Chapter Two
“YOU LOOK NERVOUS, MOTHER.”
“Who? Me. Oh please. What would I be nervous for?”
“Exactly.”
Joy turned to her eldest son’s wife. “Do you think I look nervous?”
“Yes.”
But instead of Tassy answering, it was Icelle who answered, just joining the others in the drawing room and catching her stepmother’s question as she did.
Joy managed a smile. “Thank you, Icelle.” She studiously avoided looking at Arkane while saying so.
Arkane watched his mother from across the room. His mother wasn’t the type to fuss over her clothes, but that was the only thing she had been doing for the past five minutes. Fuss over the creases of her gown like they’re about to destroy her life.
“Miladies, milord, the carriages are ready.”
Joy couldn’t be more relieved to hear this, and she quickly ushered the other women out of the house.
Arkane followed behind them at a leisurely pace. His mother was obviously avoiding looking his way, and so was his sister-in-law. Icelle, though—there was no point trying to decipher his stepsister. She was a lot more...open now, thanks to Tassy, but she was still a champion at keeping her cards close to her chest. Always would be.
The women shared the family carriage while Arkane took the open-top phaeton, which was the Regency’s version of a sportscar. This one was an exact replica—sleek, dark, and designed by a master engineer—but solar-powered to significantly reduce the burden on the horses.
To preserve the immersive atmosphere of the Regency-themed entertainment park, guests were all required to observe the rules. But most of the time they went well beyond that, and it was why, in the ten-minute drive to the Royal Hall, there was a great deal of swooning taking place in the sidelines. From the women who paid a handsome fee to enjoy a courtesy title ofMissorMiladyto those who were of the genteel class—they were all swaying theatrically on their feet, and out came the smelling salts, too.
Foxtown at night did its best work. Gas lamps cast pools of light along the cobblestones. Horse-drawn carriages rolled along the promenade—phaetons, curricles, landaus, the occasional grand town coach with a crest on the door. Behind the wrought-iron fences of Mayfair’s richer addresses, the estates blazed with candlelight in every window. Somewhere ahead, the live orchestra’s strings threaded through the night air.
The ballroom was teeming with guests when the Youngs arrived, music flowing out of the windows and open balcony doors. All eyes were them as they entered, Arkane all alone behind the women, not because he wanted the attention but because it was part of the program.
One by one, the host assigned to introduce the party’s most special guests called out their names and titles, one at a time.
And when it was Arkane’s turn—
“Lord Arkane Young, the Earl of Revanche.”
He had acquired the title for this event alone, and only tonight was it announced for the very first time in public. He could see that to most of the guests, the name meant nothing. But when he joined his family on the elevated dais, his mother’s dismayed expression spoke volumes. She knew what it meant, and Tassy, too, by the looks of it.
Joy swallowed hard as she touched Arkane’s arm. The live orchestra had started playing again, and she was forced to raise her voice a little—
“Son...”
—which only made its nervous quaver all the more obvious.
