She had been on her way to the moon temple the first and only time she had encountered Lady Maris, her arms full of his clothes. She was still furious with him. She was still angry and humiliated and hurt, and she reminded him of what would happen once she left the Monster’s Ball at every opportunity — all of his lessons would be applied to another man, and all of his tips on seduction and lovemaking would be used on someone else. She could see that it rankled him, and that soothed the ache in her heart . . . But beneath the ache, she was still in love with him. There was no denying that. He was a rake and a reprobate, and he had made it clear he was not interested in marriage, but she did not possess a hard enough heart to forget how soft he made her feel.
His chamber servants had been utterly perplexed by her request for his lordship’s clothes at first, but now they had them ready. It was an abominably improper way to behave, particularly in front of the servants who likely all had wagging tongues, but she didn’t care.In another few days, it wouldn’t matter. Dressing him was the most intimate thing she had ever done.
“I apologize for forgetting the powder. I hope your arse can survive the evening, my lord,” she had tittered, holding out his breeches as if he were a child who needed help stepping into them.
“Give me that,” he had huffed, snatching them from her. She had giggled the entire time he dressed, mumbling to himself over the lack of the looking glass. Fastening the snaps around his wings was the only thing he truly needed assistance with, and she did so, fastening his shirt and waistcoat and, finally, his jacket. She straightened his collar and pushed his hair into place with her fingers.
“Did you even bring any pomade? I’m certain my hair looks a fright.”
“Oh, your hair looks fine. Who are you trying to impress anyway?” As soon as the words were out, Eleanor nearly swallowed her tongue. She wondered if he had been trying to impressherall these weeks, or if the Marquis of Basingstone simply didn’t leave his perch without looking as if a team of servants had buffed and manicured every inch of him.
That evening she was hurrying up the stone pathway, later than she normally left, when she stopped short at the sight of the beautiful, ornately dressed woman. She could tell immediately it was his sister. Aside from the fact that she was a striking gargoyle of black marble, she was heavy with child. Her silvery white hair was thick and elaborately plaited around her head, and the dress she wore was mind-bogglingly opulent. Silas Stride had the bearing of an arrogant dandy, but his sister had the bearing of a queen.
“Good evening, dear. It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?
“It is, my lady. I apologize if I startled you.”
“Not at all dear. I’ve always been a bit of an early riser compared to my brother. I take it you are the guest I’ve heard about? Lord Ellingboe’s sponsor?”
“Yes, my lady. Eleanor Eastwick, I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. You’re the marquis’s sister. May I say your dress is absolutely stunning? It looks like something from another age.”
Her laugh was as shimmering and icy as her brother’s. “Oh, my dear girl, flattery will get you absolutely everywhere, especially with a pregnant woman. Come, walk with me. Yes, I’m the infamous Lady Maris. I take it you are heading to the moon temple? Are those my brother’s clothes? Doesn’t he have a manservant to dress him?”
“Oh, I’m certain he has at least several of those. A servant to feed him, one to dress him, another to bathe him. Likely one to powder his arse, is what I told him.”
Maris Stride had the giddy laughter of a teenage girl, and it bounced off the arbor as they walked up the path. “No one has ever claimed that my darling brother was not a fop,” she laughed, linking her arm with Eleanor’s and wiping at her eyes with the other. “Mercy, I’m supposed to be avoiding stimulation. I’m going to be borrowing that line in the future, Miss Eastwick. So we know he is a fop, and we know he has a bevy of servants to attend to his every need, isolating him from ever truly needing to grow up.”
“Do men ever truly need to grow up, Lady Maris?”
“No. They do not. And isn’t that the point? We have to marry them to secure our futures. I understand you are seeking a husband, Miss Eastwick. Lord Ellingboe wrote to me some time ago. I hope that you have found what you’re looking for.”
She had turned then, uncertain of what his sister meant.
“Come now, Miss Eastwick. We’ve established that my brother is a spoiled child, and yet here you are, on your way to dress him yourself. Are you in love with him?”
The whole world had seemed to sway in that moment. The twisting vines of the orchard and the trees bordering the nearby forest, the sea tipped, and the moon swung. “I don’t see how it matters,” she answered finally.
“Does it not? It seems to me like that would matter quite a bit.”
Eleanor shook her head, afraid to speak lest her tears crowded her throat. “No, it does not. I have two younger sisters and an agéd grandmother, and barely a farthing to my name, Lady Stride. It doesn’t matter if I love your brother if he’s not going to marry me. I need to secure my family’s future. I’m sure you understand.”
“Oh, I do, dear girl. A woman’s burden is never-ending. It is the one thing that transcends species. It makes no matter if one is human or minotaur or orcish or gargoyle. The burden falls on us to pick up the pieces when our menfolk cannot, which is always. The burden is on us to forge alliances and bear children and provide heirs, and for all our sacrifice, we get very little in return. I completely understand your reasoning, Miss Eastwick. I hope you’re able to find a lord who is at least a little worthy of you.”
To receive such a generous gift now tightened her throat.
“This ivory would be lovely to wear to breakfast tomorrow, miss. Especially with her ladyship in attendance.”
She sucked in a long breath and looked around. Her room was on the third floor, and she knew that in the grand hierarchy of these sorts of events, that was a slight. But not one that she decided to care about.You are untitled and a pauper. Just be glad you’re here.And now, she had a dragon’s hoard of lovely dresses, the likes of which she had never owned, even when things were good.From pauper to princess.The only question was, were any of them bold enough to heat the blood of one of these monstrous lords.The scandal is the point.Eleanor shook her head, clearing the space between her ears of the cobwebs of his voice.
“Ivory is perfect for breakfast. And obviously, the moth for the ball tonight and the purple for dinner. We’ll take stock of what to wear tomorrow afternoon once we decide what we will be doing.”
The moment before taking the stage was pregnant with anxiety. It didn’t matter where she was singing. It didn’t matter what she was thinking. It didn’t matter if she was simply introducing someone else or following the pianist to his bench in order to shuffle music as he played. It wasn’t the same as the moment before the music started. It was the existence of themaybe.
Maybe a scrim would fall in the midst of her aria, or maybe she would tread too close to the edge of the stage and go tumbling into the orchestra pit. Maybe the crowd would be empty; maybe it would be full of hecklers and blackguards who would not hesitate to boo a missed note. Maybe it would be a great triumph . . . Or maybe she would be a laughingstock. The moment before taking the stage was so horrid because there were any number of ways the evening could progress and no scrying stone to tell her what lay in store.
It was how she felt as they were introduced one by one. She’d entered into the queue behind the two other women with rooms on her corridor – a lovely, dark-haired young woman with her chaperone beside her and a bookish-looking redhead with furtive eyes. She spied the horrid shrew from earlier that day – Stephana Skevington — and a host of other lovely women there in their best dresses, all angling for the same thing — a monstrous husband. Some of the women looked anxious, while others looked as if they were champing at the bit. A handful looked as if they would rather be anywhere else in the world, and one or two, she thought, looked near tears.
It was the first opportunity any of the men in attendance would have to see them, and she hoped that the lovely purple dress showed off her assets well. Trilby had indeed dampened her chemise, soaking until it was dripping, and hanging it to dry some so as not to completely spoil her dress. She had wound up dressing twice. The first time she donned the wisteria satin, the fox girl had frowned, shaking her head.
