Page 10

Freezing.

Trying to hide my shiver, I follow him onto the marble dance floor, watching as he coolly drops the champagne flute off on a passing waiter’s tray. He moves with both a tight precision and a fluid ease, and it hypnotizes me. The men at DKS are large and athletic, made of hard muscle and sharp reflexes. They’re physically intimidating because of how they’re built.

This man is physically intimidating because of how he moves.

Finding a vacancy in the whirling crowd, he turns to me, posture perfect as he places a hand on my waist. When I meet his gaze, there are no words. No instruction. No giggles or awkward laughter. With a bland expression, my partner falls into the music, his feet adeptly leading me in the steps of a traditional waltz.

It takes every ounce of my concentration to keep up with him. Maybe that’s why the first comment I choose to make is so unbelievably stupid. “You know how to dance.”

The dullness of his eyes suggests he wasn’t expecting anything else. “Yes, I know how to dance.” He spins me and my body follows, already knowing the moves. “So do you.”

Trying to salvage a thread of dignity, I explain, “My mother forced me into lessons as a child.” Another preparation for Royal life. A Duchess should be ready for anything. Wouldn’t want to embarrass my Dukes at an official Royal function, would I?

“As did mine.” His shoulders remain straight and poised, cold fingers gripping mine. “Well, my father.”

It’s almost impossible to form a complex thought, my mind battling to keep rhythm. I resolve to try, though. “Is this your first Royal masquerade?”

“No.” He answers, voice blandly polite. “It’s my twelfth.”

It’s the tone of the response just as much as his bored, wandering eyes that gives me the realization. “You hate them.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” I argue, grinning. “You’d rather be anywhere else.”

“So would you.” His eyes flash, and at first I’m not sure why. Then he spins me, hard and fast, making my head rattle with the snap of it. His next words are like venomous silk in my ear. “But then you’d be missing out on the opportunity to become Forsyth’s next pampered whore.” When he leans back, the song flutters to an end, and his smile is hard and empty. “I guess we all make sacrifices.”

He steps back, bowing.

And then he’s gone.

I stare after him in shock, my stomach twisting at yet another glimpse of ugliness in this beautiful place. All around me, people are smiling beneath their masks, and I wonder how many of those masks are figurative, plastered on to hide derision and jealousy. To think West End is looked down on by these people, even though we’rereal. We don’t hide. We don’t wear masks. We look our enemies in the eye when we wound them.

Flustered, I scurry off the dance floor, desperate for one morsel of something authentic and clear.

I find it out on the balcony.

The wind is frigid, cutting against my face as I look out over the Palace grounds. It’s just as breathtaking as the house itself, the garden to the south still striking even in the dead of winter. I gulp in the air greedily, stomach churning at the man’s words.

Being a Princess is Forsyth’s highest honor. Everyone knows it. It’s the Royal position girls want most of all. Princess first, Lady second, Countess third, Baroness fourth, and Duchess…

No one wants to be Duchess except West Enders.

Maybe that’s what makes it so different. We don’t have to compete like banshees. We just have to be…

Loyal.

The thought makes my stomach churn with guilt.

I walk along the railing, into a darkened corner, pushing further away from the music and dancing, attempting to compose myself. I’m doing the right thing, I tell myself. I belong here as much as any of those other girls.

“Shouldn’t you be inside with the rest of the chattel?”

My eyes snap behind me to where a man is lounging on a marble bench. The first thing I notice is how long his legs are, magnified by the dark lines of his tuxedo. They’re sprawled out in front of him. His hands and face are partially obscured by the shadows but I can make out his hair, twisted into fine, loose twists that frame his face. That, and the tone of his skin–a deep, transfixing brown.

“Jesus,” I gasp, hand rising to my chest. “You scared me.” I try to temper my alarm with a light laugh, but it’s creaky. That’s another thing about DKS. They’re loud. You always know when you’re not alone.

This guy is a barely visible shadow.