And wanted it very much.
He led her up the staircase, but only as far as the small marble landing halfway up to the top floor. He turned her to face the crowd.
“This is the best vantage point in the ballroom.”
She looked skeptical. “Better than the promenade above us?”
“It’s too far away,” he explained. “Up there, you can see the ballroom from any angle, but it is more difficult to see faces. The view is obstructed by all the chandeliers. From here, I can see everyone, and they can see me.”
“I’ve never heard ‘all the chandeliers’ as a negative trait before,” Miss Thorne murmured. But she placed her gloved hands on the polished balustrade and gazed out over his kingdom.
He watched her in silence.
“This is your theatre box to the performance below?” she asked.
“Not quite.”
The crowd caught them watching.
“To Lambley!” cheered a Lord X, thrusting his glass of champagne up high.
The rest of the crowd did the same. “To Lambley!”
“Ah, of course.” Miss Thorne angled her gaze toward Julian. “This is the king’s throne, and they your loyal subjects.”
He did not deny it.
“But...” Her frown was hidden behind her mask, but he could hear it in her voice. “Why share your pedestal with me?”
“Any guest is welcome to climb or descend these stairs, and pause wherever they wish,” he pointed out. “But you wanted to know why I do what I do. Why I care about every detail you see before you—and all of the other details that no one sees but me.”
“So that masked revelers will drink to your health?”
“They wouldn’t do so if they weren’t enjoying themselves.” His lips twitched. “Have you ever seen such a spontaneous expression of joy at Almack’s?”
“I’m not allowed in Almack’s,” she replied blandly. “Except perhaps to clean the chamber pots.”
Oof. It had been the wrong thing to say. Very wrong. Those patronesses wouldn’t welcome her. They would act as though they couldn’t see her. He shifted awkwardly.
Miss Thorne was not looking at him, and he was glad of it. Julian was not the sort to blush, but he was also not the sort to stick his foot so firmly into his mouth.
“I take your point,” she said, rescuing him. “I’ve seen enough penny caricatures to know the only refreshments are weak ratafia and stale sandwiches, presided over by self-important goddesses who judge their peers more harshly than Saturn devouring his children.”
Julian blinked at the esoteric reference to Roman mythology.
“People attend Almack’s because they have to,” Miss Thorne continued. “It’s a means to an end. A way to secure their future. Whereas your guests come to your parties because they wish to. Itisthe end they’re searching for. A chance to forget the future and live in this moment, in this night.”
“That’s exactly it,” he said. “And more eloquent than I would have phrased it.”
“Doubtful,” she said. “You’ve spent hours standing right here, gazing out over the world you created. Here, you’re not a king, but a deity. No doubt your mind has composed and polished the exact way it feels until each word is perfect, as sharp as the edges of your sandwiches and as colorful as the cornucopias spilling forth below.”
To this, he did not respond. He was thinking perhaps it was Miss Thorne who was sharper and more colorful than previously expected.
“Or perhaps,” she said, “you brought me up here to show me that it isyourworld below. Not mine. That my services are not only unwelcome, they’re as superfluous as I am. That you’ve already achieved perfection and want for nothing.”
“You’re not superfluous,” he murmured.
“But the rest is true?” Her voice was amused.
