“Smile, darling. You look half asleep.”
I produce the smile she wants.
Father appears beside her, glass in hand, and looks me over with a nod.
“Beautiful. Everyone is fascinated with you, as always. Wycliffe will be pleased.”
“Thank you, Father.”
I give them my signature cold, careful smile, and they accept it as a real one. Because neither of them has looked at me closely since I learned to curtsy.
Garron Wycliffe crosses the room to us without hurrying. He has silver hair and wears heavy rings on all his fingers. His suit is impeccable. Up close, his face is well kept and patient. He bows to my parents first.
“May I?” he says to my father, not to me, and Father hands me over with a nod.
We dance, and his hand settles at my waist. Then his thumb moves against the silk, one slow stroke that nobody watching would name improper. My whole body goes tight under his suggestive touch.
“Your mother tells me the wedding should wait for spring,” he says near my ear. “I told her I see no reason to wait. Long engagements are for young men with patience, and I’ve already spent mine.”
“You honor me, my lord,” I say.
“You blush prettily.” He lowers his voice. “I’m glad. I look forward to us, together, alone in a room at last.”
I lower my eyes and tilt my face away the way embarrassed girls are supposed to. He reads it as modesty, because men like him always do. Behind my lowered lashes, I’m imagining pressing my thumbs into his eyes until his voice stops sounding so pleased. My hands stay light and correct on his shoulder and in his palm.
Past his shoulder, I find my parents at the edge of the dance floor, watching us. I know that expression on Father. It’s the one he wears when a vote goes his way. Mother wears her matching version, softer around the mouth and just as satisfied.
The music ends, and Wycliffe bows over my hand.
Before I can escape on a balcony with a glass of champagne, Mother appears at my elbow.
“Your father would like us in his study, darling.”
The study smells of leather, ink, and pipe smoke. Father pours brandy for Wycliffe and himself, and wine for Mother. Nothing for me, which tells me exactly how much I’ll be needed in this conversation.
“Twenty years our houses have voted together,” Father says, handing Wycliffe his glass. “It’s time the arrangement became permanent. An alliance in name and in law.”
“Stability,” Wycliffe agrees. “Your family’s future bound to mine. Concord respects nothing so much as a united front.”
“The engagement party should be Sunday next,” Mother says, bright with plans. “The garden is at its best this season. Esme will wear blue.”
“She wears blue well,” Wycliffe says, and he looks at me while he says it, though nobody expects me to answer.
“She understands what this means for the family,” Father says. “We raised her carefully. Duty has never been a hardship for her.”
They move on to guest lists, announcement timing, and which councilmen must be seated near which. I stand with my hands folded so nobody can see them, and I count the books on the shelf behind Father’s head to keep my face composed, to give nothing away.
At the end, Wycliffe rises and kisses my knuckles with dry lips.
“Until Sunday, then.”
“Until Sunday,” I say.
I leave the study with my spine straight and climb the stairs at a lady’s pace. Never in a hurry, never frazzled. I open my bedroom door, and Darina is waiting on the edge of my bed. My chin starts trembling before the latch even clicks.
She stands as soon as she sees my face.
“What happened?”