Or did I ruin everything?
The day of the dinner arrives, sending my nerves into a roiling mess. All duties of preparation must be overseen by me, so I can no longer hide out in my room. Our meager event staff arrives, and I walk them through their tasks. Bertha begins her work in the kitchen, grateful for the extra assistance I’ve hired for her today. I remind the manor’s residents to remain on their best behavior, which includes general hygiene and politeness. Most will make themselves scarce when our guests arrive and will be rewarded by a hearty dinner of their own in the kitchens.
The thought of guests fills me with dread. I already know I’ll be forced to endure Imogen’s company. We’ve corresponded a few times since I sent the invitation, with me planting all the right seeds to bloom unwittingly inside her. Her last letter assured me she’s selected the most important families in town for Mr. Rochester to get acquainted with, which I know is code for the families in town who pose the littlest threat to her marital schemes.
Which might also translate to people in town I desperately dislike.
With the latter in mind and all preparations underway, I get dressed for dinner, attending to my own clothing and hair. I haven’t gathered the nerve to return to Father’s townhouse to fetch any of my belongings, so I’ve continued to rotate through the dresses in the wardrobe. Today I choose one in a sage color, the design similar to the others with its simple, unadorned style and plunging neckline and back. I’ve grown used to the soft material and layered skirts, almost regretting that I never had Amelie make me any new dresses while she was fitting the king.
Ugh, the king. That infernal wolf-man.
My stomach churns with the knowledge that I must see him tonight. See him, sit at the same table as him, and scheme with him. There’s no way I can leave the dinner’s success riding on Elliot’s shoulders. Surely, he’ll say the wrong thing if I’m not there, act the wrong way, bark at everyone to get out before the first course is served. I had Blackbeard bring him a list I’d made regarding dinner party etiquette, but who’s to say he even read it?
For the love of the saints, I think, the blood leaving my head, why didn’t we have a practice dinner?
The answer is obvious: I’ve been avoiding Elliot, refusing to even step foot in his parlor, and he’s clearly been avoiding me too. If this dinner goes terribly wrong, I’ll have only myself to blame. Or him. No, definitely him.
I study my reflection in my bedroom mirror and give myself to the count of five to feel anxious.
One.
I gather my mask of calm and watch it settle around me.
Two.
My brow loses its furrow, my shoulders grow squared yet relaxed, and haughty confidence settles over my lips.
Three.
It’s just one dinner. I can handle a dinner.
Four.
I won’t need to talk much. Imogen will do most of it. I’ll simply steer the conversation when needed.
Five.
Elliot and I will hardly need to exchange more than a word.
A rapid knock sounds at my door, and Micah barges in a second later—something I’ve learned he excels at. “People!” he shouts. “Really fancy people.”
My heart pounds. They’re here.
With a deep breath, I secure my persona firmly in place.
I enter the parlor, relieved at finding it empty. Our guests are still coming in from the drive and Elliot must be doing as he should—drawing out suspense with his absence. Along with my list of dinner etiquette tips, I included a note about what he should specifically do tonight, starting with a grand entrance in the parlor once all guests have arrived.
The Colemans are the first to enter the room, escorted by our hired footman-for-the-day. Imogen leads the way while her mother, Mrs. Maddie Coleman, follows just behind. Clara and Ember bring up the rear. Once again, Ember wears a bonnet that nearly dwarfs her face. She smiles at me when she meets my eyes, and I return the grin before fixing my attention on Imogen.
She assesses the room with feigned disinterest, then settles her gaze on me. Her eyes quickly flick to my bosom. “What are you wearing, Miss Bellefleur?”
A blush heats my cheeks. I’ve been so used to being around nobody but the manor’s residents, who never comment on my clothing, that I’ve slipped into ignorant bliss. Even though my dress is plain, the low-cut neckline and lack of corset is a bit racy for modern fashions. Hiding my momentary embarrassment beneath my confident mask, I wave a dismissive hand. “Just some old thing assigned to me when I took the job. A fae fashion worn by servants.”
