The Duke of Snow and Apples (19 page)

“There can’t be an after. I know that.” He didn’t want to think about
after
. That was a word that belonged to the cold place, and he’d decided the cold place should be closed. For renovations. There would be plenty of time for
after
, and all of its frigid, empty implications, later.

“What should we do?” she asked. She glanced at the locked door. “Snowmont…”

“To the hells with him,” Frederick said. He didn’t want to think about the duke—especially not with Charlotte. Just because Snowmont had wealth and a title didn’t mean he could drape himself over her like an indolent, pampered wyrm. The man didn’t have an ounce of brains in his skull, not if her very presence didn’t render every one of his nerves screamingly awake and banish every inhibition into the dark. He could go and jump off a pier and take Sir Bertram with him, for all Frederick cared.

“Save Snowmont for
after
,” Frederick said. “Wed him and bed him and have a dozen drooling babies with him if you like. But
after
.”

Charlotte’s mouth flattened, as if repressing a grimace, but her eyes shone, and the olive halo of disgust floating around her dissolved to reveal the morning-sky colors of rising glee. “What
now
, then?”

“Now, I’m afraid, you should probably return to the drawing room before the duke and your sister start questioning your absence.”

“Am I to start taking orders now?” she asked coyly.

“Yes,” said Frederick, liking the idea. “Obedience is a virtue.”

“Will I be rewarded?” The corona of her emotions deepened to a chocolate as rich as her voice.

“Yes.”

“And if I do
not
obey?”

“Then I’ll just have to
correct
you.” With effort, he kept the laughter out of his voice, although he could tell by the rising heat in his face that his complexion already betrayed him. He’d never learned how to flirt, or cajole a lady past his early adolescent fumblings with the village girls around Snowmont Abbey. Such an exhilarating mess of fervent ridiculousness it was!

There
. That treacherous corner of her mouth quirked up, refusing to heed the rest of her lips, and this time Frederick dove for it, ran his tongue along that defiant spot, disciplined it with the rasp of teeth, the press of lips, as the rest of his body surged with heat and Charlotte melted against him. He pulled away with a sharp inhalation. He didn’t want it all now. He wanted to savor it.

“Tonight,” he whispered against her ear, his plan barely older than the words he spoke. “I’ll find you.” The masquerade—where everyone could be anyone.

Her cheeks grew pink and repentance, the shade of weak tea, drifted into the edges of his vision. “I’ll be waiting, Frederick Snow.” An extra syllable, in penance.

…

Charlotte shuffled back into the drawing-room. All the time she’d spent testing Frederick, teasing and taunting him, hoping to make him show signs of life, she hadn’t hoped to get entangled herself. Now that she struggled, now that she
wanted
to get away, wanted to flee from the impossibility claiming her heart, she couldn’t move.

Lord Snowmont looked up at her as she reentered the drawing-room, staring at her with his oddly vacant gaze. Sylvia sniffed from her solitary corner and kept her eyes on her embroidery.

“You’re back,” said Snowmont. “To read more?”

“I seem to have come down with a headache,” she replied. She no longer had the strength to delight in Snowmont’s deadened mannerisms.
Why can’t I be satisfied with him? Surely I could be satisfied, if I only tried a little harder, a little more strenuously. Put in an effort.
Loving ought to be her choice. It ought to be her decision.
It wasn’t fair
.

“That’s a shame.” Sir Bertram stirred, setting his book down in his lap. He appeared relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, head titled at an angle. His strange eyes had lost their hard glitter, although his gaze, as he swept it over Charlotte’s returning form, relinquished none of their former intensity.

“I trust His Grace has not spent the last hour boring you with his passion for the works of Marchford.” Sir Bertram’s regular, sharp consonants sounded oiled out of him by unexpected good humor.

Snowmont suffered a passing glance toward the object of his supposed passion.

“No, of course not,” Charlotte said. “I quite like
The Ratcatcher
. It’s very pleasant. I trust you are enjoying yourself, Sir Bertram?”

“Oh, immensely. The meeting of new acquaintances never ceases to be delightful.” Sir Bertram laughed, a loud, rolling laugh quite at odds with his normally pensive demeanor.

Outside, a bird trilled, possibly for the last time before it flew south for the winter along with its brethren. A harmless sound, and yet Sir Bertram jumped as if hearing the Maiden’s bell tolling his own death.

“Goodness, Sir Bertram,” Mrs. Templebaum murmured.

“It’s nothing,” he replied, his voice shaking as he smoothed a crease in his jacket. “Just a bird.”

