by C. E. Murphy
“It has seen better mornings, my lady,” Nina said judiciously, and then in dismay, “And that color will not help at all, my lady. The amber is better.”
“I know. Don’t argue, girl.” Belinda brushed away her complaints with a snap of her fingers and spread her arms so Nina could wrap the corset around her. The overdress was of pale green; half a shade truer and it would be springlike, lovely, complimenting Belinda’s complexion and making her hair dark and soft. Instead it bordered on the color of limes, too startling to flatter a woman of Belinda’s skin tones. She thought, briefly, of Ana in Aria Magli, and wondered at the stab of regret. “I’ll be trying on dresses. A hat won’t do to hide my hair today.”
Patience filled Nina’s voice. “Don’t worry, my lady. I’ll have you presentable in time to make a fashionable entrance.”
The girl was as good as her word. Belinda came down the stairs within minutes of Eliza’s arrival, as properly bedecked as she could be. Her hairstyle wasn’t extravagant, but neither was it unfashionable, swept up in a twist that emphasized her forehead and the length of her neck. Belinda felt quite smug until she saw her guest.
Eliza’s close-shorn locks were hidden beneath a wig of such fine blackness that Belinda was certain it was her own hair. She wore it down, against fashion, but it made not the slightest difference; the dark shining waves coiled around her bare shoulders in a seductive manner that made even Belinda want to brush it away from pale skin and drop a kiss against the delicate bone there. She wore blue so dark it bordered on purple, the cut of the gown more than simply fashionable, but predating fashion: Belinda knew within weeks the women of Lutetia would be wearing such gowns, and that Eliza set fashion with Javier’s help and approval. She must: the gown’s hue itself was a challenge and an admission both, stating her closeness with the prince and daring Belinda to make anything of it. For all of the woman’s callous and deliberate disregard of her own beauty the night before, today the rules were different, and it was clear Eliza intended that Belinda should know that.
“My lady Beaulieu.” Belinda curtsied more deeply than necessary, her own acknowledgment that she was far outstripped in looks and attire alike. “You look well recovered from the night’s revelries.”
Eliza’s eyes glittered with suppressed irritation. “I’m not made of such delicate stuff as most women, Lady Irvine. I’m surprised to find you up and about.”
“Blame my excellent servants, rather than my sturdy constitution,” Belinda suggested, then tilted her head. “You haven’t eaten, have you? I would like to breakfast with you, if not…?” She gestured toward the morning room, trusting that Eliza would remember the invitation made the night before.
Eliza nodded graciously and preceded Belinda into the arboretum. It was small, hardly enough to be granted such a lofty name, but its size made it warm, and morning light encouraged greenery that would make the air fresh and scented even in the coldest months of the year. Eliza glanced around perfunctorily, then turned to Belinda. “I ate some hours ago, but tea would be lovely.”
Bitch, Belinda thought, almost cheerfully. Let Eliza be superior in her morning habits. It might get Belinda that much better of a gown. “Then tea it shall be. And fruit, if you care for any. The strawberries are very good.” Real pleasure crept into her voice; Belinda had missed the fresh fruit of more temperate climes during the months she’d been in the Khazarian north plotting Gregori’s downfall. She was spoiled, she reminded herself as she sat. Eliza sat across from her, accepting the fruit—not just berries, but apples and pears as well—with more enthusiasm than Belinda expected.
Belinda studied the cut of Eliza’s gown as they ate, letting the envy that was appropriate to her role bubble over a little. “I wager I’ll find nothing of that ilk in the dressmakers’ shops. You’ll set fashion on Friday, at the opera.” The envy was real, as was the admiration. “I have never dared to break the mold myself.” It was true; her position was to be unremarkable, to hide in plain sight. Risking a gown with the daring cut plunging between her breasts, the slightly shortened waist that turned a figure from a V into an hourglass, would draw attention. Aulun, and therefore Belinda, could never risk such a show.
And so the truth of it lay in her eyes as Eliza frowned at her, then shrugged. “It’s easy enough to do when someone like Jav supports you.”
“I lack such support,” Belinda said so wryly that Eliza almost smiled.
