CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Caledon
UNBEKNOWNST TO HIS TRAVELING COMPANION, Cal has not forgotten about the kiss. It is all he can think of when he is not trying to remember where he has seen the duke before. He knows it is important, but for the life of him he cannot recall. He is almost certain the duke is the conspirator against the Renovian crown, but he cannot act until he is certain.
As for the kiss, since it appears Shadow has given it no further thought, and is cheerful and friendly toward him once more, he is careful not to show his feelings. They are friends again, and that is all that matters. But images and sensations keep returning to his mind—her soft, sweet mouth, and the way their bodies moved together, fluid and graceful, during the impromptu dance lesson.
He almost kissed her again, after telling her about his family. It is a good thing she pulled away. Whatever is happening between them has to stop.
On the night of the Small Ball he leaves his room and heads downstairs to meet her in the entry hall, conscious of keeping his stupid cape from getting underfoot.
As he descends the wide staircase, he sees Shadow standing near the door.
She doesn’t see him yet, but it’s clear that she’s waiting for him, and the sight of her takes his breath away.
Her gown is deepest midnight blue, slightly shimmering, with delicate floral embroidery across the bottom of the skirt. A golden sash is tied around her tiny waist, and he makes a silent offer of gratitude to Montrician aristocrats for their preference for incredibly low necklines. Instead of wearing the traditional headpiece, a large conical shape with a sheer veil, she wears her hair pulled up under a blooming crown of flowers to match the embroidery.
His cape is the same shade of blue, with a red dahlia at his breast like the ones on her dress and in her hair.
Her eyes sparkle when she finally catches sight of him. “Cal! How handsome you look!” she says, even though she saw him in it yesterday.
“And you, my lady, will have a dozen proposals before the night is through,” Cal says, bowing to her.
She laughs. “I hope not!” So do I, Cal thinks as he offers his arm to escort her.
The duke and duchess join them in the entry hall. The duchess is flustered. She fans herself frantically with her right hand, balancing her tiny puppy in her left. “The ambassador has taken ill,” she exclaims. She looks at her husband. “Is it contagious, do you suppose?”
“I told you, dear, the doctor assured me it is not,” he says calmly.
The fan shakes even faster. “Oh dear. I do hope it’s not . . . foul play . . .”
“People do get ill,” the duke says, dismissing her.
“I suppose you’re right. Terribly disappointing.” The duchess hands her yapping pup over to a footman and brushes hair off the front of her gown.
“Honestly, don’t you know better by now?” the duke says to her.
“Oh, hush,” she says. “Let’s go or we’ll be late!” She takes a long look at Cal. “Well, don’t you make a fine knight in shining armor, oh my!” She pats his shoulder with her fan on her way past him to the door. “And, Lady Lila, you look positively . . . interesting.”
The couple exits ahead of Cal and Shadow and climbs into the first waiting coach.
Once they’re settled in their own carriage and the clopping of hooves covers their voices better, Shadow whispers: “What do you think about the ambassador?”
“Certainly suspicious.”
“Do you think he was poisoned?”
“It’s possible. But I think it’s more likely he’s using illness as an excuse, like we did. Maybe he thinks it will be easily believed because it will seem like he caught it from us.”
“Not sure what to make of ‘the doctor assures me it’s not contagious.’”
Cal shrugs. “We don’t have enough information. And right now, it isn’t our concern. You need to get King Hansen to talk. Dance with him. See what you can find out, who is close to him. I think he’ll like dancing with you a lot more than me.”
“I’m not so sure about that. You look awfully dapper tonight, Lord Callum. I think you could loosen anyone’s lips.”
“Even yours?” he asks.
She turns toward the window, pink spreading across her cheeks.
THEIR CARRIAGE DRIVES UP the lane leading to King Hansen’s castle. It’s illuminated by torches all the way up to the curved approach in front of the entry. They pull up behind other carriages and wait their turn to exit and go inside. Footmen rush to open carriage doors, while royal guards stand outside the doorway. Yellow light spills out onto the front steps.
Finally, it’s their turn. A footman opens the coach door and Cal steps out. He turns and offers his gloved hand to Shadow. As she emerges, people stop to stare, dazzled by her beauty. Shadow seems not to notice, but Cal does, feeling a surge of pride at being her escort. She is mine, he thinks, before he can stop it.
The palace has been transformed since the last time they were there for the weekly audience. For one thing, it’s much more crowded, though Cal can’t tell if there are more people or if the elaborate gowns and capes are taking up all the space. There are thick green flowered garlands strung over every window and doorway. Tables are covered in shimmering white tablecloths that are accented in thin gold and silver thread. Urns of flowers are set up in every corner and at every table, along with gold candelabras holding bright white tapered candles. Blazing chandeliers are suspended from the ceiling, and hanging gems glitter in the firelight. A fire roars in the giant hearth. Musicians wearing green and white play merry tunes while guests dance or gather in groups, talking and laughing over plates heaped with food. A chef carves fresh meats from a spit in an adjoining room while footmen pour bottles of the finest Argonian wine into long-stemmed glasses.
