When I exit the stall, the restroom attendant directs me to the vanity and lays a brand-new toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste next to the sink. I pinch my lips into a smile and thank her, embarrassment ripping through my chest.
Once I’ve cleaned myself up and my mouth is minty-fresh, I find a sofa in the corner—yes, in the bathroom—and pull out my phone. I need a minute.
Ada: Saw the Duke. No selfie yet.
Kiera sees the message, three dots appearing on the screen within an instant.
Kiera: GET TO WORK.
Smiling, I let my shoulders relax. Pulling out a compact to touch up my makeup, I take a deep breath and steel myself for the crowd outside.
It’s not that crowds make me uncomfortable, exactly. It’s just that I feel like I don’t belong here. Sure, my family has royal lineage. We have lands and titles and an official royal invitation to the Christmas Ball.
But my gown is rented. I don’t have sapphires dripping down my neck, and I only know the names of most people here because I’ve studied pictures of them. Just like the staff.
But the worst part is that every time Count Gregory speaks, his eyes snaking down my body in a way that makes me feel ill, all I can do is think of my sister.
She’s marrying him.
The beautiful, elegant ballerina is marrying a creepy old Count who can’t keep his eyes to himself.
It just… It makes me feel sick. Clearly.
The restroom door opens, and my childhood best friend walks through. Rhoda is tall and graceful, with hair like spun gold. She’s wearing a cobalt gown that makes her deep-blue eyes sparkle.
“Ada.” She smiles, spreading her arms. “I saw you rushing in here a few minutes ago. How are you?”
“I’m okay,” I answer, standing up to give my friend a quick squeeze. I haven’t seen Rhoda in about a year. Ever since we graduated from college, we’ve tried to stay in touch—but life tends to get in the way. We’ve drifted apart.
I pull away, shaking my head. “You look amazing.”
“Got rid of my dorky aesthetic once I graduated college,” she laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. A massive diamond engagement ring glitters on her finger. Wait…Rhoda’s engaged?
I gasp. “Rhoda!”
“Oh, this?” She looks at her finger, smiling.
“Who is he?”
She holds out her hand as I lean over her ring, watching how the light catches every facet cut into the stone. When I look up, Rhoda smiles. “It’s the Duke of Harbor. We’re having an engagement party next week. You should have received the invitation already.”
“The Duke of Harbor?” I frown, pulling away. “He’s nearly seventy years old.”
“Ain’t nothin’ but a number,” she says, laughing, but the light doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sixty-two,” she adds. “Hardly almost seventy.”
My chest clenches. A lump grows in my throat. It hurts to swallow past it. “Congratulations.”
Rhoda gives me a tight smile, nodding. “Thank you. It’s a good match. My family is pleased.”
A good match.
I nod. “And you?”
“Me, what?”
“Are you pleased?” I ask, tilting my head.
Rhoda’s cheeks grow red and she ducks her head to the side, pulling out a bullet of lipstick from her clutch. “He’s kind to me. And he cares about animals.”
“Will you be able to finish your PhD? He’s from another generation, Rhoda. He might not approve of you staying in school after the marriage.”
Rhoda shrugs. “He’ll have to. I only have a year left before I defend my dissertation.”
Forcing a smile, I sling my arm around Rhoda’s waist. “I’m happy for you,” I lie.
The truth is, I’m not happy for her. I feel sick. She’s just like my sister—marrying an older man just to make her family happy. Is this what our world has come to? Court life dictates a lot of our actions, but we’re not living in the Middle Ages. I thought we’d moved past arranged marriages and good matches.
Swallowing down bile—I will not throw up again—I fluff my hair in the mirror. “My sister’s supposed to marry Count Gregory.”
Rhoda’s hand pauses, the lipstick hovering near her lips. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and a veil of sadness covers her face. “Oh.”
I pinch a bitter smile. “Yeah.”
“He’s…” She shakes her head. “I’ve heard rumors about his temper.”
