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‘I wanted to see how you were.’ Anaïs looked beyond her to the selection of dresses hung in a row across the top of the dresser and scoffed. ‘Benoit’s assistant is a man with no taste. Business acumen, yes, but absol
utely no taste. Trust me, Benoit would never have chosen any of these.’
Skye couldn’t help but smile at the thought that Anaïs wanted to assure her that her great-nephew had better taste in clothing. But when the older woman’s eyes turned back to her, taking her in from head to foot and then narrowing suspiciously, the first stirrings of excitement began to spread in Skye’s chest. Because she wanted this evening to be perfect for Benoit. Wanted him to have a fiancée he would not only stand by but be proud of. And she had a feeling that Anaïs wanted that too.
Pulling at the neck of his shirt, Benoit wondered for the hundredth time how the ballroom had managed to get so hot. For nearly twenty minutes now, his frustration with Skye’s absence had grown into a physical thing. He’d barely been able to utter a few civil words to his extended family, resenting each and every one of them for putting him in this situation.
A small rise in volume near the entrance alerted him to a new arrival and he bit back the familiar bitterness that coated his tongue when he finally saw his brother. It took a moment for the image he’d held in his mind and the actual reality of Xander to merge into one. Over the last two years he’d allowed betrayal to morph his brother into a monstrous presence at the back of his mind. But now that Xander was here, greeting members of his family, Benoit was struck dumb. Shocking sentiment clashed against hurt and he didn’t know which one would win out. Xander, nearly as tall as his own six foot three inches, bent to greet some of the older generation before casting a glance directly towards him, as if he’d always known where Benoit was in the room.
A set of blue eyes pierced the isolation he had found himself in. Xander’s familiar jawline, angular and as determined as his own, clenched as if ready for a confrontation. The murmurs in the room rose once again as the expectation of a showdown increased. Benoit bit off a bitter laugh. As if he’d give them the satisfaction.
The moment his brother made a move in his direction, Benoit purposely turned his back on him, scanning the crowds for any sign of Skye. But he couldn’t ignore that he’d felt...not angry, but actually happy to see Xander. For a moment he’d forgotten everything and relief had spread through him at the sight of him. Was it the memories that he’d shared with Skye that had conjured this strange disjointed feeling? He’d admitted to Skye that he would have turned his back on Xander and gone with his mother without a second thought all those years ago, and with it had come the realisation that he’d actually been thankful for Xander’s betrayal. Because it had—for the briefest time—overshadowed the years of guilt Benoit had felt. Finally, they were once again equal in their betrayal of each other.
But the ache forming at this thought overshadowed the night. Instead of the guests in the ballroom, he saw trees and branches. Instead of murmured conversations and gentle music, he heard the sounds of boyish laughter. Instead of the rich heady scent of perfume, damp, peaty forest earth filled his nose. Memories of building forts with Xander consumed him, the thoughtless ease and love of their bond stretched through him. The way they had stood together, side by side, with cardboard swords and tea-towel capes, as they faced down imaginary armies. And suddenly what rose up from the last two years wasn’t betrayal or bitterness, but loneliness without his brother by his side. The brother he had consulted with each and every business deal, the confidante he had discussed almost every thought and feeling with.
As if pulled up by his own realisation, he was about to turn back to Xander when he noticed each of the guests turning towards the grand circular staircase at the head of the room. Expecting to see his great-aunt, his breath caught in his lungs unexpectedly and his chest seized.
If Anaïs hadn’t been holding onto her arm as they rounded the balcony that looked over the huge ballroom, dotted with round tables as if it were a wedding reception, Skye would have stopped in her tracks. A soiree, Anaïs had called it. She was pretty sure Benoit had called it a gathering. This was something entirely different.
It reminded her of a ball described in Catherine’s diary and, for just a moment, Skye felt the past and present merge. The notion was most definitely helped by the incredible dress that Anaïs had found for her. It had taken her breath away when she’d first seen it. The oyster-coloured silk was floor-length with a small silver waist detail at the front which closed in a ribbon at the back. From the shoulders, two drapes of chiffon veed down to the centre of her waist over the lace detail of the bodice beneath. Skye was thankful for the cap sleeves that left her arms bare in this heat. The lace at her back, exquisitely detailed, crossed her shoulder blades and met at the waist, but it was the skirt that Skye loved most. The silky chiffon fell away from the waist to the floor in thousands of tiny layers, making her look and feel like a princess. The easy glide of it against her skin took her by surprise each time she took a step and it made her feel feminine and sensual in a way she never could have imagined.
As if Anaïs was her fairy godmother and had planned it all, Skye’s dress matched the ballroom filled with tables covered in creamy linen tablecloths and pale-coloured dinner sets, the room lit with white candles that hung in wall sconces and from the largest chandeliers she had ever seen.