Sensing her chance, Charlotte curtsied. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She left the drawing-room and made her way back to her state chambers. The whole world seemed to have turned topsy-turvy on her, the social boundaries as well. Today being the grand masquerade, most of the guests kept to quiet entertainments—books, tatting, peaceful games of cards—while the underfolk stomped and shouted and rattled around her in their haste to assemble this party to Aunt Hildy’s precise specifications.

Lost in thought, she nearly collided with a maid coming in the other direction.

The maid blundered backward. A few reddish curls slid free of her cap. Charlotte realized with a start that the girl’s freckles were
purple
.

“Apologies, miss,” the girl mumbled. She straightened her apron, curtsied, and shuffled away slowly, as if moving through water. For a moment, the girl’s drooping posture reminded Charlotte of Snowmont. She shook her head. She didn’t want to be reminded of Snowmont.

She slipped into her room, dimly lit by fading winter light. What kind of afternoon was it, that such thin light could bring so much unbearable heat to one room, to one person?

A light tap at the door. “Miss Charlotte?” called a female voice.

Charlotte relaxed.
Lamonte
. “Come in.”

The lady’s maid entered, several swaths of silvery material draped in her arms. “I’d heard about your accident, miss, so I made some last-minute changes to your costume. I thought I would check to see if you approve, if you are not
fuchou
.”

Charlotte released a halfhearted laugh. “No, I’m not busy at all. What changes?”

“Your first idea, you wanted to be a—a
horandelle
? How do you say—a butterfly?”

A butterfly—something beautiful but harmless. Unostentatious. Something that could be lovely without drawing too much boastful attention to itself. She’d picked out a delicate lavender gown, to be worn with a pair of black elbow-length gloves. For her part, Lamonte had made wings by affixing long, sheer, pink-and-gold scarves to lengths of wire that could be fitted to the back of her dress. Of course, there were glamours aplenty that gave women lovely and much more realistic-looking wings, but spells were shunned at masquerades. Masquerades were demonstrations as much of cleverness and artistry as they were of mystery. Magic without magic.

“Don’t let my honesty offend you,” Lamonte continued, “but with that lump on your head, even hidden beneath a turban, you look quite ridiculous.” Charlotte’s cheeks flamed, but before she could say anything the lady’s maid removed an object from the bundle, a long cone of wire wrapped tightly in gold silk, trailing a pair of ribbons. “So why not make your ridiculousness the point?”

She approached and placed the cone against Charlotte’s forehead, hiding the inglorious bruise. “This will be tied here, like so, with a pair of silver ribbons. I will braid more ribbons into your hair, no? You will have a mane.”

Charlotte slowly caught onto the idea of hiding the bump on her forehead with an ostentatious horn that couldn’t help but draw attention. Her mouth fell open in shock, and Lamonte paused in her description, perhaps fearing she’d gone too far.

Charlotte threw back her head and guffawed. “It’s brilliant, Lamonte! I love it! Perhaps some short brown gloves, for hooves?”

“
Faa
! We share a mind, you and I,” Lamonte said, grinning. She returned to the chair shook out the silver fabric, an overdress Charlotte had never seen before. The material shone with an almost metallic sheen, tinkling faintly with clear crystal beads sewn into the bodice and down the folds of the skirt in glittering lines. It was beautiful despite the fact that its cut declared it several years behind the current fashion. It was an odd choice for a lady’s maid as keenly attuned to Society’s pulse as Lamonte seemed to be.

“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte said.

“It is mine, but I have tailored it to fit you.”

“Yours? Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”

“
Encah!
” Lamonte tossed her head. “I’ve planned my costume for months. I cannot wear both gowns at once. Besides, what are masquerades for, but to become someone else, even if only for one night?” She held the gown up to Charlotte’s shoulders. Charlotte pressed it against herself, imagining how the fuller skirts would float around her as she twirled.

Lamonte reached into the pocket of her little apron and pulled out a length of blue ribbon with a single yellow button stitched onto it. In a low voice, she said, “With this you can be anyone.”

“What is it?”

“Everyone belowstairs must tie this to their arm when we attend our own masque, in the Old Hall.” She shrugged. “You see, we are allowed to fool each other, but fooling the noble guests of
ra’Vicomtesse
? A crime worthy of dismissal.”

Charlotte stared at the armband. Of course. Among their peers, a housemaid could be a countess or an Elassine princess or a sea serpent from the coasts of Baroni, but among the real lords and ladies of the Dowagers’ social circle, they had to be marked as serving class. Even amidst the mystery of a masquerade, boundaries needed to be drawn.