“But he’s rich and well-titled, and the Belcourts are on the decline. Kiera needs to get into a good college, and Gregory has all the connections. It’s a good match.” I can’t keep the revulsion out of my voice, and Rhoda drops her lipstick.
She wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight. “It’ll be okay. The Count donates to all major universities on the continent. Doesn’t he spend half his earnings on medical research? That’s a sign of someone who cares.”
“Or a sign of someone who has vested interest in a particular industry.” I sigh, shaking my head. “I don’t even know what I’m saying. He could be a saint for all I know. I just don’t like the way he looks at me.” I glance at Rhoda, forcing a smile. “At least the Duke of Harbor is handsome in a silver fox kind of way.”
Rhoda laughs, nodding. “I think I can grow to love him.”
Sadness bubbles up in my chest, pressing against my ribs until they nearly crack from the pressure. I’ve been living a fantasy, thinking I could marry who I pleased and live the life I want. I believed my sisters and I could choose our partners and carve our own way in the world.
But between Maggie and Rhoda, I’m starting to realize that’s not true. How long will it be until a match is found for me? How old will I be when my parents decide I need to marry?
The King is my second cousin. I’m not a nobody, and marrying badly would bring shame on my family, no matter who Maggie ends up with.
As Rhoda finishes touching up her makeup, her big diamond ring glittering on her finger, I can see my future. She’s my future. Maggie is my future.
I’m not living my own life. I may be a concert pianist, earning the praise of the Queen. I may be wearing a pretty dress and attending the Christmas Ball at Farcliff Castle. I may be smiling and drinking champagne, but I’m on borrowed time.
Soon a husband will be chosen for me, too, and I’ll have to learn to love him, or tolerate him—or at the very least, accept him.
Painting a false smile on my face, I head for the door with Rhoda, pushing it open and steeling myself against the weight of diamonds and sapphires and expectations. They’re all starting to feel more like shackles and chains than luxuries.
I shake my head, clearing the thought away.
I’m fortunate to have been born into this family. Not many people get to come to the castle like this. My life is comfortable.
But comfort has a price, and I’m only just realizing I’m going to have to pay it sooner rather than later.
A shadow falls over my shoulders as Count Gregory appears by my side. He peers at me over his long hook nose, his eyes drifting down to my chest.
That slimy feeling inches down my spine, and I take half a step back to put some space between us.
“Would you do me the honor of a dance?” the Count asks, his thin lips curling upward.
Trying to quell the panic inside me, I give him a curt nod. “Of course.”
When the Count’s hand touches the crook of my lower back, I try not to flinch. If I hadn’t just emptied my stomach, I’d want to do it now. I keep my lips mashed together and my face as relaxed as I can, but the woodenness of my steps almost betrays me.
Leading me to the center of the dance floor, the Count opens his arms with a flourish. “You look angelic, Lady Belcourt.” He bares his teeth in a sorry excuse for a smile.
I drop into a curtsy just to avoid eye contact.
When my palm slides over his hand, a shiver passes through me. Bitter bile clings to my throat when the Count places his hand on my hi
p, but all my years of training help me keep a placid smile on my face. The musicians start playing a waltz, and the dance begins.
How long does one dance last?
An eternity.
I feel naked. Exposed. The Count’s gaze is lecherous, his lips curled into a disgusting smirk.
He’s marrying my sister, and he’s looking at me like that. He’s marrying my sister. I can’t let that happen! But what can I do? It’ll be announced within weeks, once Maggie’s foot is healed enough for public appearances.
“I was disappointed to hear your sister wouldn’t be attending tonight, but I could never have imagined the pleasure of your company,” the Count says, dropping his voice to a low rasp. It grates on my skin like nails on a chalkboard.
I stare at a mole on his neck. At the two long, wiry hairs sticking out of it.
Gulping, I nod. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“Call me Chester, please,” he croons, leaning close to me. He smells like mothballs and stale red wine.
I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the movement of my feet.
