A small, furious voice chanted inside George, “Kill him, kill him, kill him . . .” But there would be no killing, not now. No, first there would be public humiliation. Then there would be shame, then anguish, then punishment.
Brennan turned to the right, heading down the hallway toward Charlotte’s room. George concentrated, sending his voice to an undead mouse riding in Jack’s pocket. “He’s coming.”
Brennan disappeared into the hallway. Kaldar strode to the roster, swiped it off the wall, and placed the original in its spot.
*
THE door swung open.
Charlotte took a deep breath.
Brennan stepped into the suite and stopped. His eyes widened. He gaped at her, his mouth hanging slightly open.
Sophie froze, her face suitably shocked.
Charlotte met Brennan’s gaze. She knew her poise was perfect, but inside she was trembling. She made no attempt to cover up. She simply stood there, as if she were wearing the most conservative of gowns, her expression even.
Brennan’s gaze roamed over her body, pausing on her breasts, her stomach, and finally on the triangle between her legs, barely obscured by translucent black lace. She had his complete attention. A woman of noble name, who was proper in all outward appearances and who had just come out of seclusion, secretly wearing an outfit that would embarrass a professional. He had to take the bait. It was made to order specifically for him.
A long moment passed.
Charlotte raised her eyebrows, and said, her voice perfectly even, “I believe you’re in the wrong room, my lord.”
Brennan blinked as if waking up. A lifetime of experience in etiquette kicked in. “Of course. My apologies, my lady.”
He shut the door.
“Knowing the precisely correct thing to do in every situation, then doing it with unshakable entitlement,” Sophie whispered.
Charlotte’s knees trembled. She collapsed into a chair.
*
GEORGE watched as Brennan emerged onto the landing and marched to the roster. His face wore a look of intense concentration. He stopped before the roster and stared at it for a long moment.
His room number and Charlotte’s differed by exactly one digit. Hers read 322 and his 522. It had taken a great deal of manipulation on Kaldar’s part to arrange this. Any significant difference between the numbers, and Brennan would’ve smelled a rat.
The man shook his head and started up the stairs. George stepped away from the column, back out of Brennan’s view, and walked away quickly, staying close to the wall. He turned the corner just as Brennan stepped onto the fourth-floor landing.
*
DINNER was served on one of the massive terraces and consisted of light appetizers.
“I’m hungry,” Sophie murmured.
“It’s expected that after the ball we’ll have a late dinner in our rooms,” Charlotte murmured, and adjusted the strap on Sophie’s left shoulder. This dress, a beautiful variation of blue-gray with a metallic sheen, was a collaboration between her and the dressmaker. Two thin shoulder straps held up a modest linear bodice that hugged Sophie’s slender figure. Thin leaves of pale and darker blue overlapped on the bodice, built from the left side and spreading in a fan to the right. Two gathered lengths of fabric draped over Sophie’s hips, tight enough to accentuate the modest flare of her hips but loose enough to still be appropriate. Past the draped fabric, a wide skirt built from layers of chiffon streamed down to the floor.
It was a refreshing dress, youthful and light, and its style matched Charlotte’s own gown. She’d chosen a blue-green chiffon. Two leaves of silvery fabric served as her sleeves. The pattern continued along her sides, the leaves stretching to hug her, underscoring her waist and the curve of her hips. Tiny silvery dots, each slightly less shiny than the leaves, traced a delicate pattern over her chest and stomach, until finally her skirt flared into layers and layers of weightless chiffon.
Sophie looked beautiful. She herself looked elegant and every inch a blueblood, which is exactly what Charlotte was trying to project. The music was getting louder. Soon the dancing would start. She wasn’t expected to dance but once or twice, but Sophie would enjoy it. And likely cause a stir. Charlotte had asked her to demonstrate a couple of dances, and her footwork was exquisite.
She felt the pressure of someone’s gaze, scanned the gathering, and ran into Richard’s face. He stood across the terrace, in the shadow of a column, and he was looking at her with shock and longing, as if he were thunderstruck. It hurt. It hurt so much to stand there across from him and know that she couldn’t walk over there, she couldn’t touch him or go away with him. Charlotte looked away.
No matter what happened around her, deep inside she always remembered that either of them, or both of them, might not survive this. They were in constant danger, and a happy outcome wasn’t guaranteed. That knowledge pressed on her like an ever-present, crushing burden. She awoke with it, and she went to bed with it. It haunted her through the day. Occasionally, she would get distracted and forget, but inevitably she would remember, and when she did, the fear and anxiety hit her like a punch to the stomach. Her throat closed up, her eyes watered, and her chest hurt. For a few moments, she would hover on the verge of tears and have to talk herself off the cliff.
She missed Richard. She worried about him more than she worried about herself.
She wasn’t made for this, she realized. Some might revel in danger and intrigue, but she just wanted everything to be done. She wanted it to be over. The stress and the pressure chipped at her, and she felt herself cracking under their chisel. The harder the pressure ground, the more she wanted to escape. Last night, she’d dreamed about walking up to Brennan, killing him, and throwing herself from the balcony. In the morning she had been horrified—not by the suicidal fantasy, but because for a brief moment before she returned to reality, she felt relief.