Page 120 of Nine-Tenths

"It wasn't me!" I protest.

We laugh and tussle, and it’s not until we’re downstairs, partaking of the workers’ breakfast that I realize how neatly he had talked his way out of answering the "done it again" question.

Damn, he’s good.

Chapter Thirty-Two

"This isn’t a Halloween costume," I complain, as Dav ties my neck-cloth for me. I love period romances, but I have no idea how to get into the dandy clothes. Luckily, Dav has lots of practice. "Halloween costumes are supposed to be bloody, and scary, and stupid."

"It’s not a Halloween party," Dav reminds me, eyes on what his fingers are doing. I haven't seen any difference in the three other ways he's constructed the knot every time he's stepped back to assess my reflection in the mirror, but he is now on his fourth go-round. "It's an All Hallows Eve Masque, which is entirely different."

"I want to stay and hand out candy."

"We don't get trick-or-treaters."

"Then let's go to Beanevolence—"

Dav looks at me sharply. "You know why we can't. I don't want to do this any more than you do, darling, but we have no good reason to decline the invitation."

"Sure we do. His Excellency is a prick."

He pecks a kiss off the tip of my nose. "True. But as that's not a new development, we cannot use it as an excuse."

I grumble, but sucking up to Lt. Gov. Bossypants is part of the game.

"There now. What do you think?" Dav asks, turning us to the mirror.

He looks delicious. He's in bleach-white stockings, and delicate black shoes with a slight heel. His waistcoat is as red as his scales, which he's let out a little so that ruby fire reflects around the edges of his face, and the back of his hands. His breeches and cutaway tailcoat are cloth-of-gold brocade, the same shade of deep shimmering yellow as his eyes.

I am, of course, dressed to complement Dav, because that's my role in life now.

Ugh.

And yeah, okay, it's flattering, I guess. But if it were me, instead of a cobalt blue tailcoat embroidered with Tudor Roses, and a dusty yellow waistcoat, I'd be going for something a lot moreNightmare on Elm Street. That’s how I prefer my Halloween: fake blood, glitter, glow-in-the-dark-shots, pumping music, strobe lights, candy and condom bowls in every shadowed corner.

Not Regency recreations and delicate gold wire-work masks that perch artistically over half our faces. The craftsmanship is impressive, especially the way Dav's mask seems to highlight the scales along his forehead. Butfire and waterisn’t a costume, it's a concept.

Apparently, it doesn't have to make sense. It just has to be pretty.

We leave after an early dinner to make it to York, and the Lt. Governor’s summer mansion at Castle Frank, for sunset. Yes, Simcoe's mansion is calledCastle Frank. To be fair, his father named it.

"You know he picked this theme because I hate it, right?" I grumble as I try to get comfortable in the back of the car. It'll be two hours and I am already not enjoying the way the waistband is cutting into my ribs.

"Shockingly, Mine Own," Dav says as he hangs his coat from the peg above the car door. "Not everything is about you. Last year the theme was the Twenties. I'm sure the party-planner meant Gatsby, but more than a few people dressed as plague doctors."

"Were you one of them?" I ask, as Dav leans over to help me struggle out of my coat, too. I should have done it before getting in the car.

The twinkle in Dav's eye is answer enough.

I'm feeling more relaxed by the time we get through urban Toronto and into York proper. Janet is wicked funny and tells the most elaborate, ridiculous stories about her amateur dirt bike circuit. By the time we’re at Castle Frank, my stomach hurts more from laughing than it does from the breeches.

I know better to expect an actual castle. But to drive up a gravel road through a regimented pine forest, slowly winding up little hills to the highest point, and find what is basically a glorified log cabin is a disappointment. Sure, it's shaped like an ancient Greek temple, columns and all, but it's still a log cabin. I expected it to be showy.

"While his Excellency is a nagging stickler, he's not a nouveau riche boor," Dav mutters to me when I make this observation. We’re standing on the drive and he's helping me back into mycoat, which is too damn tight for me to manage on my own. Of course, he can put his coat on alone, but this shit was the height of fashion when he was young. He's got practice.

"Not a boor. Just a Family Compact snob."

"Mine Own," Dav huffs. Then he comes around the front of me to adjust the lay of my lapels. "Peace. We're here to appease, not challenge."