“It’sthisway,” Lady Rodericka was saying, pulling her in the direction of the anterooms. “But how could you allow him to play such a naughty game without taking part?”
“Really, Lady Rodericka, it’s not—”
“Here we are,” sang the heiress, coming to a stop in front of the card room. “Oh, and look, we’re just in time. Lusk will have a go, and then perhaps you may take a turn!”
The tall woman thrust Helena forward, propelling her into the card room like a sack tossed from a horse.
Bashful indeed.
Inside the card room, all activity and conversation stopped.
After a long moment, a thin man said, “And what have we here?” He stood beside a table with a mirrored contraption.
Helena waited for him to say more, to introduce himself, to invite her from the threshold, but he merely stared.
She searched her brain for something to say.Helloseemed too hopeful.I beg your pardontoo apologetic. She was just about to sayGood-byewhen the man let out a sputtering, can’t-hold-it-in laugh. Snickers and snorts followed from around the room. It was as if the population of the card room had been holding their breath, waiting for her to turn up and amuse them.
Helena glanced at each of them, searching for some common ground. She’d had very little contact with the men in Lusk’s circle. She knew them only as the crowd collected in the entryway, boisterous but aloof, before he went out; or as whispering, snickering interruptions to the opera when she’d been dragged to the ducal box.
Tonight, the men were splayed in chairs or leaned against the wall, the posture of someone without sufficient motivation to hold themselves upright. There were women too; they roosted more than lounged, their hips perched on card tables or balanced on the laps of men. The Duke of Lusk was seated at a center table, his cravat hanging loosely open, his hair mussed. A woman dressed as something like an ice storm stood behind his chair, her gray-blue gloved hand across the back.
The other women were dressed as a feathery tropical bird, the goddess Aphrodite, something to do with a rainbow or prism, and the most voluptuous Mona Lisa Helena had ever seen.
The costumes of the men seemed to be less literal and more ironic. Most wore the usual evening attire with a simple mask. Lusk had, in fact, approximated the look of sturdy English limestone, although Helena would have never guessed. His evening suit was creamy white (the color of stone, she assumed), with bits of crushed rock affixed to a matching hat. On the floor, propped against a chair, was a forgotten pickax.
When the laughter died, the room fell into the expectant silence of an audience. Ice clinked in a glass. The women’s bangles rattled. Someone cleared his throat. No one said a word.
“Forgive me...” she began.
There was no reply, no reassurance or introductions or welcomes. A deep blush burned her cheeks and her stomach twisted into a tight, bobbing knot. She felt small and plain and provincial. Her confidence, typically as reliable as the sunrise, sank under their collective, silent stare. She wished for a mask, she wished Meg had pinned her hair up, she wished for a fan to snap open or, at the very least, squeeze in her fist.
She wished she was at home in Castle Wood, reading by the fire, far away from disingenuous people and a fiancé who sat back and allowed her uncertainty to be the source of amusement for strange men.
But she was not in Castle Wood, and she had little choice but to stand straight and raise her chin. She looked to Lusk, the only familiar person in the room, and he stared back with flat eyes and a snarled lip. His indifference took her breath away. Her eyes began to sting, and she glanced over hershoulder at the doorway. Lady Rodericka hovered just outside. She saw her error now, and she was slowly backing away.
Helena gritted her teeth and turned back.
“Forgive my intrusion,” she said, forcing volume. Her voice came out nervous and airy, and she cleared her throat.
“I was led to this room by mistake. Please continue your game.” She inclined her head to Lusk, a show of respect, and farewell, and (hopefully)Go to hell. “Your Grace,” she said as she took a step backward.
“Oh, but you cannot go now,” said the man beside the table with the mirror device. “You’ll miss your betrothed’s spin. Really, you must stay. It’s one of our favorite little games.”
“I feel certain the duke can carry on without me,” she said.
“Nonsense. Who would like the future duchess to stay?” the man called.
Hoots and whistles andHere-heresconfirmed him.
“You’re notafraidof us, are you, dear? As the bosom friends of His Grace, we’ll want to get off on the right foot, considering the Wedding of the Century is set tofinally, really, happen. That is—if no one among the key playersruns away.” He stifled a laugh. More titters from around the room. “Don’t tell me you’re looking to run even from our little game?”
“Leave it, Bearington,” drawled Lusk, dropping his head onto the woman’s arm at the back of his chair. He stared at the ceiling.
“Don’t be a coward, Lusk, it’s all in good fun,”teased the man. “Who can say, maybe the future Duchess of Lusk is wicked enough to join our merry band, after all.”
“She’s not,” Lusk said to the ceiling.
“Come and have your turn,” the man said to Lusk, giving the mirrored device on the tabletop a spin.
