It was, in hindsight, a massive fool’s errand to even approach my father with a proposal to break the engagement with Natalya Taranova. Life with Blanche lately has been more colorful than I’ve ever experienced, but I can’t deny the strain this charade is starting to place on our…relationship. That seems like a hollow word for what we have. Controlled explosion, maybe. Or perhaps an implosion, rapidly reaching a depth at which we’ll finally crack under pressure and cave in on ourselves.
Fuck this party.I’m too sober to be so damn philosophical. But I was hoping…well. I was hoping to feign illness and miss myfather’s New Year’s Eve party altogether. After our altercation, though, he made it clear that one more foot out of line would result in either Natalya and me in the courthouse the next day, or me and my mother in the morgue together. I just need to bide my time until I can come up with a better plan to make him understand…
“Black tie, of course. I think Henry’s father has been planning to have it at the estate in the spring, although all the florals will be trucked in since he’s such a minimalist when it comes to landscaping.
“Henry III, of course, then after that, I’d think we would honor my father. Our girls will have strong Russian names, I’m sure.
“I’ve told Henry’s father many times that I think his eye for design is impeccable, so if anything, I think we’d renovate even more of the main house in his modern style. Not that we’ll be moving in immediately, of course, but once the babies start arriving, we’ll need the room sooner rather than later!”
I’m going to need a lobotomy to prevent myself from doing something rash. There has to be a way to get out of spending the entire evening glued to Natalya’s side. Before I can extricate myself, I get a glimpse of my father holding court across the room. One pointed look is all it takes for me to plaster on my fakest smile and nod along as Natalya continues discussing which positions are best for conception.
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem at all, since I’m Henry’s ‘ideal woman,’ or so he says.” She giggles and squeezes my bicep even harder than she already was. I play along, feeling Father’s gaze burning into the side of my head like the point of a laser sight on a rifle, milliseconds away from ending me whenever he chooses. Wrapping an arm around Natalya’s waist, I mourn the lack of ass to rest my hand on.Not a problem with Blanche…
Blanche.
I know she’s here, but she’s doing a damn good job of avoiding me so far this evening. Her cousin is standingveryclose to Carter, laughing in a small group, but she’s not with them. I’m trying to get John’s attention to see if he can find her and check on her,maybe convince her to meet me in a coat closet,when I feel her. Ifeelher before I see her, and my world narrows to the point she occupies, standing in an archway near the entrance.
She’s resplendent, a silky bronze dress clinging to every curve. My eyes are only for her, but hers aren’t on me. Her focus is on my hand, which, without an ass to rest on, has migrated to Natalya’s lower stomach. The harpy’s left hand rests on top, engagement ring glinting, as she continues to drone on about sending our children to boarding school in England and trying to arrange marriages within the British aristocracy.
My fist clenches Natalya’s bony hip, and my molars grind at the coquettish gasp that escapes her lips.
“Darling, if you’re feeling that way, perhaps we should take a few moments and go outside to get some fresh air!” Her insipid friends laugh, and that’s apparently enough for Blanche, who spins on a dime and quickly moves toward the hallway where the coat check is. Shit. We talked about what would be expected of me tonight…
“Excuse me for just a moment, please. I think I see Mr. Jameson, and you know how I’ve been wanting to have a chat with him.”
A flash of anger crosses Natalya’s eyes before she can mask it, and I try to placate her with a chaste kiss to her temple. “I’ll be right back, honey.”
A chorus of “aw” from her posse calms her down, and I manage to escape. Moving down the hallway, I pass a few locked doors before finally coming to a room labeled “storage” with the door cracked open.
Pushing my way inside, I can smell her before I see her. The scent that accompanies her everywhere and haunts my dreams.
“Blanche? I’ve been looking for you—”
Crack.
The sound of shattering glass echoes in the small space a second before I feel a sharp pain on my forehead and feel something trickling into my eye.Blood?
“Wha—”
“You.”
“Me?”
She throws the broken stem of the champagne glass at the wall and then crowds me against the door, pressing her thumb hard into my cut until I hiss. She doesn’t stop, though, focusing on the blood that’s freely flowing into my eye and blurring my vision. The red tint makes her look glorious, like a wrathful goddess hell-bent on destroying me.
She’s welcome to, but she’s coming to hell with me when I go.
Her rage seems to subside as she stares, her breathing harder and heavier and ragged. Finally, she steps back, and when I wipe the blood from my eye, I can see more clearly that hers are filled with tears.
“I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.”
I’m frozen, the smell of cleaning chemicals combining with blood loss and alcohol making me lightheaded as I try to reconcile what she’s saying.
“Blanche, I—”
“I love you, Henry.”
My world.
