Page 30 of Prince of Masks (Hearts of Bluestone #2)

I hate to admit it, but his handsomeness is unmatched in the atrium. Even some of the debutantes pale in comparison.

If I didn’t loathe him so much, I might admit to the sudden twist in my gut at the sight of him.

It’s not that his sandy locks are combed to the side, just one or two strands starting to fall into his piercing eyes, or that his smooth complexion is as soft as the sculptures all around; it isn’t the soft pink of his mouth, the renewal of his sunkissed hue.

It is the sight of him in a modern, stylish tuxedo.

The gentry and the dull are easily picked out by their plain bowties and the waistcoats under their ill-fitted jackets, the sort of men who reuse the same tuxedo for every formal event, no understanding of the distinction between a black-tie fundraiser and a literal ball.

That’s not Dray.

His waistcoat has been snubbed in favour of a sleek black sash around his midsection, and coupled with the deep, inky black of the tailored jacket, it’s impressive.

Dray wears no bowtie.

The shirt that adorns him is unlike most of the others around the courtyard. The collar is parted down the middle, no buttons, and it splits down to the dent of his clavicle.

It’s definitely a new style, one that draws in my gaze, one that shudders my breath for a fleeting moment, and might crisp my cheek a little more than I care to admit.

Or maybe it’s that his gaze is hooked onto mine—and it stays with me until the final debutante joins the line at the end of the courtyard, and we all spread out our arms and dip into curtsies.

Instantly, my legs ache.

The pain comes fast and burns hottest behind my kneecaps. All those salves and balms at Grandmother’s, they helped—unquestionably—but the residue of her torture lives in me, and I learn that now as I hold my curtsy for all thirty of the seconds required of me.

The moment we rise, the loud rustle of gowns floods the courtyard as we swivel around, and it’s fast followed by orderly clack of heels on marble.

The debutantes lead the way into the gardens.

The aristos follow, silent ghosts, shadows.

The faint melody of the harps in the courtyard fades away and is quick to be drowned out by the orchestra tucked away in the gardens.

The louder symphony floods the air, all the way up to the stone-bordered pool as we debutantes spread out into a crescent, and we turn to face the aristos, the families, the bachelors.

Again, we curtsy, in perfect unison.

Then the melody picks up.

The orchestra that plays for us, they bring the tune we dance to.

The dance is plain. It is ordinary. It is performative, but not in skill.

We display ourselves. Each movement—from the graceful reach of arms gliding above the head and the slow twirl that ripples through us, to the purposeful sway of our hips to better accentuate our bottoms, and the gentle looks we spare over our shoulders, and the smallest smiles we can manage—is all for one reason:

Look how lovely I am. Buy me .

I am glad when it is over and, after the surge of applause, and all the guests start to pull their gazes off of us, and conversations rise up over the gardens, I can slip off the shelf—and in that alone I find a reprieve.

The second reprieve is in the flutes of champagne I hunt down to the hedges. I down one before I swap out the empty glass for a fresh one, then I go off in search of my parents.

I find them at the edge of the Parterre, drinks in hand, and of course with the Sinclairs.

Always with the Sinclairs.

The urge to roll my eyes is strong.

But under the gazes that flicker towards me as I approach, my face softens into something calm, something polite.

I have barely reached them when Mother pulls away from Father, her face alight. “Olivia,” she utters my name like it’s a prayer. “You are so beautiful—look at you.”

Amelia is beside her in a flurry. Her hands reach for mine, just to hold onto me, and the watery smile she aims right at me is brimming with pride. “You captivated us, all of us. You had so many eyes on you,” and at that, she touches her palm to my cheek, “on your beauty.”

Beauty because my face is painted.

But I take the compliments with a small smile. “Thank you. I thought I would be more nervous than I was.”

Amelia’s wink comes so quick that if anyone saw it, they would gaslight themselves into brushing it off.

“Olivia,” Father calls, hand outstretched for me.

I slip by Mother and Amelia.

Dray’s gaze follows me, ice burning my cheek.

I force my focus on Father and only him.

He steals my hand—then angles it away from him, and just… holds my hand out.

Oh. I understand.

Dray’s hand takes mine, his fingers firm around my palm. His smile is soft, menacing enough to tickle up my spine. “First dance?”

A tight smile digs onto my face, smarmy. The look I glare at him is a blatant I’d rather fuck a cactus .

Dray reads the less than courteous message in my glare. His smile tugs before he leans into me, bringing his mouth to my ear.

The warning in his tone wipes my smirk clean, “You wouldn’t want me to think you are backing out of our deal, would you? I have no qualms with exposing you right here.”

Fuck around, he’s telling me, and I’ll let everyone know exactly what you were doing in the library.

He draws back and looks down his nose at me.

A mere heartbeat passes before I nod, polite, an almost curtsy. “You may have my first dance.”

I pass off the champagne to Mother’s waiting hand.

Dray slips his hand to the small of my back and guides me through the throngs of rich assholes to the centre of the promenade.

Every debutante has returned to the sprawling space, this time with a partner. All around, pairs gather with their arms locked, gazes hooked.

Dray and I just make it a second before the song picks up. He pulls me against him.

