A shudder weaves into my spine, every inch of my skin tingling under his gaze. Though I’m fully dressed, he makes me feel utterly bare, more exposed than when I was submerged in the bath. There’s no hiding the flush of my cheeks or the quickening of my breath. There’s no hiding the effect this man has on me.
As the attendant makes her exit, leaving a trail of soft steps behind her, Kane moves closer, his whisper just for me, “A stunning trophy, indeed.”
He turns to offer his arm, and I settle my hand in the crook of his elbow. Chills chase through me with just the subtle brush of his sleeve against my skin.
“Are you ready, Fawn?” Kane asks as he guides me through the doorway toward where McDougall awaits us at the bottom of the staircase.
I take a deep breath, aware of every stitch of my corset biting softly into my waist, every glance of his dark eye. “I’m ready for everything.”
Kane’s forearm tightens under my palm. “Good,” he murmurs, “because everything is precisely what you need to be prepared for.”
Seventeen
My pulse beats a frenzied rhythm as McDougall announces our arrival to the feast, and Kane and I stride into the grand dining hall like we belong there. According to the lords, ladies, and staff in attendance, we do. We follow a young man, his glossy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck, which reminds me of Kane before his transformation into the lord who receives respectful looks and nods of approval as we make our way to our assigned seats.
Kane rubs his thumb over the back of my hand, and I relax my grip on his arm, if only a little. My corset is tight, my breath coming in small hiccups, and I focus on inhaling deeply and slowly, taking in the air thick with the scents of roasted meats and spices.
Candlelit crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over the dining hall, illuminating the space in liquid honey. Rich tapestries cover every inch of the twenty-foot-high walls, fresh flowers cascade from sculpturesquevases in waterfalls of blooms, and gold-threaded cloth drapes each table, the fabric washing down the sides, gathering in glimmering pools on the polished floor as nobility buzzes around us. I feel like I’ve stepped into a million-dollar scene from a show on HBO.
“Ashwoods!” Marion calls with a wave. Beside her, Lord Highgate downs the rest of his wine and motions for another.
Kane and I find our seats beside my new friend and her husband near the curve of the U-shaped arrangement of tables, giving us a clear view of the central space reserved for entertainment.
“Just as I suspected,” Marion says, lifting her wineglass, “McDougall had already seated us next to each other.”
I return Marion’s smile with a wobbly one of my own, wincing when the corset’s bones dig into my waist as I adjust my seat. Kane must have noticed, because his hand is on my back, his fingers tracing over the laces just beneath the velvet. My skin tingles and heats, the pain melting beneath his touch.
I clear my throat and reach for my own crystal goblet, distracting myself with a long pull of the deep-burgundy wine.
Relax, Hannah. You can’t stay in this realm, so give yourself permission to have a little emotion-free fun. You’re not necessarily good at omitting your feelings, but look at him.
My attention sneaks in his direction. The silver chalice embroidered in his eye patch catches the candlelight as he turns, his gaze finding mine.
He is a gorgeous, demanding, delicious sculpture of a man who I’m sure can do the most amazing things with those fingers.
Kane’s lips slide into a dark, lascivious grin, and hedoesn’t have to say a word for me to know his thoughts align perfectly with mine. I cross my legs, squeezing my thighs together, thankful for the layer of fabric to soak up the mess.
Marion’s laughter chimes like bells, and I force my thoughts from Kane’s thick, rough hands and the way he looked at me as he watched each lace squeeze tighter.
“Although it is a pity the queen won’t be in attendance,” Marion says, and I get the distinct impression that I missed the first half of the conversation. “It’s impossible to get her to dine with a small party, much less a feast as grand as this.”
“The queen,” I mutter, my brain needing time to switch from fantasy to my new reality.
“But don’t worry. I’ve made arrangements for you and Lord Ashwood to meet with her tomorrow. An intimate gathering. At least that’s how it started.” She sets down her glass to glare across the table as a graceful brunette takes her seat opposite Kane, a plume of ostrich feathers sticking out of her upswept hair like a half-plucked chicken.
Before I can decide whether I want to get Marion started on the drama that’s sure to involve the brunette, McDougall’s voice echoes through the hall, immediately followed by a heavy blanket of silence.
The attendants pause in refilling wine goblets and pulling out chairs, their backs stiff and chins lifted as all heads turn toward the newcomers stepping into the glow of the candlelight. I missed McDougall’s introduction, not that anyone’s name would be familiar here, but it’s impossible not to notice the importance of whoever has entered. I crane my neck to get a better look aroundthe dyed ostrich feathers quivering on top of our tablemate’s head.
“Who is it?” My whisper sounds like the crash of ocean waves against the quiet, but I don’t have time to be embarrassed.
Kane’s hand stiffens around his crystal goblet, his knuckles whitening, anger coiling around him as tightly as the laces of my corset as he glares at the figures crossing the threshold. The glass breaks with a sharp, resoundingcrack. Shards tumble onto the linen tablecloth, glistening like stars against a wine-stained sky. Across from me, Ostrich Feather squeals. Heads turn, gazes flicking to us only long enough to assess that our excitement pales in comparison to whatever,whoever, has arrived.
My hand flies to Kane’s clenched fist. Blood beads from between his fingers. He remains silent, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the entryway.
“Is everything okay?” I tighten my grip, drawing his attention to me. “Kane, are you okay?”
His attention flicks down to my hand on his. “I will be,” he murmurs, the words nearly drowned out by the rising swell of conversation as the room resets.
