by Win Hollows
“Your brother is the Duke of Scythemore, is he not?” she inquired, pasting a benignly curious smile on.
Raquel, with the strawberry-blonde hair, stood and smoothed her mauve day dress. “Yes, more’s the pity. Curmudgeonly git, believe me. I try not to think about it.” Almost too quickly for her to catch it, Raquel glanced at Delilah, the tall one, who seemed to be deliberately concentrating on the beading of her reticule.
Elorie laughed. “I shall try to remember that. And I am sorry to see you aren’t finding the boots you’re wanting.”
Ivy, the small brunette, snorted. “If she had, we’d all be shocked. For her to actually purchase anything, it first requires advanced written notice, prolonged agonizing as if choosing the day of her own death, and a blood sacrifice to the wardrobe gods.”
Raquel gasped, glaring at her friend. “Clearly, I’m the only sane one here if you think purchasing clothing is a minor task. I actually care about what I look like.”
Elorie interjected before more verbal abuse was tossed about. “I share your frustration, as a matter of fact,” she told Raquel. “I have been looking all day for a pair of slippers to match the one ballgown from my modiste that will be ready in time for tonight.”
“Ooh, where are you going tonight?” Delilah asked. “We can help!”
Perfect. There was nothing that created bonding, real or otherwise, than women helping each other with clothing. “I was supposed to go to the Littonway Ball, but at this rate, I’ll have to go barefoot. I might have been out of society for some time, but I’m fairly certain that’s still frowned upon.”
Lilah laughed, and Raquel tittered. “Never fear. You’ll look ravishing, darling.”
For the next hour, Elorie found herself being hustled from one shop to another, buying all sorts of things she hadn’t intended to purchase, including three more pairs of slippers. She kept telling herself it was an investment in her role among the aristocracy, but these women clearly weren’t as concerned about resources as she was. She couldn’t tell them that she was on a budget, however, because that would rather destroy the point of the whole endeavor.
By the time she arrived at her townhome, she was laden down with packages and had made plans to meet Delilah, Raquel, and Ivy for tea at Raquel’s residence three days hence. Sighing as she threw her hat on the bed beside her, she smiled. So far, so good. She was ingratiating herself exactly as she needed to.
Just because it wasn’t real or even her choice didn’t signify.
Her smile faded. She didn’t want this, not really.
She went to where Porthos sat chewing on the end of a baby carrot in his enclosure. Most women had changing screens in the corner of their rooms, but Elorie had had a custom-made bamboo structure for Porthos installed, complete with swings, ramps, and climbing vines that crept up the backside of it. She opened the enclosure’s door, and Porthos scampered over into her outstretched palm. He had safely arrived here a day after she had, having been shipped at great cost so she could make her escape unencumbered. Though he had been through much with her, the poor fellow would not have been as willing a participant in her “death” underwater. Elorie went back over to the bed and stroked his soft head while he chittered.
She had dreams of sailing across oceans, climbing a palm tree on a deserted beach, mastering swordplay. Doing anything but staying here and being smothered by the weight of her endless future.
Those things were dreams of the past now. She had done more than most women could ever imagine and had lived to the fullest for almost half a decade. Elorie had known her career as a French operative wouldn’t continue forever. There had been an expiration date on that life from the outset, but she hadn’t expected it would pass so quickly.
Now, she would have to set aside that part of herself and pretend to be the exact opposite of her true nature. She needed to create a persona of staid and demure womanhood in order to distance herself from the Viper. No one here could ever know that Lady Crescenfort and Elorie Lavoie were one and the same. Not that it was likely for anyone to recognize her. She didn’t plan to be much in the public eye, anyway. Only a short time, and she would move on again to a more remote place where no one and nothing would be able to get to her again. She only had to pull off one more task, and then she would be set for life. No more missions, no more worrying about funds, no more excitement.
And no more Max.
She swallowed and kicked off her shoes, bringing her knees up to her chest. Dashing English earls weren’t a part of her plans. But that didn’t mean she didn’t mourn the loss of something she’d never had in the first place.
How could someone who had never been hers leave a hole that refused to be filled? They had only ever shared one kiss—one moment among their adversarial relationship. That was all it had taken, apparently, for Elorie’s starved heart to latch on to the meddlesome man.
She scowled, hating herself for spending mental energy on him. There was no point.
“Miss Crescenfort.” A maid peeked into the room. “Would you like me to put your packages away?”
Elorie didn’t know the newly hired young woman, but she liked her quiet and efficient demeanor already. “That would be wonderful, yes. Thank you, Tamara.”
“Of course, My Lady. And dinner will be ready at seven. Would you like me to lay out a dress for it?”
Elorie pursed her lips. “Who am I impressing?” she said wryly. She shook her head. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll eat in my room.”
Tamara blinked. “Of course. I’ll have a tray sent up.”
Elorie knew that she probably disappointed the entire household of servants she had at her disposal, but she really didn’t feel like putting on airs here. Not when every moment around everyone else was exhausting.