A shudder runs up my spine to my stiff shoulders.

The waltz begins, slow and smooth.

I move with him, my steps robotic, my arms framed to keep distance between us.

“Have you spotted a desirable suitor yet?” he asks coolly. His gaze drifts over my head to the many faces of bachelors watching from the sidelines. “So many to choose from.”

I roll my eyes. “Worry about your own betrothed. As I hear it, you are suddenly single.”

“I have shifted my attention,” he concedes, and his voice is clipped. He looks down at me. “Are you enjoying it?”

He pushes me from him, gentle, then twirls me around.

The moment I pause, facing him, he steps into me, his arm looping around my middle—and I realise it was a move to shorten the distance between us, to hold me closer to him.

My lips curl into a grotesque smile. “Enjoying what?”

“All this attention you have tonight,” he says with a lift of his chin, a gesture to the faces angled towards us.

I look around, rigid in my waltz frame.

A lot of eyes on us—on me .

A flush heats my cheeks. “It’s the art of makeup.”

“Is it?” he drawls, coolly, like he couldn’t be more disinterested in this conversation, in me, if he tried.

He turns me around—and I get a fresh view of faces angled towards the dances. My gaze sweeps over them, fast, searching for any hint of Eric.

He should be here soon, if not already.

The gentries will have been kept waiting out in the front gardens of the palace, then brought through after the Walk of the Debutantes.

Dray’s eyes are calculative blue gems, piercing into me. “Who are you looking for?”

I shoot him a bored look. “Conversation wasn’t a part of our deal.”

Dray arches his dark brow. “But if we are not to speak, how can I tell you it isn’t cosmetics that make you beautiful?”

My tongue sticks out with a faux gag. “Save it for someone who will be fooled by your lines, like Melody.”

His fingertips brush down my spine.

My muscles clamp.

Even through the thick border of my bodice, I feel the caress.

Makut .

I glare up at him.

“If you insist on your secrets,” he says, his fingers brushing back up the curve of my spine, all the way to the prickling flesh of my neck, “I will find entertainment in watching you fail at keeping them. I sometimes enjoy the show—of you digging your grave then crying that you’re in one.”

The face I make at him is crumpled and obvious enough that, if Father was closer and saw it, he would chide me.

But Dray’s chiding is the one to respond.

His hand firms on the nape of my neck.

I watch the burn of his eyes sear into me.

His nose inches closer to mine.

“The only one who digs my grave is you,” I hiss, and my breath brushes over his mouth.

He steps into me, then dips me. “Room for one more?”

I blink up at him once before the soft flesh of his mouth grazes mine. His lashes don’t flutter, his eyes don’t shut—this is not romance. This is a statement. An almost kiss, his gaze searing into me.

He flicks me upright, like I am little more than a feather, and I stagger into his chest.

His arm hooks, tight.

And there is little wiggle room, no escape.

My lashes lower.

His eyes gleam like polished blades before they flicker over my head and drag over our watchers. “They are fortune hunters.”

“They are aristos,” I huff. “They have fortunes of their own.”

“Not like yours.”

I arch a brow. “Then what is your betrothed?”

His gaze lands on mine. “Worthy.”

I choke on a bitter laugh. “Are you worthy of her?”

A flicker of surprise steals his face, a fleeting look of uncertainty. It’s something he hasn’t asked himself, something he hasn’t considered—because Dray doesn’t need to think of anyone beyond himself.

He doesn’t answer.

I add to the challenge, “Do you love her?”

His frown pinches his brow. I almost think he won’t answer, but after a heartbeat, two, he says, “At times.”

The urge to roll my eyes is too strong. “Romantic.”

Dray has nothing to fire back at me.

His gaze doesn’t waver from my face, it wanders, his hold remains firm, but for the rest of the waltz, we are silent.

The melody eases into a soft quiet. The thrum of violin strings hum in the air, the pause between the dances.

Dray slips away from me with a single step back.

He looks down his nose at me, his jaw tense.

I spread my arms, then dip into a curtsy. I hold it for a mere moment, because he does not deserve more.

I rise, chin high, glower strong.

He takes my hand in his.

He lifts it to his mouth—then turns my palm upwards and plants a firm kiss on the bone of my wrist.

The touch of his mouth is warm on my skin as he whispers, darkly, “I’ll claim the second dance when I feel like it.”

His lips warp into nothing short of a wicked smile before he draws away from me.

With his retreat, a tension unfurls through me.

Still, he keeps me on edge for the rest of the night with that statement. To claim his final dance when it best suits him—and likely when it least suits me.

I wonder, fleetingly, if he waits for Eric now. That, the moment Eric Harling arrives, Dray will steal me away into the second dance, just for the sake of fucking with me.

The unease that the dance flooded me with lingers.

A heavy sensation of dread sways in my stomach like a wave washing over a shore, retreating back to the icy waters, then cascading over the rocks all over again.

It stirs a singe of nausea in my chest.

I mask it.

The skirt of my dress swishes around my legs as I move for the tables down the stairs. The tables feature a spread of snacks—but I snatch a fresh glass of champagne, then head off in search of Serena.