“You move so gracefully,” he starts again, clearly trying to get more of a response out of me. “I would have guessed you’re the ballerina in the family.”
That earns a barking laugh from me. My dancing is stilted, to say the least. I can play music, of course. I can let go and feel the rhythm when I’m sitting in front of a piano.
But dancing? Using my body to convey emotion?
I’m hopeless.
“Seeing you here almost makes me feel like I’ve chosen the wrong Lady Belcourt,” Count Gregory says, his voice nothing more than a whisper. His words slither over my skin, making my eyes snap open.
My head spins. I trip over my feet, stepping the wrong way as the Count tries to lead me over the dance floor. I can’t hear the music anymore because my heartbeat is rushing so hard.
I need to get away. Run, run, run.
Every instinct is screaming at me. Every muscle wound tight. Every part of my brain blaring danger!
There’s fight and flight—but I just freeze. My body keeps moving mechanically as the waltz continues, led by the Count as we circle around the dance floor. I can’t pull away. I can’t push him off me. It’s like everything inside me just stops working while my mind runs into overdrive.
“May I cut in?” A warm voice slices through the panic in my mind.
The Duke.
Count Gregory’s face falls, pure hatred shining in his eyes. I notice the waltz has ended and a space has opened up around me, the Duke, and Count Gregory. People are watching.
How could they not?
The Duke of Blythe doesn’t attend balls. When he does, he sits in a corner and disappears after an hour.
He doesn’t dance.
But—
“Of course,” Count Gregory says, clenching his jaw so tight I think I hear a crack. When he takes a step away from me, I let out a breath.
The Duke turns to face me, ignoring the murderous look in Count Gregory’s eyes. He looks at me, his eyes like shards of green glass. Holding out a hand, he waits for me to step to him.
Even that tiny moment—waiting for me to come to him, giving me control over how he touches my body, asking for my permission—I notice. It means something to me. It makes the tightness in my body ease ever so slightly.
I lift my arm up to his shoulder as a quiet murmur goes through the guests, but I can’t look away from his face. “You’re dancing,” I say, my mouth still stiff and full of cotton balls.
“Not quite yet,” the Duke grins, those full lips tugging up at the edge.
Slowly, the discomfort ebbs away from my body. My veins shake off some of the icicles that had started growing in them, and a soft warmth grows in the pit of my stomach.
The music starts. Another waltz.
This time, I don’t feel wooden and mechanical. I stare at the Duke’s face, letting out a long breath as the safety of his arms starts to loosen me up.
“Thank you,” I finally manage to say, shaking my head. “That was uncomfortable. You saved me.”
The Duke grins. “Are you sure I’m any better?”
There’s danger in his eyes. Not the way Count Gregory’s eyes spoke danger. The Duke’s gaze doesn’t make a shot of cold jet down my spine. The opposite happens. Fire roars in the pit of my stomach, sending spears of heat down my thighs.
“Yes,” I answer. “You are.”
“What if I’m worse than he is? A wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“A wolf in a well-tailored tux.”
That earns me a laugh, and oh, I want to make him laugh again. I want to see the way his eyes crinkle. How dimples appear in his cheeks. How his lips stretch over his perfect, white teeth, and the sound of his warm laughter sends another shot of heat straight through my chest.
He sweeps me around the dance floor, and I vaguely realize that most people have stepped off to watch us. The Duke’s eyes are trained on mine, his hand splaying over my mid-back. Skin on skin. Supporting me. Marking me. Making heat spill over my body in waves.
“I didn’t know you attended this type of event.”
“I don’t,” he answers. “But it’s the young Prince Charles’ first Christmas, and it would be frowned upon to miss it. Even for me.” He grins, and another wave of heat crashes over my thighs.
How is it possible for one smile to have that effect on me? It’s like he knows a secret, and he’s only sharing it with me. It makes my pulse quicken as every inch of my body grows more sensitive. I can feel every finger of his hand on my back. The way his index finger is curled slightly, pressing into my flesh. The way his sleeve brushes against my wrist where our hands are clasped. How the lapel of his jacket feels beneath the fingertips of my other hand.