“Not for long.” The smile fell away into rivalry and dislike again. “Jav doesn’t make a habit of inviting everyone who comes along to the opera with us.”
“Should I make a refusal, then?” Belinda asked, sensing a chance. “I think you won’t believe me, but I really have no wish to intrude.” She kept her voice quiet, seeking guidance with such earnestness even she believed it. “You four are clearly a close-knit group. I wouldn’t presume to interfere.”
“You presume by thinking you could,” Eliza said, sharply. “Jav made the offer, I won’t gainsay him. You’re welcome enough.”
As welcome as a bout with the plague, perhaps. Belinda caught her breath, held it long enough to still the smile she felt, then nodded. “Your candor is…appreciated.”
Eliza’s eyebrows snapped up and she stared at Belinda for a few long moments. Belinda, wrapped in the safety of stillness, waited, and Eliza relaxed. “Thank you for the fruit, Lady Irvine. Perhaps we should take our leave—the dressmakers get busy after noon. When most of the women of town are finally prepared to leave their homes.” She didn’t try to disguise her disdain, and Belinda found herself smiling.
“We should all take lessons from you, M’mselle Beaulieu,” she said with absolute sincerity. “The world would be a more interesting place.”
Eliza gave her another sharp look, and Belinda smiled again as they gathered themselves to leave.
The carriage was Javier’s own, marked subtly with his signet. Belinda, allowing the coachman to help her down from the steps, knew she had been outdone: no one delivered to a dressmaker’s shop in the prince’s carriage would be allowed to pay for her own gowns. A tailor would bankrupt himself giving away wares, if it meant even the briefest notice in the royal household. He might gnash his teeth and pull his hair later, but in the moment, he would find himself without a choice.
And such was the expression on each owner’s face as they explored the row of dressmakers and tailor shops. Gratitude, delight, dismay, relief. There were gowns by the dozen to admire; Belinda asked for more than one to be set aside so she might consider it, but it was Eliza’s approval she waited on, and the street-born woman’s eyes remained shuttered, and no purchases were made. Not until the row was exhausted and the carriage regained did Belinda turn to Eliza with a curious tilt to her eyebrows. “I saw them, Lady Beaulieu. I saw their eyes on your gown, on the cut and workmanship. None of them have anything like it; they would have brought it out. Now they’ll copy it, but my lady, who designed the original?”
Hidden pleasure lit the brown of Eliza’s eyes, although she turned her head away to mask it. “No one who can make another soon enough for the opera.”
“I would not presume,” Belinda said, surprised by her own vehemence. “Fashion is yours to set, my lady. You are the prince’s friend; it is to you all eyes will look for guidance as to the season’s garments. I would not presume.” The passion left her and she exhaled more quietly. “But it seems nothing in these shops met with your approval. Shall I purchase a gown without your guidance?”
“Javier would know.” Wry irritation tinged Eliza’s voice. Belinda’s eyebrows rose.
“How?” Could it be that Javier shared the knowing that sometimes overwhelmed Belinda? The knowing of thoughts and desires that had so overwhelmed her in the Maglian pub? Hairs lifted on Belinda’s arms, remembering the unasked for intimacy in the overheated room. She shivered. Her thoughts had been unquiet all night, not letting her sleep until too close to dawn, but she had only considered the portent of Javier’s indominable will and how closely it
seemed to match the silence she wore within herself like a shield. She hadn’t thought to wonder if that sense of self he’d tried to impose on her might run more deeply, might give him an uncanny awareness of the emotions that swam around him. Fascination and unwarranted hope shot through her, and she turned her attention to Eliza’s response with more interest than anticipated.
And Eliza shrugged, easy dismissive motion. “He knows my tastes. We’ve been friends for a long time.”
Belinda let go a breath of laughter, and with it a sting of disappointment. Javier was a prince, and his strength of will likely born from that, not any childish recognition of her own defenses mirrored in another’s eyes. “How long, my lady? If asking is not presumptuous.”
Eliza’s eyes glittered darkly as she glanced at Belinda. The carriage was moving through streets Belinda didn’t know; she hadn’t heard Eliza give the destination. The houses beyond were still wealthy, though, the streets mostly clear of beggars. No one here would accost the prince’s carriage, whatever their destination might be. Belinda let her gaze flicker back to Eliza’s, aware that the other woman studied her mistrustfully.
