Forbidden French

Tonight happens to be Halloween, which is why Victor’s planned a masquerade ball to finish out the week of festivities. Of course, no one is actually going to come in costume. Everyone will be dressed in couture and relying on their masks to form the bulk of their disguise.

My custom Dior dress is held up by a fitted corset overlaid with soft silk, so tight I feel like I can’t take a deep breath. The skirt flutters to the ground, made of nearly transparent layers of tulle, each one adorned with ethereal sequined stars, so subtle you’d have to bring the fabric right up to your face to be able to make out the pattern. It’s the dress of an angel, and my slim silvery-white mask furthers the effect. It was made by an artisan at Dior who used embroidered stars to form a cat’s-eye mask so delicate I’m scared to touch it once it’s been tied in place.

The party is in full swing when I approach the top of the stairs that lead dramatically down into the villa’s ballroom. Waiters flank both sides, dressed in their trademark dark blue damask-patterned suits, though for tonight, they’ve added coordinating masks as well. One of them hurries toward me as I stop on the landing and look down at the crowd.

There’s power in anonymity. I don’t doubt the guests will place me soon enough, but for this first moment, in this dress and mask, I don’t fail to capture their attention. They’re enthralled, and I like it—the cool caress of eyes on me as I take the offered hand of the attendant and walk slowly down the stairs.

For once, I’m not alongside my grandmother. She arrived earlier, the guest of honor on Victor’s arm. I was still getting the finishing touches done to my hair and makeup when she left our shared rooms. She preferred it this way.

“That way you’ll make a real entrance.”

I lift my gaze and take in the crowd at the bottom of the stairs.

Every guest gathered there is staring up at me. People who’ve largely ignored me all week now seem unable to look away, to even blink.

It’s Victor who whirls into action, taking me from the attendant, spinning me around so that I’m forced to turn and show him every angle of my dress.

“You’ve done it, my dear. You’ve managed to capture the essence of an angel. Your grandmother told me about this dress and dear God, it does not disappoint. Turn just once more for me. Stu-nning.” He leans in for a double air kiss on my cheeks. “You’ve managed to make every other person in this room look like they pulled an outfit off the rack at Macy’s. Who is this? Valentino?”

“Dior.”

“Of course. Maria never misses. I’ll have to congratulate her on another showstopper. Would you like champagne?”

“Please.”

“Good. Come with me and I’ll parade you through the party so everyone can get an eyeful before that handsome fiancé of yours steals you away for the rest of the evening.”

“Oh, I—”

I’m not given the opportunity to correct his misunderstanding about the man I’m actually betrothed to because he’s found a group of people he’d like to chat with, and instead of loosening his grip on me so I can slink away, he keeps a firm hand on my arm.

“Have you all seen this dress?” he asks, thrusting me into the limelight.

They ooh and ahh, performing for Victor more than me.

“Lainey, it’s gorgeous,” Florence says. “Who designed it?”

Victor swoops in and answers her before I can.

“It needs to be sent to Dior’s archive after tonight!” another person comments.

“I’m sure that’s already been arranged,” Victor says with an air of impatience.

“How long did it take them to create this?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Weeks, I’ll bet,” the woman beside me says, picking up the top layer of tulle near my hip to inspect the embroidery. “This is all hand done. Wow. How were you able to secure a custom fitting like this?”

Victor swats at her hand until she drops the material. “Darling, if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” The cliché line is delivered in a mockingly slow drawl, and the circle of people laugh.

Everyone except for me because while they were fawning over my dress, I was staring up at Emmett on the second-story landing. His arrival brings with it a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. He stands at the top stair, wearing a classically tailored tuxedo over a black dress shirt. Even from a distance, I can see his black mask is inscribed with swirls of silver leaf. Without meaning to, we’ve dressed like polar opposites. Light and dark. Good and evil.

His eyes sweep the crowd, and unlike when I stood in his spot, surveying everyone with equal measure, he seems to be on the hunt for someone right up until his gaze settles on me. My heart plummets in my chest as he slowly begins his descent down the stairs, never taking his eyes off me. With every breath, my chest strains against my corset. My hand instinctively comes to press against my stomach, where a tight knot has already formed.

There is such a thing as a man who was born to wear a tuxedo…a man whose presence feels like a demigod has deigned to come down and pay a visit to his loyal subjects…a man who seems to control the hearts of every person in this room, including mine.

I almost resent him. Almost.

I see what he’s trying to do. He cuts through the crowd, winding a path directly toward me, and though I feel the surge of excitement at having his attention so clearly aimed at me, I know I can’t stand here and let this play out.

Though I haven’t seen them yet, I know Royce and my grandmother are here. Emmett and I have misbehaved all week, and I won’t allow us to continue. Going down to the pier was my mistake, but outside of that, my hands are mostly clean, and I’d like to keep it that way.

“I’m going to get more champagne,” I tell the group, though it’s useless. Like me, they’ve turned to watch the devil stroll into the room, their breaths bated, their lips parted in wonder.

What a fool we all are for a man who wants nothing more than to play us like pawns.

My exit was a sham—I don’t need more champagne. I still have a mostly filled glass, but as I turn my back on Emmett, I down it in one swift swallow and pass it off to a nearby waiter.

“Another?” the man asks gently.

I accept a new glass with a shaky hand and swallow down another long sip. I’m tempted to drink the whole thing, but I’d be left with nothing but a headache.

