Page 2 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

I slip my hand into Nora’s and the woman squeezes it back.

“The Prince Regent’s displeasure could ruin more than your chances here.

I’ve seen it happen — young ladies sent away, their fates sealed.

You would be left with nothing. No future, no prospects, and no way back to your family.

I can’t let them happen under my watch, Your Highness.

Never.” I hang my head as Nora escorts me to the door.

“The world won’t stop for your discomfort, Your Highness.

Neither should you. If you falter, they’ll think you're weak. The Prince won’t wait forever.

Come. ‘Tis the very last ball of the season. You will not have to endure for long.”

There is no time for weakness. Nora leads me down the hall and I steel myself.

Tonight, I will face my future, whether I am prepared or not.

At the end of the long corridor, gas lamps accentuate Genevieve’s fuller figure, which is draped elegantly in a gown, hugs her in all the right places.

The fabric shimmers with a deep ruby red that highlights her pale complexion, blue eyes, and honeyed hair.

She is a woman who has spent years navigating the maze of society’s expectations, and yet, even she has found it impossible to secure a match.

I remember the letters we used to write to each other as children.

Genevieve desires a love match and nothing else will do.

And so, she has resided herself to become like me — a wallflower in the deepest sense.

I never dreamed I’d need her friendship the way I have.

To take me in and become my sister in the truest sense.

“You make it seem so effortless,” I say in awe.

Genevieve steps forward and places her hands gently on my shoulder. “That’s the trick, darling.” Her full lips curve into a smile. “You don’t let them see you sweat.”

I straighten my spine. “Alright. I think I can do that. It isn’t that much different to navigating the Qing palace socials. ”

“That’s the spirit.”

Then, with a small squeeze of my hand, she leads the way toward the grand staircase.

Carriages halt outside the glittering ballroom, all in a row.

Lights spill out onto the stone steps like a cascade of stars.

I had never imagined it would be like this.

It is an endless sea of gowns, jewels, and finery that is all so alien to me.

As I travel down the marble staircase, the weight of the ton’s gaze falls on me, like I am under a magnifying glass.

I am destined to be dissected and analysed.

Genevieve steps out first. She is no stranger to the ways of the ton, unlike me.

I follow her, adjusting my dress, my breath catching in my throat as we step into the vast ballroom. Immediately, the whispers start.

“Is she the foreign princess? The one they’re calling the prize of the East?”

“Does she even speak proper English? I hear she doesn’t know a word of it.”

“I can’t imagine what kind of woman she is. Strange creature. Look at her eyes!”

The comments are sharp and barbed that haunt me as they follow, but I refuse to shrink beneath their judgment.

I stand tall, even though my heart races and the chill of their disdain meanders over my bare shoulders.

Genevieve gives me a knowing look, her lips curled in a soft, reassuring smile.

“Ignore them, Katherine. Let them talk. They always do.”

I nod, even as I overhear more whispers.

“There’s talk she’ll marry the Prince Regent,” a woman says, dismissively. “But it’s quite the jest. She’s probably an imperial spy!”

Her daughter snickers. “No one here will dance with her. It would be scandalous.”

“The prince is not known for his quiet ways…”

I glance down at my gown as their eyes burn into my skin. I want to retreat, but Genevieve takes my arm in comfort and drags me through the crowd. The marchioness doesn’t miss a thing. Wariness follows us with each word. “Do not wander far, tonight girls.”

“Yes, Mama,” Genevieve replies.

We make our way to the refreshment table, and I take my glass of champagne, hoping to calm my nerves. The effervescence dancing on my tongue reminds me that I do not belong here. I glance at Genevieve, who is casually perusing the guests and take another sip of my drink to calm the storm.

“Have you heard anything interesting?” I ask, trying to make light of the discomfort.

Genevieve scans the room with a practised eye.

“Oh, plenty,” she says. “They’re already gossiping about you, as expected.

You know how it is—the grand Duchess over there, wondering why the Prince has not yet arrived, and the Marchioness over here, trying to figure out if you are a threat to her daughter’s prospects. ”

I let out a quiet sigh. “What else will they say?”

“Nothing flattering,” she mutters. “That you are too foreign, too strange. They wonder if you’re hiding some secret that would ruin your chances. The Prince isn’t a fool, after all.”

I take another sip of my drink, while Genevieve continues. “It’s not personal, simply… the way things are.”

My gaze is drawn to a figure standing across the room.

A man. His presence is… striking. He is tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that falls just above his collar.

He moves with a grace that seems almost predatory, but there is something about the way he carries himself.

There is a quiet confidence, about him, a weight that doesn’t belong in this ballroom.

His gaze sweeps over the crowd, then it lands on me.

His eyes, they pin me in place. I don’t know why, but I can’t look away.

The grand ballroom becomes alive as he nears.

The chandeliers shine down, on the glittering gowns and crisp uniforms, and violins are singing.