One thing remained unclear. “Why are you giving one to me?” Charlotte asked.

“I told you—so you can be anyone. Do you want to be the girl who stands about like a
porron
, a toy waiting for Frederique to pick you up? Or do you want to be the woman who chases
him
?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to demand how she knew, where she had heard, then glanced down again at the dress.

Tonight. I’ll find you
. As if she would just sit around and wait! As if she had to be coaxed and prodded and convinced.
This time we have. It’s not much, but I want it.
She wanted it, too. Sylvia might be content to sit on a pretty cushion and wait for someone to sweep her off, but not her.

Charlotte could never be Sylvia. No matter how much she tried. If Frederick wanted what time they had left, he couldn’t expect her to come quietly. Or easily. Or in any manner that wasn’t hers.

She nudged the horn on her forehead. “Can this be attached to a mask?”

Lamonte nodded, her green eyes tilted upward in amusement. “I already have one in mind.”

Chapter Twenty

For the first time in ten years, Frederick stepped into a crowded ballroom without carrying a tray. His skin prickled with awareness, with the anticipation of being seen, discovered, called out as a fraud.

A small orchestra in one corner entertained the guests with some of Lady Enshaw’s latest pieces, while gallant gentlemen flocked to the refreshment tables to retrieve some of Cook’s choicest pastries or a cup of Gelvers’s signature lemon punch for their partners. Lords and ladies flowed around him, trailing laughter and perfume, smiling underneath their masks.

Frederick took a deep breath and reminded himself that he wore one as well—a plain black half-mask that hid the upper half of his face. He wore his second-best jacket of black superfine, a plain white cravat, and a gray, spotted waistcoat he had borrowed from Tall John.

The most revealing parts of his costume were his buff breeches and stockings. However, it was unlikely a passing gentlewoman would glance down and cry out, “Hark! Those impeccably muscled calves could only belong to a footman! Reveal this imposter!”

A quick glance at his reflection in one of the room’s long windows that stretched all the way to the painted ceiling helped stiffen his resolve. Tonight he looked like a gentleman. Tonight he was
Charlotte’s
gentleman. No matter that he hid a blue ribbon and a yellow button in the pocket of his waistcoat.

As he slowly circled the perimeter of the ballroom, a girl to his right stumbled and fell, the long griffin feathers on her headdress wobbling madly. Instinctively Frederick’s arms shot out and caught her.

“Oh!” The girl squeaked, then giggled. “Oh these dratted heels!” With Frederick’s help she righted herself. Blushing, she shot him a shy smile. “I didn’t mean to drop in on you like that.”

Her acceptance of his charade bolstered his confidence. “No harm done, I’m sure.”

“My mama warned me not to wear heels,” the girl said. The toe of her shoe peeped out from beneath her skirts and waggled back and forth. “They’re so old-fashioned, but I wanted to look taller. I’m a griffin, you see, and they’re supposed to be long and graceful.” She wore tan kid gloves with little felt claws sewn onto the fingertips. “Without these shoes I’m more a kitten than a griffin, but I haven’t quite mastered the knack of walking very far in them.”

Frederick nodded in commiseration. “I find if you remember to walk with heels first, it gets easier.
Heel-toe, heel-toe
.”

The griffin shot him an odd look. Frederick tensed, remembering too late that modern gentleman never had to struggle with heeled pumps with buckles. “I…have sisters. Far too many of them. Always tripping over themselves.”

“One must tire of catching them,” the griffin said, smiling. Dimples peeped from beneath her feathered mask as she relaxed. “Would you care to take a turn around the room with me?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been promised to another,” said Frederick.

The griffin slumped in disappointment, the feathers on her headdress drooping. “That’s a shame. Which one is she?”

“I’m trying to find her,” said Frederick, glancing about. “Do you know how I can find a butterfly in all this crush?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” The griffin dimpled again. “Throw a rock, and you’ll hit one.”

To his growing dismay, Frederick scanned the room and discovered that the heady pollen of the Seven Dowagers’ masquerade had attracted a swarm of fluttering insects. A lady pressed for time and creativity could, it appeared, simply wear a floral-colored gown with wings of bamboo and silk, or gossamer and wire pinned to her back, and consider herself fashionably disguised. How could he locate Charlotte among the mob without bringing attention to himself?

