Page 123 of Our Strange Duet

Slowly, I turned around to face Erik.

“What’s that?” I asked softly, seeing a length of white satin in his hands.

“This?” he asked, holding it out for closer inspection. A series of pearl buttons glowed warmly in the candlelight. I recognized it as the automaton’s dress. “This is your wedding gown.” He cast it toward me without reverence or care. “Put it on.”

In disbelief, I looked around the room. There was no place to change, no spot where I could hide away, buying myself a short reprieve while I racked my mind for a way out of this nightmare.

“Here?” I hated how small my voice sounded, how it squeaked.

In response, Erik only gestured toward the large mirror in the far corner. He took a step away from it, keeping his face blessedly pointed away from me.

I turned the gown over in my hands, trying to make sense of its bustle and bows. I wanted to toss it away and refuse, but one look at Erik, noting the rigid lines of his shoulder blades, told me he was in no mood for arguing.

Hurriedly, I removed my stage costume, grateful for all the ties and snaps built into it to easily facilitate quick changes. In only my underclothes—a strapless corselette, bloomers, and gartered stockings—I fumbled for the gown’s opening, shivering.

The air in the basement, always chilled with damp, felt especially cold now. The brazier was unlit—an impossible sin Erik would normally have never overlooked. Our music lessons had always been filled with admonishments to keep my throat warm and free of congestion. Such absentmindedness filled me with a greater dread than even what this dress implied.

I stepped into the puddled satin and pulled it up, covering myself quickly. I shoved my arms through the lace-laden sleeves, then froze, unsure of how I was meant to fasten the dress. The long row of pearl buttons mocked me.

“I can’t…I can’t close the back of it,” I admitted.

Erik was still for so long I feared he hadn’t heard me, but then he turned, and I saw the look of surprise warming his expression. His eyes rounded in wonder.

“Christine…” His lip trembled as he struggled to form words. “You look radiant.”

My gaze fell to the carpet, picking out patterns in the colorful knots. “I can’t close it,” I reiterated, my voice louder now and flat. I was not going to beg for his assistance.

He hesitated. “Should I…”

When I did not answer, he crept around me. His breath audibly caught.

I felt a stir of air sweep over my exposed skin, as if he’d reached out to trace his fingers along the length of my vertebrae but, at the last second, decided against touching me.

My heart pounded as I wondered what it would have been like if he had.

Seconds ticked by in silence as I waited for whatever was meant to come next. I wasn’t a particularly modest person. Frantic costume changes done backstage in front of the entire company had hammered out any embarrassment I’d felt over my naked body. But I’d never stood like this before, still and on display. I’d never had a man examine me so intently.

And I knew he was.

I could feel his eyes running down my spine with tangible heft. It made me feel lightheaded and overheated, and I was suddenly far too aware of every one of my lines and angles, the sharp jut of my collarbones, the swell of my breasts.

When I could stand it no longer, I reached up and swept my curls aside, bringing them over my shoulder so that he could work more freely.

He made a sound that was neither whimper nor groan but somehow both, and set about the task, hooking the dozens of buttons far more deftly than I would have given him credit for. When he finished the final pearl, his fingertips brushed over the nape of my neck, the barest whisper of a touch, and my heart stopped.

I did not want this. I did not want him. And yet, I couldn’t deny the thrill that shivered through me at such a small caress.

Without thanking him, I stepped away, letting my body, full of treacherous impulses that were not to be acted upon, betray me no further. I had to do something, had to place a firm barrier between us. I could not control my physical surroundings, but that did not mean I had to be at the mercy of my emotions.

“Joseph Buquet,” I said, bringing out a name I’d never thought I’d have cause to say again.

“What?”

When I looked back, his brow was furrowed in confusion, and I felt a shimmer of triumph for so setting him back on his heels.

“They said his death was an accident, but I never believed that. You killed him. Didn’t you?”

He had the decency to look uneasy, and I pressed on, wanting to twist my only weapon as hard as I could.