It illuminates him as he walks closer. All I hear is the clinking of glasses and the rustle of silk and velvet.

Genevieve leans in. She whispers to me. I hear her, but I cannot focus.

No, all I see is him . “You’ll want to get used to this, Katherine. The ton talks, and they talk loudly.”

His striking figure nears the edge of the crowd, immaculately dressed in navy blue. He’s taller up close, with dark hair pushed back and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. A rogue in the truest sense. He does not belong here.

“Who is that?” I murmur .

Genevieve follows my attention. Her footing shifts. “Oh, him,” she says coolly. “You will do best to avoid him.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Because,” she lowers her voice, “that’s the Duke of Ashwood. Quite frankly, I’m surprised to see him here. He rarely attends such events.”

I blink, startled. “The Duke of Ashwood?“

“He’s… mysterious yes, a bit of a recluse.

He keeps to himself and only appears at events like this on occasion.

But when he does, he draws eyes like no one else.

Everybody knows Dukes are rare to come by.

Still, you are a princess. By right of birth, you outrank him.

He is beneath your station. If you say the prince brought you here, surely he will offer for you hand.

Maybe he has another prince tucked away somewhere…

” she chuckles. “Perhaps one for each of us.”

I watch Ashwood, unable to look away. My stomach flutters.

There is something unusual about this man.

Perhaps it is sinister, perhaps it is this foreign place.

I cannot be certain. Guests stop to say hello to the Duke, some even drag their daughters to him, others follow him with wary expressions.

Some do not engage, they step back as he approaches.

Still, those eyes, they find a way back to me.

There’s something about him, something dark. Compelling.

My stomach flutters.

Something dangerously alluring.

Before I can react, he bumps into me. The is a jarring movement. The champagne in my hand spills across my dress. I gasp aloud.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. His voice is deep and smooth.

He reaches out to help, but I can’t bring myself to rip my gaze away.

Our fingers touch. His eyes, two different shades, one green and the other a light hazel, are filled with a strange intensity.

Quickly releasing him, I peer down at my dress, now stained with the champagne, and then back up at him.

“You should be more careful…” There is a flutter in my heart as our eyes meet. My voice weakens as I finish the sentence. “Your Grace…”

The Duke looks down, swallowing me with his shadow, and partially blocking out the candlelight.

His lips part as if to say something, but then he seemingly changes his mind.

He bows his head and offers the tumbler of brandy he’s holding.

“Please, allow me to make it up to you,” he says. “Take this one.”

I accept the cup, but before I can reply, and without a second glance, he pulls away, then disappears into the crowd of the ballroom.

I stand there, uncomfortable. He doesn’t seem to notice who I am, nor the effect he’s had on me.

If he does, he simply doesn’t care. My fingers, tingle.

My heart, races with wildfire. Genevieve calls me from somewhere and I remember where I am. “I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”

I turn to Genevieve. “What do you mean?”

Genevieve shrugs. “They say he will accept no wife. He does not offer. They say he is mad.”

I glance at Genevieve, who continues her perusal of the guests as she leads me towards a corner of the ballroom.

The ton says a lot of things that aren’t true.

Perhaps this is also, untrue. The conversation drifts, but my mind is still on the Duke.

I peer down at my dress. The stain is bigger than I thought.

Come to think of it, it is darker, too. I rub a finger over it.

It’s still warm and sticky to the touch.

Blood? Surely…it can’t be?

I glance at Genevieve and then around the crowd, half expecting to see the Duke’s perplexing eyes. “I should clean up. Do you know where the powder room is?”

She glances at the stain, then nods. “Follow me.”

We rush through the crowd, and whispers of the ton follow. Once inside the powder room, Genevieve helps me try to clean the stain, but it won’t come out. It’s too dark, too set into the fabric.

“I don’t understand,” I say, confused. “How did this happen?”

Genevieve’s brow furrows as she examines the dark patch. “It’s strange. It’s almost as if…” She trails off, glancing back toward the hallway.

But the tinge of metal is unmistakable.

It is blood.

“Let’s go back,” Genevieve says. “Before Mama sends a search party.”

I nod and we both exit the powder room to an empty hallway. As we move down the hall, I see him again—the Duke of Ashwood. He stands outside an open door, with his back to us.

He is speaking to someone. Who? He seems…to be hiding something.

Even from here, his voice seems strained. For reasons I can’t explain, I am drawn toward him. Genevieve must sense something is amiss for she places a grip over my forearm. “Katherine, don’t,” she warns, but I can’t stop myself.

“He’s hiding something,” I whisper back. “There was blood, Genevieve. His Grace bore no wounds. Somebody else could be hurt.”

“Katherine,” she hisses, “remember the Prince.”

But her warning is the last thing on my mind. I step away from her and follow the Duke.

Something isn’t quite right.

The Duke disappears around a corner, and I follow.