Her lips pull into a satisfied grin. “Ah, servant’s garb. No wonder it’s so…indecent.”
“Indecent is one word for it,” Mrs. Coleman says with a sneer. I can’t help remembering what Imogen said, that her mother was the one who told her about…about what happened in Bretton. Thanks to my father, of course. Why he thought it necessary to share such private information with a woman he’s courted for not even a month, I can hardly guess. At least I can be thankful he did not receive one of Imogen’s invites.
Imogen looks around the room again. “Now, where is the mysterious Mr. Rochester I am to play hostess for tonight?”
“He’ll be in shortly,” I say, just as another party enters the room. It’s a couple I only know in passing—the Davidsons—a middle-aged husband and wife. Imogen, Clara, and their mother go to greet them, and they fall into hushed conversation. I catch the Davidsons’ burning stares, followed by Mrs. Coleman’s poorly concealed whisper of fae fashions.
I grit my teeth.
Ember sidles up next to me, so quiet I almost startle when she speaks. “I think the dress is lovely,” she says, her voice quiet and refined. Despite the way she’s dressed, she seems to be a mature young woman of fine breeding. “Fae fashions are my favorite, although you won’t find them here in Vernon.”
I face her with a grin. “It’s a shame.”
“Perhaps with your employer in town, Vernon will become open to more fae influence, like some of the other cities,” she says.
“One would hope,” I mutter, glancing back at the gossiping crowd.
Footsteps sound in the hall, and our final guests enter the parlor. It takes all my restraint not to moan. Mrs. Aston enters the room, eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the furnishings. Her husband is far more stoic as he assesses his surroundings, but their third member has his gaze locked on me.
For the love of the saints. It’s Gavin Aston, the despicable man I met at the bookshop. He strides over to me with a wide grin. Before I can react, he takes my hand and plants a kiss on it. “Miss Bellefleur, it’s been too long.”
His mother approaches just behind. “I can’t believe I’m in the home of a fae. I had no idea they were so civilized. I suppose we could have brought the children after all, Edward.”
Her husband huffs. “I daresay they would not behave.”
“Oh, you’re quite right,” Mrs. Aston says, then turns to me. “It’s so good of you to have taken employment from a fae creature, although I can’t imagine why you would have. I thought for certain you were heading for matrimony, not spinsterhood.”
Gavin releases my hand and pats his mother’s shoulder. “A woman can have a mind for both matrimony and employment, Mother. This is the modern era, after all.”
Mrs. Aston attempts a smile that looks more like a grimace. “I suppose that could be true, dear.”
Gavin turns his eyes back to me. “I, for one, think it’s marvelous you’ve sought employment. I find it encouraging when a woman proves herself my equal through hard work.”
A flicker of surprise ripples through me. That was actually…intelligent. Complimentary, even. Could I have been wrong in my first impression of Gavin Aston?
“You won’t have to work once you’re married, of course,” he adds. “But I think employment is a most attractive pastime for a young lady. A way for her to gain experience of the world outside of dresses and dances.”
Just like that, my fleeting reassessment wanes. I was right the first time. Gavin Aston is a moron. “You mistake me, sir. My work is not a frivolous pastime to dally with on my way to the altar but a legitimate alternative to marriage.”
Mrs. Aston gasps. Her son, however, shakes his head with mirth. “Clever and funny. Miss Bellefleur, you are a prize.”
I open my mouth, my shoulders tense with rage, but am saved from doing something marvelously stupid when a domineering figure appears in the doorway. My breath catches, draining both the rage and blood from my face.
It’s Elliot.
The footman stands at his side and announces him. “Mr. Elliot Rochester.”
The parlor falls into silence as Elliot takes a few slow steps into the room. His pace makes him seem confident and calculated, his limp barely distinguishable as he walks with his prosthetic. His hair has been combed in a neat, modern style. His dark green suit and gold waistcoat are impeccable, setting him apart from the black and white the men wear and giving the distinction that this creature is fae. The cut of his jacket accentuates his broad shoulders while his slim trousers reveal the musculature of his thighs.