“Since I was ten,” Eliza said, “and he was eight. The entire city seems to know the story, so I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. I wanted a pear. I’d never had one, and they talked about them being grown in the royal gardens. My mother forbade me from fetching any, as the price for trespassing is imprisonment or death.”
“Certainly not for a child,” Belinda said, startled. Eliza made a small gesture with her hand, very much like the one Javier used. Belinda wondered if it had been Eliza’s first, or if she’d copied it unconsciously from years of exposure to the prince. She guessed the latter; there was grace to the motion that seemed inherent to royalty, although the prejudice of that made Belinda smile faintly.
“I could say that was what I thought.” Eliza shrugged again, watching the streets outside. “But truthfully, I never imagined I’d be caught. And I wasn’t, not by guard or gardener.”
“Javier.” Belinda smiled. Eliza gave her a sharp look and she realised with a start that she’d used the prince’s name with no honourific in an appallingly familiar fashion. Heat rushed to her cheeks, enough admission of guilt that Eliza went on without taking further note of the transgression.
“Javier. I was scrambling back over the wall when he asked, very politely, if I needed assistance.” Eliza’s mouth curved in a smile, gaze distant out the window. The smile, unexpectedly, reduced her beauty. It took her from untouchable to merely extraordinarily pretty, warming her eyes to a considerable degree. It made her approachable, Belinda thought curiously. She had seen many women in whom laughter brought out beauty, but never one in whom it brought out something more ordinary and human. “I fell off the wall,” Eliza went on, “and landed on Jav. I had bruises for a week, but he had a broken arm.”
“Oh!” Surprise pulled laughter from Belinda. “Oh no!”
“I’ve had pears any time I wanted, since that day. Jav made them let me stay all through his convalescence, and we’ve been friends ever since.” Eliza glanced at Belinda as the carriage drew to a stop. “You’re home, my lady.”
Belinda blinked and tilted to look out the window at the building beside her. “But a dress—?”
“One will be delivered to you on Friday.”
Belinda straightened, excitement speeding her heartbeat. She felt heat come to her cheeks again, and thought that Beatrice Irvine was a somewhat silly woman, to be so unexpectedly thrilled at the prospect of an unseen gown as a gift.
The coach door opened, the coachman offering his hand to help Belinda step down. Summarily dismissed and caught between offense and amusement, Belinda accepted it, inclining her head to Eliza as she stepped from the carriage. Vanity caught her and she turned back. “But if it needs alteration—?”
“It won’t,” Eliza said. “Good afternoon, Lady Irvine.”
It didn’t.
Eliza’s vanity had won through as well, pluming a sparrow too enticing a challenge to pass up, or her relationship with Javier too genuine to embarrass him with a poorly dressed companion at the opera. Three days was too little time to dye fabric, to make the cuts and sew the gown together, but color and size alike seemed to whisper that the dress had truly been made for her. The fabric was green silk, shot with counterwoven threads of brown, until the shade echoed and strengthened Belinda’s eyes. The cut was less daring than the gown Eliza had worn—no doubt than the gown Eliza would wear—but it flattered and was fashionable, the lines clean and long. There were fewer layers to it than she was accustomed to, the petticoats abandoned for a more natural shape, making the weight of the gown so slight as to be all but unnoticeable. It reminded Belinda a little of the gown Ana had worn—she could ride a horse astride in this dress without its weight pressing her thighs. She never would; it would damage the silk beyond belief. But the sense of freedom in the dressing was there, and made her smile breathlessly at her own reflection.
Nina, caught between scandalized at the cut of the gown’s neck—far from off the shoulders, but a more open square, with angled sides that left a little more collarbone bare than current fashion dictated—and envious of the chance to wear it, reflected in the mirror as well, finishing the last touches to Belinda’s hair. It was worn up, exposing the delicate length of her neck, scraps of leaves and pale green flowers woven against the brunette waves.
Belinda heard carriages outside, and the thunk of the knocker that thudded through the entire house. “Will I do?” she asked Nina, amused. The girl rolled her eyes.