“What have you heard about me?” the Duke asks, but I have a feeling he doesn’t care about the answer. His eyes drop to my lips, as if he’s only asking something to hear me speak.
“I heard you have women brought to your estate,” I blurt out, immediately feeling a rush of heat and blood blooming over my cheeks.
His eyebrow twitches as mirth sparkles in his eyes. “Oh?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t apologize.” The Duke’s voice drops, sending another thrill coursing through my veins. He pulls me closer, and I catch a whiff of his scent. Strong, heady, spicy. I close my eyes as every cell in my body tightens in anticipation. I wonder if he can see my nipples tightening beneath my dress.
Would I mind if he could? The thought of him seeing my arousal makes my body wind tighter.
“Do you like the thought of women being delivered to my bed?” he asks, not trying to hide the humor in his words.
“No,” I answer, blushing harder.
“Why not?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I just stare into his emerald eyes. They shine brighter than any gemstone in the room. Complicated, unreadable, and totally focused on me.
The music ends, and the Duke drops his hand from my back. He lifts the other hand up, still clasped in mine, and gives the audience a bow. Everyone is staring. Clapping. Whispering to each other behind raised hands.
Count Gregory is there, arms crossed, looking homicidal.
I glance away, squeezing the Duke’s fingers so hard he winces.
Hooking my hand in the crook of his elbow, he leans into my ear. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Everyone is watching. I shouldn’t follow him. I should excuse myself and find Rhoda, or my parents, or someone more acceptable to speak to.
But my body doesn’t cooperate. I let the Duke lead me across the room as guests part for us like a school of fish around a shark. I can feel their eyes, but the heat of their stares pales in comparison to the fire the Duke has lit inside me.
6
Heath
Count Gregory’s eyes burn holes through the side of my head, and I love every second of it.
Watch m
e walk away with the woman you’re drooling over. Watch me destroy everything you like, just like you did to me. In a few short weeks, watch me destroy everything you hold dear. Your fortune. Your reputation. Your life.
Hatred burns hot, but there’s something else. Something that wells up from a deeper place, behind the anger and the pain and the loathing.
Why did I feel the need to cut in between the Count and Ada dancing? Why did the sight of them together make me feel like shoving a knife straight through his heart?
As I slide my hand over Ada’s back, feeling the silkiness of her skin beneath my palm, a sense of calm washes over me.
It’s her. Ada Belcourt.
Maybe I like the way her mouth turned down when Gregory kissed her fingers. Maybe I enjoyed watching her grow stiff when he led her to the dance floor. Her obvious dislike for him makes me feel like I’ve found someone who gets it. Someone who sees past the wealth and the titles. Who sees the monster he really is.
But as I glance at her, watching the pulse thump through her neck, there’s something more. Her body is so reactive to me. So pliable. So incredibly irresistible.
I don’t like her because she obviously dislikes the Count. She’s awoken something inside me that I thought died a long time ago. She makes heat burn through my core. I’m already addicted to her presence.
I hate Christmas. It reminds me of death. I haven’t celebrated it in four years, and this year wasn’t supposed to be any different. Attending the Christmas Ball was a show of support for the King and Queen, who have always been kind to me. It was a message to the King that I’m on his side. Nothing more.
I’m not supposed to stay here tonight. I’m supposed to leave right after the royal greetings, which have already happened. My lawyers have warned me against spending any time with the Count. There’s too much at stake.
I definitely shouldn’t be stepping in between him and a woman he’s interested in.
But I just…don’t care. Can’t stop myself. Need to be near her.
My pants are tight and my blood is running hot, and I want to be alone with her. I want to watch her tuck her hair behind her ear and reward me with a shy smile.
Yours for Christmas: An Accidental Pregnancy Romance (Royally Unexpected) Page 3
