“You too.” I flash him my practiced polite smile.
As soon as we step inside while Mordecai heads out for a cigarette, I whisper to Ambrose, “Girlfriend, huh?”
His breath is warm against my ear when he whispers back, “Just for tonight. Unless…”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
His low, dark chuckle electrifies me in a way that’s uncomfortable, but in an entirely too pleasant way, and I try to ignore the way his touch seems to burn through the thin fabric of the dress right to the skin of my hip.
My jaw drops when we make our way into the foyer of the mansion. It’s even more impressive in the main room, with dark wood floors and parallel staircases curving up to the second level on either side.
The lighting is dim, and low classical music reverberates from the open ballroom ahead. A man offers to take my coat, and I slip it off before handing it to him.
Ambrose’s eyes skate over my body, and he opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something but closes it again before any words slip past.
I raise my eyebrows at him in a silent challenge, and his lips twist into a sultry smile.
“You look ravishing,” he purrs, wrapping his arm back around my waist
“I look like a harlot.”
“I’m inclined to disagree, though I’ll admit the word ‘sinful’ does come to mind…”
I huff out an exasperated breath, and he simply smirks and leads me into the ballroom.
Ambrose glides effortlessly through the room with a possessive hand on my lower back the entire time, whirling through smooth introductions. I manage to smile and say polite hellos despite the constant nagging sensation of feeling like an impostor, but it’s difficult for me to pay attention to any of the people I meet—as important as they may be—because the gothic elegance of the decor in this massive mansion is breathtaking.
The ballroom feels like a shadowed dream. Dim chandeliers dripping with crystal hang from the high ceilings, capturing the light of the hundreds of candles that flicker throughout the room in iron sconces and elaborate candelabras. The warm, heavy scent of cinnamon and cloves permeates the air of the grandiose ballroom.
A string quartet tucked into a recessed alcove plays a slow, haunting piece music that sounds vaguely familiar. There must be over a hundred people here, milling about amongst the tables that line the outer edges of the room or dancing in the open center of the ballroom.
A server in a black suit and white gloves approaches, offering a silver tray lined with glasses of dark wine. I take one, twisting the delicate glass stem between my fingers, and take a sip. The wine is a deep, dark red, not unlike the color of my dress, and tastes like blackberries.
“I want you to see the garden,” Ambrose says once we’ve walked away from what feels like the dozenth person he’s introduced me to.
I glance at him, but his mask hides whatever expression he wears. I nod, and with one last glance at the room that feels like it belongs in a Southern gothic fever dream, I follow him through a pair of towering glass doors draped in thick, damask curtains the color of dried blood.
The moment we step outside, the chilly air wraps around my bare shoulders, though heat lamps are stationed in a semi-circle around the seating area. Beyond that is the garden, though I can’t quite see it past the glowing orange heating lamps.
Ambrose guides me with a hand at the small of my back, and I shiver, though whether it’s from his touch or the cold night air, I’m not sure.
We follow a stone path off the concrete patio, and the dark garden fades into view.
It stretches across the backyard, wide and winding, lit with hundreds of tiny lanterns strung through gnarled trees and lining the stone paths. The hedge walls curve and twist in a labyrinth of greenery, and whispers float through the air from somewhere in the maze.
Ambrose leads me down a path where the grass is slick with dew and the trees loom overhead.
I should be afraid, something in the back of my mind says. Alone with him, in a strange place, hidden in the darkness.
But I’m not. Something strangely pleasant is humming through my veins, and it’s not because of the wine.
“Why did you bring me out here?” I ask as he sits on a creaky wooden bench and motions for me to join him.
“I thought you might enjoy it,” he answers. “It’s peaceful out here, and I could feel how tense you were inside with all those people.”
I sink onto the bench beside him and cross my arms over my chest, trying to ward off the chill. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I know you have some sort of task to accomplish here tonight; I don’t mean to pull you away from it just because I’m awkward around people.”
“You’re nothing of the sort,” he says, shrugging off his suit coat and draping it over my shoulders.
