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An unexpected blush rises to my cheeks, but I hide it behind a casual laugh. “Foxglove, why are you acting like such good news is cause for pride? I told you about my engagement tour. I also told you that I have no feelings for my future husband.”
“I know, I know,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just let me have my fun. Look how enamored you are!”
He turns the paper toward me, revealing a black-and-white sketch of what is meant to be Albert and me. His hand is clasped in both of mine, and I’m leaning so far over the table toward him, my breasts look as if they’re a sneeze away from falling out of my bodice. Not only that, but they’re twice as large as my real ones.
I snort a laugh. “It seems the reporter in attendance that night took many creative liberties.”
“Oh, but you’ll like this part. ‘Miss Fairfield was dressed in a stunning evening gown that made her such a feast for the eyes, she nearly overshadowed the spectacular dishes served. The ensemble was doubtless one of her own designs, making it no surprise why she has risen so far in the world of fashion.’”
My heart leaps again, this time without an entry wound to accompany it. “The reporter really said that?”
“If I was going to make something up, it would be far cleverer thana feast for the eyes.”
A surge of giddy joy ripples through me. I redouble my efforts on my current button, threading my needle into the cloth and through the eyelet at the back of the ruby bauble. “Then it’s working. This engagement tour is really working.”
“Yes, yes, but how was your first date? Did he kiss you?”
“Of course he didn’t kiss me. We had dinner, he walked me back to my hotel, and we parted ways like any two strangers do. With a polite farewell.” I’m leaving out quite a bit, primarily where we got ambushed by members of the Durrely Boys, but it really is the gist of what happened. We made it back to my hotel without any further issue, and Dante left to retire to his own lodgings. After learning the truth, I wasn’t worried that he’d sneak off to a pub. If he wanted to court danger by skirting down dark alleys on his way to his hotel, that was fine by me, so long as I didn’t have to be there.
“Very well. So your first date was boring. That can be expected. What about the prince himself? Tell me all about him. Is he handsome? Strong?” His voice deepens with no small amount of distaste. “Is he a drunken fool like you thought?”
I open my mouth, about to confess I don’t know a thing about the real Prince Albert, but if I do that, I’ll have to tell him about Dante. The attack. I trust Foxglove more than almost anyone. He’s been one of my dearest friends ever since I was first given over as a bride to the fae. He was King Aspen’s ambassador then, and the first kind soul I warmed up to.
So it isn’t mistrust that has me holding my tongue. In fact, I’m not entirely sure why I don’t just tell him. All I know is Dante went to great lengths to hide the truth of his mission. While I’m more concerned with salvaging my reputation than establishing formal peace and improved trade with Bretton, it feels wrong to share secrets not even I should have been privy to.
“The prince,” I say as I tie off the thread securing yet another button, “is not as bad as I thought. He’s…adequate.”
“Adequate?” Foxglove’s tone is icier than if I’d said seven doilies is more than enough to decorate a room. “Adequate? That’s all you have to say about him?”
I shrug and reach for a new button. “What did you expect?”
He pushes off from my worktable and throws his hands in the air. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that he smells like moonlight or is hung like a centaur.Something. I’ve given you all the juicy details about Fehr. It’s what friends do.”
“You know I’m the worst friend for such gossip. I’m not very…active in such exploits. And I assure you, I have no intention of doing any of that with my husband.”
Foxglove falls into another stretch of silence, and I get the sneaking suspicion he’s smirking again. Finally, he mutters, “We’ll see about that.”
I pause, my needle halfway through the silk sleeve of the gown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He nods at the dress in my lap. “Like I said, Amelie.Inspired. Love will do that, trust me.” With a fluttering wave, he takes his leave and heads for the staircase that will take him down to his studio’s floor. I gape after him, indignation writhing through me, battling with my need to argue my case.
I’m not inspired out of love for my fiancé. And certainly not because of Dante. I’m inspired because of some strange dream. Sure, Dante was in that dream, but the creative spark didn’t come from him. Well, the blood came from him. Or his actions, more like. And I admit his presence made me feel safe enough to realize the blood was actually rubies, but…but it was a damn dream. Not reality.
I shake my head with a scoff and return to my stitches. Foxglove can think whatever he likes. I know my own heart. There’s no way—not a single chance—that I’ll ever fall in love with my husband.
12
When Dante picks me up from the train station for our next date the following afternoon, it isn’t in a coach-and-four but a mechanical beast with an insufferable roar.
“Do you like it?” he says as he steps out of the boxy black automobile and takes my luggage bag from me. The driver tries to leave the front seat to take Dante’s place, but the spy waves at the older man, gesturing for him to remain behind the wheel.
Dante tucks my bag in the storage compartment at the back of the car while I assess the metal beast with a wrinkled nose. Focusing on the automobile and not Dante—dressed in yet another elegant suit, dark blue this time—helps distract me from the strange way my heart kicks up at being in his presence again. My chest has been acting funny all day, bubbling with something akin to excitement whenever I was reminded of our approaching second date. I know it’s only because I’m thrilled to be showing off today’s ensemble, replete with my newly sewn ruby buttons running down the sleeves and back of the dress. And perhaps I am a little pleased about seeing Dante himself, mostly because of the relief our mutual ruse has brought me.
I shake my head at the car and take the gloved hand Dante proffers to help me into the vehicle. A warm tingle runs over my palm at his steady touch. It’s then I realize I haven’t answered his question. “I’ve only ridden in an automobile a time or two, and I can’t say I care for them much.”
He chuckles as I climb inside and take a seat. Theonlyseat, I note, aside from the one the driver occupies. Which means Dante must sit right next to me. I try to scoot toward the opposite door to give him more room, but my layered skirts and the wide brim of my hat prevent me from getting too far.
“Why don’t you like automobiles?” he asks as he settles in beside me and closes the door.