“Good afternoon,” he says, his voice low and deep, yet far gentler than I’ve ever heard it. His gaze slides over his rapt audience, then locks on me.
My heart hammers against my ribs beneath that stare. It’s enough to empty all thoughts from my mind, making me forget why I started this night angry at him. Although, clearly he still hasn’t mastered his lesson about not staring—Oh! Remembering my duties, I shake my head and rush to his side. “Mr. Rochester, please meet your gracious hostess, Miss Imogen Coleman.”
Imogen’s eyes are wide, nearly glittering with stars of smitten attraction as she approaches Elliot and dips into a curtsy. “Mr. Rochester, thank you for trusting me with inviting tonight’s dinner guests. I am so pleased to be of service to you.”
For a few tense moments, Elliot does nothing but stare at Imogen, his expression unreadable. Then his lips twitch. Once. Twice. Finally, they pull into a modest smile. His words come out smooth and practiced. “Thank you for being so generous in helping me host my first dinner with Vernon’s prime residents.”
Imogen beams, then stands at his side, all but pushing me away to take my place next to him. “Allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Maddie Coleman, and my sister, Miss Clara Coleman.” The two curtsy, then Imogen introduces the rest of the guests, leaving Ember for last. “And this is my stepsister, Miss Ember Montgomery.”
I’m taken aback that Ember has a different surname from the rest of her family until I remember something Imogen once told me. Mrs. Maddie Coleman is thrice a widow, and after the death of her last husband—who I assume was Ember’s father—she and her daughters reverted to Maddie’s maiden name. It makes sense that Ember wouldn’t have followed suit.
Ember curtsies, keeping her eyes downcast, her face passive, and quickly moves to the side.
Imogen turns to face Elliot. “Shall we continue to dinner?”
His gaze flicks to me, and I give a subtle nod, hoping my eyes convey what I wish I could say. Offer her your arm! If he read my instructions, he should know it is now time to escort Imogen to the dining room.
To my relief, he holds out a stiff arm, bent at the elbow. “Allow me to escort you, Miss Coleman.”
Fluttering her lashes, she places her hand in the crook of his elbow, then looks at the other guests expectantly.
As they begin to pair up, I’m horrified to find Gavin heading straight for me. “May I?” he asks, arm extended.
Before I can refuse on my own, Imogen pipes up, her tone astonished. “Don’t be silly, Mr. Aston. You shall escort my mother. I told you already that Miss Bellefleur works here. She isn’t a dinner guest.”
Although her tone has me bristling, she’s right. Even though house steward is normally considered an esteemed position in a grand house, the dinner guests don’t see me that way. To them, I’m a lowly servant who should not be invited to join such an event as a guest. With the rift between me and Elliot, I’m almost certain he’ll take the opportunity to exclude me. If he does, I’ll accept it and trust he can handle his own for the remainder of the night.
“On the contrary,” he says, tone firm, “my steward will be joining us for dinner.”
Equal parts surprise and relief wash over me. “Thank you, Mr. Rochester. It’s an honor.”
Imogen purses her lips. “Do you treat all your staff so kindly?”
Elliot’s jaw shifts back and forth. “Gemma is—”
Imogen’s eyes widen. “Gemma? Are you also on a first name basis with your staff?”
I feign a casual laugh. “I’m always trying to remind Mr. Rochester that humans aren’t as casual with first names as the fae are. It’s a strange custom to him, and he’s still getting used to it.”
“Well, in that case, please call me Imogen.” She looks up at him, her expression making it clear that she awaits the invitation for her to use his first name in turn. But it doesn’t come.
“Shall we proceed?” Elliot asks.
Again, Gavin offers me his arm. Not wanting to draw further attention to myself, I accept.
Elliot leads the way with the rest of us following in pairs, aside from Ember, who walks alone. Why is she always so coldly excluded? Then again, if it weren’t for my presence bringing our party to an odd number, she’d have an available escort.
