Maybe she won’t even recognize me.
I want my hands on her to erase Emma’s touch,my jealousy whispers.
“I’m better than this. I am.” I try to tuck behind Mother, who is seated on a chair that servants delivered during my absence. I cannot guarantee what I would say or do in this moment.
I am masked,bad impulses urge.Unlike the guards, who are trained to recognize me and my father, the duke would never know who I am.
I surreptitiously continue to study the duke. I noticed earlier that she was wearing breeches at court, but I can see the curve of her hip, the muscles in her calves, and I can’t stop staring. Maybe I am weak because of her rescue in the wood, or because of hearing her talk to the queen about me, or maybe I am simply still enamored of her. I know only that it is not the curse, not my duty, making my attention fix on her.
Isabeau’s mask is no more than a sliver of silver with onyx stones. It’s more of a gesture of a mask than an actual mask. She makes no effort to even try to hide her identity. Although, of course, it would be a lie to suggest she could. My gaze drops again to marvel at the way the breeches cling to Isabeau’s thighs.
She’s dangerous.
I’ve grown used to facing any number of monsters. I’ve broken bones and bruised soft tissue. The duke in her formfitting breeches and coat ought not be the thing that intimidates me, but I touch my mask to ascertain that it’s still securely in place as I watch her seem to size up the nobles in the room, not in a quarrelsome way, though.
“What is she doing?” Rylan asks as she leaves the dance floor again and rejoins me.
“Hunting.” Even had I not heard her plan to locate the woman in the park—to locateme—I recognize the way Isabeau prowls.
Rylan makes a humming noise. “The Misses Borthwick said she is nearly engaged to Lady Fiametta now that her father has passed. Perhaps she is auditioning for mistresses.”
“Hush,” Mother interjects.
“I am not interested in court gossip, sister.” We are careful to avoid names with the masks in place. Although Mother is more identifiable if she is standing because of her cane, she is currently seated with her cane resting in the folds of her own seafoam-and-orange-hued dress.
Rylan is whisked away again for another dance. Even masked, suitors rarely resist a chance to twirl her around any ballroom. Tonight, she is particularly vivacious. I watch her with a fondness that makes me forget to keep alert.
“Dance?” The word draws me out of my mind and back into the room, where the duke is now peering at me with an extended hand.
“That is kind of you, but n—”
“She’d be delighted, Your Grace,” the Countess of Fleuriste says, speaking over me in a voice that will not accept objections. She waves a hand toward the floor. “Go on.”
I shoot a surly look at Mother before standing. “Certainly.”
I ignore Isabeau’s hand and instead rest my own lightly on the duke’s forearm as we walk onto the already crowded floor several moments into a song. The dancers part around us. Recently inherited or not, Isabeau is a duke. The world is her oyster.
My touch is as light as can be as I try not to notice the lines of muscles under Isabeau’s jacket. She’s always had the sort of form that makes me sigh longingly. Tonight is no exception.
She thought I was lovely in battle,my heart sings.
None of that!my logic orders.
The duke faces me and bows. Her poise is enough to heighten the feelings already plaguing me. I want to be immune to her.
I curtsy to her. “Are you sober enough to lead?”
Isabeau scowls. “Is that foul temper why you were playing the wallflower?”
When the duke’s hand curls around my side, perilously close to where I was stabbed, I flinch.
Let her think it’s from her words,I hope.
I rest my arm atop Isabeau’s and let my hand touch her shoulder lightly. With my other hand, I grasp Isabeau’s free hand.
This hand touched my chest years ago.
Those arms clung to me at her castle mere weeks ago.
