Page 25 of Married By Scandal

“Care for any refreshments, dearest?” Dante asks.

“No, my love, let us claim our seats first.”

We bypass the lines and make our way to the back of the building where it opens to the stands. Several bays of tiered seating sprawl out on both sides, extending toward the track. To the far right of the stands is a plush lawn where a large white tent is perched. That must be Queen Ilma’s tent. Anyone of importance will be there, mingling with the other members of the upper crust. Ilma is the Seelie Queen of the Wind Court, a monarch I’m not personally acquainted with. My sister knows her well enough, I’m sure, but I’ve never been introduced to her. Still, I can’t help but stare at the tent with no small amount of longing. Do I dare be so presumptuous as to enter it uninvited?

“I see what you mean about large hats, Miss Fairfield.” With his cane tucked under his arm, Dante gestures at the stands, then at the lawn outside the queen’s tent. Countless well-dressed women wear hats as large as mine, decorated with silk flowers, feathers, and even a stuffed bird or two.

I give him a sly look. “Told you.”

“Miss Fairfield, I’m surprised to see you here.” A nasally feminine voice has my gut dropping to my feet as Lydia Mangrove approaches us, arm-in-arm with a mustached gentleman.

“Miss Mangrove,” I say, unable to hide my terse tone. And why should I? Lydia made herself my nemesis by tricking me into taking Mr. Vance’s measurements at the fashion showcase.

She turns her gaze to my companion and offers a quick curtsy. “This must be the Brettonish Prince you’re reputedly engaged to. So sudden! Why is that, Miss Fairfield? You seemed rather…unattached at the fashion showcase.”

“If I seemed that way to you, Miss Mangrove, then I daresay you might be a bit obtuse.”

Dante snorts a laugh but hides it behind an attempt to clear his throat.

Lydia ignores my jab and gives my ensemble an unimpressed once-over. “Speaking of the showcase, isn’t that one of the dresses you brought along? You know, before you were banned from presenting your line?” She says each word with feigned innocence, which grates on my nerves a thousand times more than if she’d expressed her disdain plainly.

Of course, two can play at her game. With a wide grin, I sweep my hand over my skirt, smoothing the pleated folds and angling my wrist so the ruby buttons catch the sunlight. “It is. Some of my best work, if I say so myself.”

She scoffs. “Don’t tell me you plan on turning social events into your own personal fashion show.”

“Why? Are you not doing the same?” I cock my head, then assess her gown. It’s a pretty linen day dress that suits her frame nicely, but I won’t tell her that. Instead, I give her a somber shake of my head. “No, I can clearly see you aren’t. Perhaps if you dressed better in public you’d have a bevy of clients and wouldn’t have to resort to petty sabotage.”

Lydia blinks several times, her face paling before it begins to darken into a crimson hue. She clearly didn’t expect me to discard our little game in favor of more direct barbs.

I shift my gaze to Dante, leaning into him until our shoulders brush, and speak in a loud whisper. “My dear, let us adjourn to Queen Ilma’s tent. I’m not impressed with the company we’d have to keep in the stands.”

Lydia makes a mortified squeak in the back of her throat, mouth gaping open.

“Enjoy the races, Miss Mangrove,” I say with a curt nod. She’s still sputtering wordlessly as Dante and I brush past her and her wide-eyed escort. A spark of pride ignites in my chest, flooding me with the most delectable sense of victory.

We hardly make it five steps before I feel Dante heaving with a quiet chuckle beside me. “Oh, Amelie.”

Perhaps I’m just riding the high of my triumph, but the way he says my name, voice strangled with suppressed laughter, has my stomach tightening. My mind goes to the strangest, most inappropriate place, and I find myself curious over whatOh, Ameliewould sound like in a different circumstance. One that didn’t involve clothes.

I shake the thought from my head. Why would I wonder such a thing? It’s surely been too long since I last attended to my…urges. Knowing Dante isn’t the real prince must have informed my subconscious mind that he’s fair game. A valid candidate for the meaningless trysts I occasionally partake in with a willing partner. That’s the only explanation I can think of. Whatever the case, I cannot sully our working relationship with such fleeting fancies. Or…can I?

Dante’s eyes bore into my profile, and I hope he can’t see my vulgar musings written across my face. “I knew your tongue was sharp,” he says, still chuckling, “but in truth, you are simply wicked.”

I scowl at him, ready to berate him for making fun of me, but those damn dimples of his have me tongue-tied.

He holds up his free hand. “I mean it in the best way, dearest. Do you recall what I said the day we met?” He lowers his voice and brings his lips as close to my face as my hat will allow. “I like a woman with a little fire.”

13

My first glimpse of the queen has my feet rooted in place. We’re still several paces from the tent, but her imposing figure stands out amongst the aristocrats swarming about inside. Queen Ilma sits on a thronelike chair, flanked by well-dressed female attendants—all human, from the looks of them, much like the guests who fill the tent. Behind the queen, a pair of blue feathered wings span out on either side of her chair. It’s the only visual evidence that she’s a bluebird fae. From what I know, she rarely shifts into her bluebird form and prefers to remain humanoid.

My gaze falls on her gown, and I nearly choke on my own admiration. It’s a confection of white brocade, abundant ruffles, and pale blue lace. The square neckline of the bodice and extra wide skirt evokes a style once popular amongst human royals a few decades past. Her silver hair is done up in an outrageously large coiffure that puts my oversized hat to shame. Sapphires and pearls sparkle at her ears from their lobes to their pointed tips, while her neck is adorned in diamonds and a blue crystal pendant the size of a chicken egg.

My gown and ruby buttons no longer feel quite so stunning. Even less so now that sweat has begun pooling beneath my armpits. Why did I come here? I felt bold when I declared to Lydia Mangrove that I would visit the queen, but now…now I feel like an impostor. What right do I have to be here? My career may be well known amongst the fae, but considering the human style of Ilma’s gown—not to mention the mostly human company she appears to keep—my work is likely unknown to her.

“Come, my love,” Dante says, taking a step toward the gaping maw of the tent. With my hand still tucked at his elbow, it forces me to take a step too.

A man in a black suit and white bow tie intercepts us. He’s full fae, as told by his pointed ears and pale blue hair, and appears to be one of the few pureblood fae figures in the tent, aside from the queen. As he stares down his nose at us, I realize he must be the queen’s butler. “Invitation?”

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