Even though the ballroom is crowded, it feels like I can’t put nearly enough people between Emmett and me. I look for my grandmother, but I don’t see her. I should have asked Victor where she was when I had the chance.

Without her, my options are limited. I feel like a sitting duck.

I find Royce across the ballroom and I smile, relieved at the idea of standing at his side all evening, playing my part. I’m about to take my first step toward him when I register that he hasn’t smiled back. His expression is hard and unfamiliar, so unlike the gentle man I’ve grown used to.

Then he turns toward the woman at his side—Marie, I realize—and I’m forgotten.

I swallow past the tight emotion in my throat. Though I’m not upstairs in my small room, I can’t shake the feeling of being trapped. Just at my back, two arched doors lead to a small veranda overlooking the backyard gardens, and I quickly make my escape, glad for the fresh air, slight chill and all.

I want to give Royce the benefit of the doubt. In my mask, he might not have recognized me. Though, let’s be honest, I’m hardly wearing a costume. Unless he’s half-blind, he would have been able to easily place my features. Emmett had no trouble…

Maybe he’s just in a bad mood, or maybe he was deep in conversation with Marie.

Maybe…

I squeeze my eyes closed and try to cap my worry. It won’t do me any good to stand out here, twisting worst-case scenarios in my head. If something is wrong, Royce will let me know. We are hopefully friends enough for that, at least.

Sweeping orchestral music begins to play in the ballroom, a familiar Chopin piece. My grandmother used to play it years ago, when a dance instructor came to teach me to waltz. The beauty of the song makes me nostalgic for a time I never existed in, a Regency-era ball where I’d only have to contend with a duke in need of a fortune rather than a devil in need of entertainment.

I sip slowly on my champagne, leaning onto the stone balustrade and taking in the view I’ll be leaving behind in the morning. There are towns across the lake, nestled at the foot of the mountains. From here, they look impossibly tiny, snow globe cities. It’s hard to imagine there are real people living there.

The warm light of the villa’s ballroom spills out onto the veranda, and when a black shadow falls over me, I know it’s Emmett even before he comes to stand beside me.

I take stock of the things I’ve grown familiar with, the sheer size of him beside me, the enveloping force of him. I hold out as long as possible, keeping my gaze on the moonlit lake, until his magnetic pull wins out.

I tip my head gently in his direction and find I’m no less affected by the sight of him now than I was all those years ago at St. John’s. It’s a pity I can’t seem to form a resistance against him.

“Tomorrow, we leave,” he muses.

I hum in reply.

He turns toward me, leaning his forearm on the balustrade.

“Will you miss it here?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

Italy has been wonderful. Italy never disappoints, but I’m eager to return to Boston.

“You’re too stunning to be standing out here on your own. It’s a waste. Come dance with me.”

“No.”

“Should I beg?”

I almost smile at the thought. “You wouldn’t know how.”

“True. It would be a first—but I get the sense you’d like that.”

I suddenly feel so exhausted by our games, by the pseudo friendship he seems insistent on perpetuating when we both know it’s not real. The two of us could never just be friends.

I shoot him a suspicious glare. “What is it that you want, Emmett?”

His brows knit together. “I’ve been trying to determine if I should apologize about the other night.”

“I’d rather we didn’t discuss it at all.”

“How can I resist when it gives you such a pretty flush, right here.”

The back of his knuckle grazes my cheek, and I don’t have the strength to pull away. Still, I manage a feeble “Don’t.”

“Fine. The apology wouldn’t have been sincere anyway. I’m not sorry for kissing you.”

“Ms. Davenport.”

I turn at the sound of my name and find Mr. Moretti standing at the doorway of the ballroom. Unlike the other attendants, he isn’t masked.

“I’m sorry for the interruption. Your grandmother sent me to fetch you. She’d like a word.”

“Of course,” I say, picking up my tulle skirt so I can hurry to join him.

I look back at Emmett only once before I make it to the door, and I find his easygoing expression has been wiped clean, replaced with terse annoyance. I don’t have time to delve into it. Whatever it is my grandmother needs, I don’t want to keep her waiting. A gnawing worry has already set in. I let Mr. Moretti lead me through the ballroom and then out into the hall. Through a heavy antique door, we enter a small, dark library.

My grandmother sits in her gown on a couch facing the doorway. Her hands are folded primly in her lap, and she nods in thanks to Mr. Moretti before he steps back and closes the door behind him.

“I—is everything okay?” I ask, taking in her appearance, hoping beyond hope that she isn’t about to tell me bad news about her health.

She looks ghostly white in this setting, the lamplight doing little to convince me she is fine and well. Her absence from the ballroom heralds bad news, I know it.

“I thought it best to tell you right away. Royce has called off the betrothal.”

Her statement absorbs into my bloodstream slowly, and all the while, I hold perfectly still, unsure of which emotion I should reveal, the agony of disappointment or the immensity of relief?

“And after your foolish behavior with Emmett this week, I’m hardly surprised.”

She spits out the word foolish so that it wounds me. Still, I work to give nothing away beyond my arms coming up to wrap protectively around me.

Whatever punishment she’s about to dole out, I’ll accept it with my shoulders back and my chin held high.

“Fortunately for you, I’ve already found a solution that I find far more appealing.”

Her gaze shifts over my right shoulder, and I realize for the first time since arriving in the room that I’m not alone with my grandmother. I look back and feel dread constrict my chest.

Frédéric Mercier has come to join us in Italy.