King Hansen, in head to toe gold brocade and white lace, glides across the dance floor with a flaxen-haired maiden in a flouncy mint-green gown, one of the higher-ranked noblemen’s eligible daughters. “I wonder if that’s her,” Shadow says to Cal. “The one he’s meant to marry?”
He shakes his head and points to a line forming on the other side of the dance floor. At least a dozen similar-looking aristocratic young women stand there, waiting for a chance to dance with the king. It’s already clear they can’t get near Hansen. “Every woman in Mont wants a turn with him,” Shadow says. “So which one is the one?”
“Does it matter? Once he sees you looking like that, I have a feeling he’ll let you skip to the front of the queue,” Cal says.
Shadow looks at him out of the corner of her eye.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing,” she answers.
“Tell me,” he insists.
“You are full of compliments tonight.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, it’s just . . . you’ve never noticed before. How I look.”
How could I not? Every man in here does. “That’s not true,” he says. “It’s just that you look different this evening.”
“Just different?” But there is a teasing lilt to her tone and not the hostility from the other day.
“You look very pretty,” he admits finally.
“I’ll accept it,” she says with a smug smile.
A nobleman in an outfit like Cal’s comes toward them. “Uh-oh. Here we go,” Shadow mutters to Cal.
The man holds out his hand to Shadow. “May I have this dance?”
She accepts his hand. He leads her to the dance floor. She looks back at Cal with a pleading expression. He puts his hands up. What can I do? he mouths. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him just as the nobleman swings her around and sweeps her away into the crowd.
Cal moves to the edges of the room and stays in the shadows, as far from the dance floor as he can while still observing the guests. His gaze sweeps the room and settles on two men in the opposite corner, deep in conversation. He follows their gaze toward King Hansen. He must get closer to them, but it’s almost impossible to concentrate on them when he’s so distracted.
Shadow twirls by, holding her skirt up so that it billows out even farther, led by another member of Montrice’s lesser nobility. This one appears to be respecting her space, at least. She is smiling politely but keeps looking around the room. Another nobleman cuts in. She isn’t going to have a moment alone at this rate—they all want her attention, however brief. And who can blame them? She’s practically glowing tonight.
Her face is fresh, natural, and she holds herself with a charming forthrightness. No one would ever guess she’s a beekeeper’s ward, let alone an apprentice assassin.
Shadow glides by again, with a new dance partner. More are waiting at the sidelines, itching to step in. They all think they’re wooing the titled heiress to a substantial foreign estate. Cal’s amused at the thought of them finding out who she really is.
The vizier spots Cal and rushes over to him, his loyal footman close behind. “Lord Holton! I have found you at last. Here, come with me. You must dance with the finest ladies of Montrice! I know, I know, you said you are already betrothed, but you never know, do you? And there’s nothing wrong with having some fun, is there?”
Cal resists, trying to beg the vizier off, make him go away. “Grand Vizier, you are too kind, but I have just arrived and would like to get my bearings.”
Although if he’s being honest, the only person he wants to dance with is Shadow. The vizier is correct, there are many beautiful young ladies attending the ball, but he only sees one.
The room feels suffocating, spinning. It’s too hot and there are too many people; too many faces appraising him, ready and willing to pounce. He’s hardly been here a week and he’s overwhelmed with all of it, especially the petty intrigues and social demands. He wishes he were back in the mountains with Shadow. Even when they argued or struggled, at least he felt alive. In control of himself. He doesn’t feel that way now. He feels empty. He needs to finish the task that has been ordered of him: Uncover the conspiracy and continue his search for the scrolls. He’s not here for parties and feasting and social intrigue, and he’s not here to fall in love either.
But it’s far too late for that.
He is mad for her, anyone could see that—does she? Does she feel the same way? The way she kissed him in the duke’s study . . . and her jealousy that he had kissed the duchess . . . the way they held each other those cold nights in the mountains, that one night at the inn . . . it gives him a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she shares his feelings.
All the more reason to make quick work of why he is in Montrice in the first place. After he uncovers the conspirator and returns the scrolls to the queen, he will be released from his father’s vow. He will be free.
Free to speak the truth of his heart. Free to be with her, to pledge his troth, free to make a family at last. Perhaps she would reconsider her desires as well. Perhaps he could persuade her to stay with him. The thought is so sweet that he is filled with ache and longing.
He will do whatever it takes.