He sidled up against a column and took in the room again, looking for something,
anything
familiar among all the sequins and feathers. After a moment of reluctance, he summoned a bare, warm trickle of power, just enough to search the haze of emotions glittering amidst the crowd, looking for the tint of expectation. Perhaps—as the minutes ticked by—the burnt-orange hue of impatience or the dirty yellow of worry. The least Charlotte could have done was wait by the sidelines, or do
something
to indicate her identity. Staring at a room thick with such heady emotions started to give him a headache, with all of the bright aquas, violets, golds, and—

Gray
. Just for a moment, the briefest flash, a patch of dead non-color. Emptiness. Horrified, Frederick raked the crowd again with his eyes, sorting through splashes of cheer, boredom, and amusement. Nothing. Just hidden faces and unfamiliar colors. Regardless, he yanked his magic back like a large dog on a leash. Whether he’d seen the Gray or not, he couldn’t push his magic too far.

Either Charlotte didn’t want to be found, or she hadn’t come to the masquerade at all. Humiliation and bitterness kicked at the back of his throat. Perhaps he’d finally frightened her off, or convinced her to keep herself safely ensconced among those of her own class.
Perfect timing
.

He stormed out of the ballroom without bothering to keep his disappointment and anger off his face—the one luxury his disguise afforded him. He turned off into a servants’ hallway at the first opportunity.
Fool. Bloody, besotted, too-late fool
. At the sound of angry voices, he stopped. One hand flew to the pocket of his waistcoat and the hidden ribbon. If Mr. Gelvers or Mrs. Morris or any of his superiors caught him without his mark of status…

“Get your hands
off
, sir!” came a young, female voice from around the corner. The rustle of cloth and then, the sharp
snap
of flesh striking flesh.

A male curse. “You fiendish little hussy! Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Frederick drew his hand out of his pocket, leaving the ribbon untouched, and rounded the corner. A young and shapely unicorn stood with her back plastered to the wall, arms up to protect herself, the left one tied with the telltale serving ribbon. A young buck, his antlers now somewhat askew, glared at her with a cheek rapidly reddening from a blow. An all-too-familiar scene at parties—helpless maid, entirely
too
helpful nobleman.

Frederick carved his face into his most chilling approximation of aristocratic hauteur, his voice tolling with well-bred disapproval. “I
beg
your pardon.”

The buck whirled around, his brief flare of bravery sputtering out at encountering a witness, particularly one who sounded as composed and important as Frederick. “I was just leaving. Don’t bother having a go with
this
one, sir, she’s a boils-cursed tease.”

Frederick arched an eyebrow, content to leave it at that—until he got a better look at the unicorn maid. She wore her golden-brown hair braided with silver ribbon, and her cheeks glowed pink beneath a glittering mask topped with a rather audacious horn in the center of her forehead. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to call attention to her forehead with a great, big—

Recognition shot through him, and a moment later his fist shot out, interrupting the buck’s pompous excuses with a meaty
thud
. The fop hit the ground like a sack of coal.

Frederick stood over the self-important ass. “
That’s
for daring to lay hands on a lady.”

The buck cowered with his hands pressed to his face—but whimpering sounds of astonishment leaked from between his fingers.

“Why aren’t you running?” Frederick growled. A moment later, the gentleman in name only scrambled to his feet and fled down the corridor, leaving Frederick and the unicorn alone.

“Very heroic,” Charlotte said. “Well done.”

Frederick whirled to face her. “Why weren’t you in—why didn’t you say you—where did you get…?” Useful words fled as he took in her costume. The antiquated cut of the dress suited her figure, emphasizing the pinch of her waist and the ampleness of her bosom. Her hair tumbled down her back in silver-threaded braids. He liked it down. He wanted to run his hands through it, separate the gold from the silver from the brown with his fingers. She shimmered in the candlelight, beautiful and outrageous and yet somehow unreal.

“You’re very pretty,” he said. He’d never felt more stupid in his life.

“Thank you,” she replied. Self-consciously, she patted her mask, her makeshift horn jutting as proudly as the prow of a ship. The movement loosened her armband, and it fluttered to the floor. She bent to pick it up, but Frederick waved her off before he lost an eye to the unicorn’s wrath, and recovered the ribbon himself.

“You weren’t supposed to go looking for me,” he said, turning the ribbon over in his hands, tracing the button with his thumb. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my world.”

“What if I want to?”

“There’s nothing exciting or romantic about my sphere.”

“You’re in it.”

Frederick opened his mouth, but any words dried to ash on his tongue. A laugh echoed somewhere down the corridor, in the direction of the Old Hall, followed by footsteps. He froze, the ribbon in his hands. He could hide it in his other pocket. He could take Charlotte back to the ballroom, to the rarified air of Pure Blooded society with no else the wiser. He could have his dance, maybe even two dances, and slip away before anyone got too suspicious. Or—

Charlotte tugged the ribbon out of his hands.

