through the cold.
I smoothed my palms down the skirt again. It was a nervous habit I couldn’t seem to quell. I was trying very hard to keep my hands busy, so I didn’t stop and throw up.
“You look lovely, Miss Jones,” the maid said quietly as we turned down a narrower corridor.
“Thank you,” I managed.
The lodge unfolded around us in pieces: the hush of side halls, the glow of sconces, the distant hum of conversation. Somewhere, dishes clinked. A door shut. A woman laughed too loudly and cut herself off mid-giggle.
We reached a pair of tall double doors. The maid touched my elbow in a tiny, grounding gesture and offered me a reassuring smile that made her almond-shaped eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Take a breath,” she murmured. “Then go in.”
Easy for you to say, I thought.
I inhaled and forced a smile anyway.
“Thank you.”
Then, the doors swung open as if someone had been notified of my arrival.
I stepped inside and paused. The dining room looked like something out of a magazine spread in Stonewood Living:Where Gothic Meets Rustic, With a Side of Old Money.
The long table with the perfectly white starched tablecloth was intimidating enough all by itself. When you added in the real, lit candles in heavy silver sticks and crystal glasses catching the light, throwing it back in prismatic shards, it evoked the feeling of dining with royalty. The walls were a deep, saturated green, the wainscoting’s paneling dark and polished.
Faces turned toward me as I stepped forward, and I froze.
There were nine men at the table, and eight women.
All nine men wore matching black domino masks, and each one could almost pass for the others… except Jacob. Their suits and tuxes varied, their builds and jawlines similar enough that if you squinted, any of them could be the mysterious, reclusive billionaire. That was the point of the game, for the nine female contestants to take our respective shots at figuring out which one of them was really him.
Ben Stonewood.
For one of us, and only one, Ben Stonewood would marry the woman who passed all his tests and trials and correctly identified him… if any of us could manage to do so.
I told myself not to look at Jacob, terrified that my face might give away what we’d done earlier in my room, terrified that Henry or the real Ben, whoever he was, might read some micro-expression on my face and throw me out on my ass. My gaze went where it wanted anyway.
Third chair in on the left side of the table, a small, gold number seven pinned discreetly to the lapel of his jacket. The tux didn’t quite fit across the shoulders. The mask cut across his cheekbones and left the scarring on his cheek and jaw exposed, pale and raised in the candlelight.
Jacob.
