Allegra froze, the flute halfway to her mouth.
“What the—”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Surprise.”
Allegra jerked, sending a tiny swirl of champagne sloshing over the rim of her glass. She squeezed her eyes shut. Opened them.
Nope, still there.
Nate, in a dinner suit that fit like it had been borrowed under protest, shoulders straining at the seams, cuffs riding up to reveal flashes of ink. His face was clean-shaven, unfamiliar enough to throw her. His hair was longer than the last time she’d seen him, curling at the collar as if he hadn’t quite decided who he was meant to be tonight.
Allegra’s fingers twitched. Then moved. She grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the wall, the tray of champagne flutes in his hand rattling dangerously. “Nate, what the fuck are you doing?” she hissed. “You shouldn’t be—”
“I know,” he cut in. “But it was the only way to speak with you.”
Her grip tightened as Ambassador Palmer floated by, bald head pivoting toward them. “If my father sees you—Jesus, how did you even…?”
A sheepish grin tugged at the corner of Nate’s mouth. “Clara.”
Allegra jammed a knuckle into her eye socket, pressing hard enough to see stars. “Of course she did.” Her tone was clipped, irritated, like this was an inconvenience, like her pulse wasn’t currently attempting to escape her body via her throat. “You have no idea what kind of trouble you’ll be in if—”
“Look, I couldn’t let things end the way they did.” Nate’s voice dropped. “I shouldn’t have kept my past from you. I fucked up, okay? And—”
“Not. Here.” Allegra’s voice was a whisper-shout, eyes darting past him to where Lady Whitmore watched with thinly veiled curiosity. She forced a grin and let go of Nate’s arm. “Meet me in the library. Ten minutes.” Then she turned, tipped her glass toward Lady Whitmore in a silent toast, and slipped away.
“Ça va?” Julien asked, brow furrowing as she sidled up beside him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, no, it’s just this dress,” she lied, plucking at the bodice. “It’s a little tight, is all.”
Julien hummed, eyes narrowing. “Really? You’ve been off all evening. More than usual.”
She rocked on her heels, buying herself a precious second. “Actually, I—uh—need to adjust the boning.”
“Putain. Now?”
“I know, I know,” she said, a smile plastered on. “It might take a few minutes.”
His eyes locked onto hers, assessing. For a heartbeat, she thought he might call her bluff. Then he exhaled, sharp. “Christ, just make it quick.”
***
The heavy oak door of the library groaned as Allegra pushed it open, the sound swallowed by the towering shelves of leather-bound books she’d never been allowed to dog-ear, much less read without supervision. She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, sealing out the party—or trying to. The muffled hum seeped through the crack: laughter, clinking glasses, the distant swell of a string quartet playingClair de Lune.
Nate stood near the empty fireplace, hands on the mantel, his back rigid as if he were holding himself in place. Or holding himself back.
She cleared her throat.
He spun around so quickly his elbow clipped an antique globe, sending it wobbling on its stand. “Allegra. Hey.” The dim light from the sconces cast long shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his cheeks.
She gestured vaguely, like this was casual and not the emotional equivalent of juggling knives. “Wow. Look at you. Guess Clara really committed to the whole ‘smuggle-a-man-into-a-palace’ bit.”
His gaze dragged over her, snagging on her crimson hair. “And you look…” His voice roughened. “Like you always do. Stunning. Even when you’re pissed at me.”
Allegra crossed her arms, the beads of her gown digging into her skin. “Flattery won’t fix this, Nate.”
“I’m not trying to fix it. I just—I needed to explain. Then I’m gone. I swear.”