“I suppose, madam. I won’t be completely embarrassed to let you out of the house.” They smiled at each other in the mirror as the bedroom door popped open, another breathless servant—Marie; Belinda wanted to remember their names, just as she deliberately failed to remember men like Viktor—Marie forgetting to knock in her excitement.
“My lady, he’s here.”
Belinda stood, smiling. “He’s just a man, my dear. They’re not worth quite all that much fuss.” Her eyebrows lifted slightly, though the smile remained in place. “They’re certainly not worth forgetting manners over.”
Pink-cheeked guilt overcame the girl and she ducked her head, hands clasped together at her hips. “I’m sorry, my lady, please forgive me, it’s only that—”
“You’re forgiven,” Belinda said, still amused. Ten years of playing the lesser parts, filling household roles such as the one that was this girl’s livelihood, had done nothing to prepare Belinda for the constant source of delight that playing an upstairs role brought. She had let the stillness fade away far too often the last several days, allowing herself to be caught up in good cheer and the pleasantries of wealth. She could play lady disdain, but for Marius there seemed no point; he was caught already, and charmed by the openhearted and good Beatrice. Until she had to meet with his friends again—a time when reserve would more suit her anyway—Belinda could allow herself the revelry of simple joy. Capturing a light cloak from her bed where it lay, she followed Marie downstairs, fully aware the girl trailed after to watch Marius’s reaction to the gown.
But it was Javier who stood alone in the lobby, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he studied a painting—a particularly awful portrait of Beatrice’s late father—that hung in a place of pride near the door. The prince wore grey, both incredibly subdued and unexpectedly flattering to his complexion and hair. As he turned from the portrait, a smile of appreciation already settling on his face, the maid gave Belinda a desperate glance over her shoulder, as if to say, You see, my lady? He was worth forgetting to knock!
And Belinda, astonished, gave the girl absolution in the form of a faint nod. “Your Highness.” She had no need to hide her surprise, nor did she think Javier would find insult in her gaze searching the corners of the room and landing in confusion on the door before finally returning to him. Beneath the heavy brocaded vest he wore white, startling against skin to which torchlight and fading sunl
ight gave a golden cast.
“Please,” he said, “Javier. If my friends court you, then we must be friends, too.”
“Javier,” Belinda said faintly, then smiled. “Not James?”
“Good Lord, no,” Javier said with a smile of his own. He was more attractive in evening light than he had been in the club. “James is a construct, meant to hide behind, and evidently a poor one. No, my lady, please, call me Javier.”
“Then you must call me Beatrice.” Belinda spoke reflexively, stepping forward to take the arm that Javier offered with another smile. “But my lord…I had thought Marius would be here tonight…?”
His eyebrows drew down over eyes that ate up the color of the lights with the same faint gold sheen that his clothes and skin did. “Marius’s mother has taken ill. He will not be joining us tonight after all.”
Surprise splashed through Belinda with such alacrity that for the first time in days she deliberately curtained it with the stillness, letting her heartbeat slow in the few moments before she spoke again. “He hadn’t sent a message. I hope she’ll be all right? It was kind of you to come for me instead, then.” Suspicion flowered at the back of her neck, a hot feeling of certainty that had no root. “Lord Asselin and Lady Eliza wait for us in the carriage?”
Javier’s frown deepened a little. “They’ve both sent their regrets, each of them vying for who is more disappointed to not see you in your new gown, which is,” he took a perfunctory breath, “lovely. I’m afraid it’s my company and mine alone tonight, Lady Beatrice. Forgive us all for the change in plans.” The words and the tone were perfectly matched: polite regret, a vague aura of discomfort, mild humour at the situation. It was a flawless performance.
Hot flares wrapped around Belinda’s throat and crept over her scalp, making her shiver even in the warmth of the room. The stillness within her gave her room for certainty, even without being able to make sense of it: beneath the prince’s words lay no surprise, no dismay, and an unmistakable air of triumph. The emotions were strong enough to be her own, as if they came from within her own skin, rather than from the prince whose arm she was on. She gazed up at him, balanced between fascination and fear. He quirked his eyebrows, waiting for her answer, and she found it in herself to smile back at him, easily.