Everywhere she looked, gold and diamonds twinkled. Music played by a real quartet at one end of the room softened the hum of the quietly spoken conversations rising up from the floor below. Some of the older guests were using fans to cool them from the surprising heat and Skye half expected a footman to be waiting at the top of the stairs that led down to the ballroom to announce her and Anaïs’ arrival.
As she scanned the ballroom, looking for Benoit, her eyes snagged on a tall, sandy blond-haired man—the jawline familiar. But while her mind hooked onto the man, her heart knew that this wasn’t Benoit and she paused, studying the person who could only be Xander, Benoit’s brother.
In an instant Skye wanted to be beside Benoit because she knew that this would be difficult for him. And no matter Benoit’s machinations, excuses even, for demanding that she wear his ring...it wasn’t about the company. It wasn’t about what was rightfully his. Beneath that, Skye had seen the hurt and anger swirling beneath the surface and, no matter how painful his parents’ betrayal, Skye knew, knew, that the deepest hurt, the deepest guilt, had focused around his feelings for his brother. So she pushed aside the nervousness she felt within her chest and answered Anaïs’ shrewd assessing gaze as they stepped towards the top of the staircase with a firm smile. She was ready.
She picked up the skirts of the dress so as not to trip on them or catch them with her heels, casting a look down the stairs to where they were heading. From the corner of her eye, the citrine ring caught the light and sparkled, as if to remind her, Go with love.
As they began to descend the staircase, finally her eyes found Benoit and her chest constricted as if she needed his permission to breathe. He was...marvellous. She swore she could feel the power resonating from him. The tuxedo he wore clung to his broad shoulders, dropping to a narrow V just above his waist. The starched white shirt clashed beautifully with the bronze tan of his skin and she couldn’t take her eyes off his jaw. Clean shaven, he was even more handsome. As if the beard had softened his impact, it was now painfully clear that he was almost insolently sexy.
Desire shivered across her skin as she refused to drop her gaze, her eyes locked with his with each step that brought her closer and closer to him, with each glide of her silk skirts against her skin, wishing fervently that it was his hands rather than the material of her dress that covered her body.
A blush rose to her cheeks, she could feel the heat of it, not because every single one of the guests had fallen silent at their approach, but because of the sensual magic weaving between them. He stalked towards the bottom of the stairs, the look in his eyes as intense as she felt.
‘Thank you for lending Skye to me for the day, but I feel it’s time that I returned your fiancée to you.’
Skye registered the few gasps and murmurs
that greeted Anaïs’ decree, absently wondering if perhaps this was the first time that Benoit’s family had heard the news. But everything paled into insignificance as Anaïs moved Skye’s arm from hers to his. It felt...ritualistic—as if she were being presented to him as an offering. As a prize.
Anaïs disappeared and all Skye could see, could think of, could feel was him.
‘I didn’t think you would still be here.’
‘I am. But not because you told me to be, but because I want to be.’
She kept her eyes on his, trying as much as possible to express her meaning, to imprint it upon him so that he would understand the truth behind her words. There was so much she desperately wanted to tell him—her feelings for him, why she had done what she’d done, about her mother—but the guests had now turned to crowd around them, questions on their lips and suspicion in their eyes. So she stayed silent as he led her towards the head table.
As she sat in the chair he pulled out for her, staring down at the sheer number of knives, forks, plates, side plates, first and second course plates, the four glasses—four—she tried not to flinch as a uniformed man poured champagne into the flute beside her.
It was only when she felt Benoit stiffen beside her that she realised Xander Chalendar had taken a seat opposite. For a moment the guests around the table seemed to take a collective breath until Anaïs launched into a topic of conversation Skye tried very hard to keep up with.
Noticing that Benoit had barely touched his starter, Skye couldn’t help but sneak out a hand beneath the tablecloth, to reach for the clenched fist he held against his thigh. The fierce stretch of skin over knuckles told her how difficult he was finding this and she smoothed her palm over his fist and hoped that it would somehow relax him. She hadn’t realised that she was holding her breath until slowly his hand unfurled and his fingers gently threaded through hers. A small smile pulled at her lips and finally she turned her attention back to the delicious food, enjoying the one-handed eating style that they were now both engaged in.
The easy conversation that covered the first and second courses, all the way to dessert, had lulled her into a false sense of security. So it took her a moment to realise that she was being pinned by a stare from Benoit’s brother, as if he were waiting for her to make eye contact, demanding it even. When she finally did raise her gaze, she purposely left it open. She wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected—suspicion, anger? But instead...truly? She thought she saw some kind of protectiveness in his eyes, recognising it as something she felt for her sisters. And that kind of protectiveness? It was dangerous and she was immediately on edge.