One more night of her own company and no one else’s was all she wanted right now. For tomorrow night, the real charade would begin…
****
Max stared in abject horror at the scene before him and tried to school his face into some semblance of pleasantness. The host of the gathering, Lady Hilda Littonway, had decided that tonight’s festivities would be themed in the style of ancient Greece, with false white columns lining the sides of the ballroom and ice sculptures of Greek gods and goddesses set on tables throughout. She had made all the servants and band members dress in togas with laurels around their heads as well.
All that wouldn’t have been too awful, but she had also hired what appeared to be midget actors who were frolicking around half-dressed with cupid’s bows, poking guests here and there and then running away giggling. He pitied the poor blokes, having to find such work.
If one of them speared him in the buttocks and then laughed, there would be a great deal of violence this evening.
Making sure to carefully keep his back to the walls as he skirted the room filled with clinking glasses and merry chatter, he escorted Camille to the refreshments table, which was laden with olives, figs, goat cheese, and grapes. Popping a grape into his mouth, he watched as his mother settled in with her bevy of matrons on the far side. She would be watching Camille like a hawk, but he had no intention of letting his sister do anything that would land her in the gossip sheets.
“Mmmm,” Camille exclaimed around the bit of chocolate she’d immediately stuffed in her mouth. “I could eat this all night.”
Every now and then, someone in the crush of people would hoot, and that would be followed by a rambunctious cackle and the patter of bare feet retreating.
Cupids, indeed. He’d skewer the little buggers before they ever got close to any part of him. And he certainly didn’t need anyone here to have an excuse to engage him in conversation about being “struck by Cupid’s bow” or some such, not with the way the debutantes were already eying him from their gaggles formed around the great room.
There was good reason to prefer the open road and a good tussle with enemy combatants over this malarkey. He wanted to enjoy the company of his sister and see to her wellbeing,
of course, but there were just too many factors about this event he already detested.
Didn’t these people realize their silly costumes and decadent balls were paid for by the sweat and blood of others? Did they ever think about what happened outside the walls of their lavish homes and endless entertainments?
Max didn’t resent them for it, but he was beginning to realize with every moment here that he could act the part of a lazy lord, yet he would never truly fit in with these people any longer. He was too changed from the many things he’d seen and done.
The thought saddened him as Camille waved to one of her friends and began to drag him over toward her. He let his sister’s arm go as she skittered over to speak to a round-faced girl in a dress with entirely too many frills. As he stood nearby while they giggled over heaven knew what, he scanned the crowd—mostly for the telltale flash of gold-painted cupid’s bows, but here and there he saw someone he recognized.
When the first waltz of the night struck up, he watched as two young men eyed Camille and whispered. It appeared one was giving the other the courage to ask her to dance, for it wasn’t long until one of them took a visibly deep breath, tugged on his cravat, and strode purposely over to her.
It took everything in Max’s power to not plant himself between the eager suitor and his sister, but he supposed there was nothing wrong with a chap asking her to dance. It sure as hell felt wrong though. What if he said something inappropriate to her? What if his hand strayed too far from the small of her back?
He gritted his teeth and smiled as Camille was led out to the floor perfectly properly. Being an older brother was more difficult than facing hordes of Kurdish warriors on horseback, in his opinion. And as he had actually done so, he felt entitled to make that judgment.
Watching as the pup twirled her around, he almost didn’t notice the woman standing on the fringe of the crowd, dressed in translucent layers of gold.
When his gaze left her, it came right back, and he blinked, mouth falling open.
It couldn’t be. He downed his glass of bourbon in one gulp and rubbed his eyes before opening them again.
Yet as he squinted hard at the luscious figure and distinctive champagne hue of her hair, there was no mistaking her.
It was Elorie Lavoie, right here in the Littonway’s ballroom.
She looked different, younger. Her face was powdered, the golden pallor she usually possessed hidden in favor of the current English rose ideal with pinkened lips and curled hair sausages on either side of her cheeks. The dress she wore encased the well-honed curves of her torso in intricate damask gold beading and then lay over her hips in falls of diaphanous silk in varying shades of gold cascading to the floor. She wore an expression of innocence that was nothing at all like the Viper he knew she was.
She was like a goddess among mere mortals playacting at it, the décor only serving to accentuate her otherworldly appeal. He saw a man nearby ogling her, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether to pounce on her in lust or run in fear.
Max had had the same reaction to her in the past, truth be told.
He narrowed his eyes. What was her purpose here? Some game was afoot, but he didn’t know what it was if she wasn’t trying to approach him for information.
Well, if she wasn’t going to come to him, he would certainly take the game to her.
Sneaking round the edge of the room, he purposefully ignored the greetings of people he hadn’t seen in months, setting his empty bourbon glass in the palm of a debutante momentarily struck dumb by his wink as he passed. By the time he arrived at the spot between two columns where he knew she’d been, she wasn’t there any longer.
He cursed, turning around to look for the glowing silk of her dress.