Moments later, Ben staggered into the corridor, bent nearly double with laughter, a lower housemaid named Peggy close behind.

“Hoy!” the footman cried. “Who’s this?”

“Just me,” Frederick said.

Ben peered at them, and their identical armbands, from behind a simple gray domino. He wrapped an arm around the maid’s waist to pull her closer. Peggy wore a little coronet of gold paper and an ermine collar that might have been a sheepskin rug in another life.

“Freddy and a
girl
,” Peggy crowed. She jagged a hand forward. “Have we met? My name’s Peg.”

“You’re not supposed to tell anyone until midnight,” said Ben in a pained voice.

“Oh, boils-curses. I hardly see the point—I’m obviously
me
. The person who’s less obvious is Freddy’s
girl
.”

Frederick stiffened, his hand on Charlotte’s arm. His mind still spun too frantically for him to come up with a plausible excuse or backstory.

“It’s perfectly obvious to me,” said Ben. He laid a finger across his nose in a gesture similar to Mr. Lutter’s. “Very clever, Frederick, but not clever enough.”

Peggy pouted. “I don’t get it.”

“Our Freddy’s overstepped his bounds.”

The color drained from Charlotte’s face.

“Steady Freddy’s up and got hisself a village girl!” Ben wagged his finger. “The way Freddy goes on belowstairs, you’d think the Dowagers employed an all-male staff. I always knew he had a little sweet-chick hidden away somewhere. Didn’t I say it had to be a girl?”

Peggy shook Charlotte’s hand warmly. “You’ll be a legend belowstairs before the night is through. The girl who melted Snow. Freddy coulda gathered his share of hearts in his time if he’d so much as tried, believe you me.”

“We just came out for a bit of air,” said Ben. “It’s hotter than a firestarter’s bawdhouse in the Old Hall—who’d have thought? Care to return with us, Miss…”

“Daisy. Miss Daisy.” Charlotte’s ears, far from bursting into flame at the audacious reference and her improvised name, almost perked up in interest. “And I’d be glad to.”

She turned and clasped Frederick’s hand. What else could he do but hold on?

…

A wave of heat and sound assaulted Charlotte as she followed the servants into the Old Hall, but nothing near as loud as the heartbeat that thudded in her ears when Frederick tired of being dragged and looped his arm around hers.

She almost hadn’t recognized him in the hallway. Humiliating enough to be caught searching the servants’ corridor and pawed by some bullying featherskull, but when she’d heard that deep, denouncing voice she had been certain her charade had been unmasked by a duke or an earl. A wealthy, mysterious baron at the very least, tall and dark, his eyes flashing azure confidence, as he rescued the poor damsel from the villainous, er, buck.

The servants’ masquerade was already well under way by the time they arrived—an informal orchestra in one corner coaxed a swift, lively tune from their instruments with energetic hand-waving and foot-tapping. The
clomp, clomp
of several hundred slippers, boots, and heels stomping the floor in time to the music vibrated through Charlotte’s bones like a second heartbeat. Skirts spun around ankles. Jewelry of glass and paste chimed and glittered as brightly as the real thing.

From across the room, a young man about Frederick’s age, with pale gold hair and a startling red cravat, noticed them enter and jumped to attention, staring at them intently. Charlotte’s hand curled around Frederick’s sleeve. She suddenly felt shy and grateful she wasn’t alone.

She looked up at him. Frederick’s formal black jacket delineated his wide shoulders, outlining his slender but powerful frame, with a knot of white linen at his throat. One hardly noticed the occasional stretch of gray stitching along frequently mended seams at the shoulders and arms, or the worn state of the elbows—and when he smiled, as he did right then, Charlotte forgot about everything else.

“What are you thinking right now?” he asked.

“I am thinking how lucky I am to arrive on the arm of the Duke of Apples.”

Frederick grinned. “Quite charitable of me, don’t you think? Considering your lowly station and all. Obliging my serfs.”

“I am overwhelmed. Is there a fainting couch nearby?”

“Silence, wench.” He pulled her toward the dancers. She didn’t know the steps at first—no cultured twirls of the breeze-step, no gliding movements of the water-dance—but she quickly learned, one amongst a crowd of people who danced for enjoyment rather than accomplishment. Light and color and music washed over her. Frederick’s eyes flashed blue sparks as he swung her in arcs of breathless laughter until sweat plastered his dark curls to his forehead.