We enter the dining hall, a spacious, elegant room with marble floors, tall windows revealing the night sky, and a long table at the center.
Imogen tuts as she approaches the table. “No place cards? Miss Bellefleur, if you needed further help, you should have invited me to arrive earlier. But never mind that. As honorary hostess, I shall make it up on the spot. You, Mr. Rochester, should sit at the head of the table. We may be guests at your party, but I can’t help considering you the guest of honor tonight.”
He meets her fluttering lashes with a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Very well.”
Imogen orders the rest of us around the table with her and her mother sitting on either side of Elliot, followed by the Davidsons, then Mr. and Mrs. Aston, Clara and Ember, and me and Gavin at the very end. Clara mutters about being stuck on the boring end, tossing a sneer across the table at her stepsister, while Gavin seems to relish the honor of pulling out my chair and settling in across from me.
“Have I told you how delightful you look this evening?” he asks.
“No, but thank you,” I say coolly, then turn my attention to the head of the table. Imogen says something quietly to Elliot, leaning toward him as if she wishes to crawl into his lap. His expression remains neutral, his tone even when he replies. It seems he’s chosen to play the stoic gentleman tonight, and he isn’t doing half bad. I’m truly impressed.
As the servants step forward and begin ladling food on plates, Mrs. Aston says, “I must say, Mr. Rochester, I had no idea such a lovely manor existed way out here in the woods. However, I’ve heard the most unsettling stories about wolves in the area. Have you seen any?”
Elliot’s eyes meet mine for a moment, the ghost of a grin tugging the corners of his lips before he composes a blank face. “Yes, Mrs. Aston. I have seen wolves.”
I suppress my smile. It’s a good answer for one who can’t lie.
Mrs. Aston gasps. “Have any attacked? Or…or are they,” she lowers her voice, “your kind?”
He opens his mouth, but a look of alarm sparks in his eyes as they flash again toward me.
Saints, I doubt he can find a way to truthfully evade that question.
“The wolves around here are nothing to worry about,” I say. “They rarely show up and have yet to hurt anyone.”
Imogen burns me with a glare. “How would you know, Miss Bellefleur? It’s not like you’re an expert on Vernon. You only arrived mere days before my family did.”
Mrs. Aston nods gravely. “That’s true, Miss Bellefleur. None of us really know what they�
�re capable of.”
Mr. Davidson faces Elliot. “Have you considered hiring trappers to take care of the wolf problem? It’s a shame your property should be overrun by them.”
Elliot’s façade falters, his irritation evident in the pulsing at the corners of his jaw. “No, I have not and will not consider such a thing, nor do I recall stating the wolves were a problem to begin with.”
Mr. Davidson blanches at the venom in Elliot’s tone, exchanging a glance with his wife before turning his attention to his plate.
“My employer has a soft spot for wolves,” I say. “As you can imagine, the fae differ from humans in their feelings about nature.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Mrs. Aston says with a chuckle. “It’s so hard to remember these things, Mr. Rochester. When I’m not looking at those ears of yours, you appear nothing but a gentleman.”
He grunts a reply, regaining a handle on his composure.
Mrs. Coleman leans toward him. “It hasn’t slipped my mind once,” she says, then addresses the rest of the table. “It’s easy for me to recognize the fae and understand their ways. My first husband was fae, after all. And a king at that.”
From her seat next to me, Ember snorts a quiet laugh.
Mrs. Aston puts a hand to her chest. “Is that so? Which king?”
Mrs. Coleman’s proud smile falters. With a flutter of her hand, she says, “Oh, it was long ago, well before the unification. He died in the second war.”
Mrs. Aston and Mrs. Davidson offer sounds of condolence.
Maddie Coleman turns back to Elliot. “I know many fae of great importance. Queen Evelyn and I are practically family. I was childhood friends with her and her sister, the renowned seamstress and fashion designer, Amelie Fairfield.”
I’m surprised by her mention of Amelie. I can’t imagine the two ever being acquainted. “You must have spoken to her since she’s been in town, then?”
Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae) Page 16