Ah. She was turned away from him, an older gentleman patting her hand with a large smile on his face not ten feet away. Max crept closer and leaned against a plaster column.
“It’s so good to see you out and about, dear. I almost didn’t recognize you, but you’re still the same rascal you always were, eh?”
Elorie laughed, putting her other hand over the older man’s, and Max’s stomach tightened. Who was this man? How did he know her well enough to call her dear?
“Mister Tennenbaum, I am no longer any sort of rascal, I assure you. But you must stop by to say hello sometime while I am in town.”
She spoke with a convincingly British accent. He knew she was talented where her craft was concerned, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise, but Max liked the natural lilt of her French better. What was she doing inviting someone old enough to be her sire to visit her? What history did they have?
The siren sent Mister Tennenbaum on his way and heaved a sigh as she smoothed her hands down the sides of her skirts. Yes, he knew how exhausting playing a role could be, especially when someone you didn’t expect turned up.
Silently moving up behind her, Max whispered in her ear. “Can’t stay away from me, Viper?”
Elorie gasped, and Max saw the goosebumps rise on her nape before she turned to face him. Her wide green eyes held panic for a brief second, and then a polite smile fell over her face like a mask. She stepped back to a proper distance. “I’m sorry, sir, I must have misheard you.”
Max raised a brow and stepped forward again into her space. “You didn’t mishear anything.” He decided to cut right to the chase. “What are you doing here, snake?”
She didn’t back down, and a mischievous smirk appeared, creating dimples in her cheeks. “Well, I was hoping to be asked to dance, to be quite honest. It is a ball, is it not?”
His eyes narrowed. Fine. He’d play along for now. Schooling his features, he stepped back and bowed over her hand. “Would you do me the honor of this dance, Miss…?”
She hesitated. “Crescenfort,” she provided, taking his hand. “Of the Norwich Crescenforts.”
The pressure of her hand in his, even through her elbow-length gloves, was like a gaslight flaring to life. “Interesting. You know there is actually a branch of Crescenforts in Norwich,” he told her, leading her out onto the floor.
Elorie blinked innocently with her innocuous smile. “I know. I am not ignorant of the British peerage.”
His lips quirked in spite of himself. Damn, but she was a brash little thing. He would have done the same had he been in her position. Pick an obscure landed gentry family that would still have doors open to them everywhere. It was an ingenious cover.
But for what, was the question.
He brought her near to his body and slid his hand slowly around the curve of her waist. Her breath hitched, a puff of it briefly warming his neck. Elorie was of perfect height for him to be able to dip his head slightly and murmur directly in her soft ear.
“Shall we?” he warned her, stepping forward for the first step.
She moved with him in flawless rhythm, not surprising him in the least. He had no doubt she had been trained in every sort of social grace and activity for times such as this. Yet what did surprise him was the way her energy seemed to seep into himself, and he became aware of every part of her at once. The curvature of her upper lip, barely too full to be called a cupid’s bow. Her eyelashes, darker than her hair, rimming leaf-green eyes with shots of liquid gold in them. The tautness of every muscle in her sinuous form that the casual observer would say executed each movement effortlessly.
All of these things rushed in at once to form a sort of perfume that invaded every sense. He was filled with her as they flew through the room, and he couldn’t have shaken the essence of her if he’d wanted to.
“Who are you?” he asked her, his voice hoarser than he would have liked. “I doubt any man has ever really known, have they?”
She seemed to be under a similar spell, as though taking a moment to register his words. When she did, he saw the wall come down over her features and almost regretted the question. Yet they had always been both excruciatingly truthful with each other while being infinitely deceitful. He couldn’t not ask.
“Why is it
important? All you need to know is I am no longer after the Lance. You need not fear my interference in your pursuit of it.”
Max chuckled and pushed on her hand until she spun around as he bade, catching her again. “Don’t play coy, Miss Crescenfort. There is nothing else but the Damarek, and we both know it.” His eyes left hers briefly as he scanned the people around them. “None of these people will ever understand that an object the size of your palm could topple a government, but don’t pretend to have forgotten its importance to me, dear.”
Her eyes widened, and he watched her gulp at the change in his tone. “Then we really shouldn’t be talking at all, should we?”
For some reason, her words evoked something darkly primitive in him, something that wanted to immediately pull her closer out of fear. “Or perhaps, it’s true what they say—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
“Wh-what are you suggesting?” Her muscles tensed in his grip.
A reckless impulse roared through him. He had her here in his arms at this very moment, but tomorrow? The day after? She could disappear, and he would never know what it was like to taste her again.
“Did you enjoy Cairdygyn Hold, Elorie?” He pulled her closer. “Did you like when my hands were on your body and my tongue in your mouth?”
He caught her as she stumbled a bit, spinning her so that no one could tell. Her eyes were wide saucers of flashing emerald, and her breath came in quick, furious gasps.
“Th-that should never have happened.”
Her response didn’t deter him. “I thought we agreed it was a dream.”
