She makes the most of it, though. In her natural state Lady Mei might accurately be described as plain, but she’s a genius with cosmetics and couturiery, and no one seeing her in full evening dress would know her with a washed face and plain nightgown. She gives her skills far too little credit; her deft cosmetics enhance her delicate Chinese features to the hilt. Plus, she’s the daughter of a wealthy marquis—she’ll never want for favor or adoration. Or suitors, when the time comes for such arrangements.
The same cannot be said for Molli Percy, who has neither title nor inheritance coming her way. But she’s delightful and incredibly fetching, with honey-blond hair and a soft, round figure, and everyone falls in love with her despite themselves. That might be enough to make her a good marriage one day. Nothing could make her a better friend now.
“Will I do, Lord Aaron?” Molli asks, turning a circle in front of him when she finishes straightening her skirts.
“Almost.” Lord Aaron adjusts a fold of her shoulder cape, straightens a strand of faux pearls in her coiffure, and takes a step back. “There, you look superb.”
“Thank you,” Molli says, flicking her fan open and fluttering it just under her nose.
“And me?” Lord Aaron asks, spinning a similar circle before them and making the velvet tails fly on his silver-and-crème jacket that sets off his gorgeous carob skin and long black curls.
“As if you need my help,” Molli quips. Lord Aaron is always impeccably turned out. “Shall we?”
“Must we?” Lord Aaron and I say in tandem, and then turn to each other in surprise. Molli and Lady Mei burst into another round of giggles as Lord Aaron and I paint smiles across our faces. We were jesting—of course we were jesting.
“Go ahead,” I urge them. “You know His Highness prefers that I enter alone. Besides,” I say, patting Lord Aaron on the shoulder, “you’ve only two arms. I would be sadly neglected.”
“Alas,” Lord Aaron says with a twinkle in his eyes, “though I’ve petitioned both the Good Lord and the medical research division for more, it’s true that I’m still possessed of but these two arms. And two hands,” he adds, swatting Lady Mei across the backside.
Lady Mei shrieks but takes his proffered arm.
“You’ll be in soon?” Molli asks over her shoulder.
“In a few minutes.” I watch my friends cross the Hercules Drawing Room, making their way into the soirée ahead of me.
I consider returning to my quarters—not attending the party at all, instead spending the evening in my room with a book. But my mother would think nothing of finding me and dragging me back, my ear clenched hard between her fingers like a misbehaving child’s. Which is precisely how she sees me.
After nearly a quarter of an hour, I can stall no longer. So I check my satin gown and posture in the many mirrors lining the hall, then present myself at the doorway of the Drawing Room of Plenty.
Plenty indeed.
There are three couples in front of me. One at a time, they hand the crier a card bearing their name and title; he glances down, then bawls the names out.
My turn. I need no card. I simply stand there, framed by red velvet drapes, waiting for the man to draw aside the curtain and present me to the crowd.
“Her Grace, Betrothed of the King, Danica Grayson.”
The herald declares my cringe-worthy title at the top of his lungs, which always feels ridiculous; anyone who might have been dwelling so far under a rock that they don’t know who I am can simply make eye contact, access the local web feed via their network Lens, and view my public profile. One never has to worry about remembering names at court when one is hooked into the network—one of M.A.R.I.E.’s more useful tricks. More useful than her propensity for locking windows or extinguishing tiny recreational fires, anyway.
On the other hand, the herald’s verbal warning does allow for the fashionables of the court to pivot away and avoid eye contact with people they don’t care to acknowledge. Also useful.
Sadly, I’m rarely in that shunned category. An underage, unknown young lady, all too quickly betrothed to the King, and jumped up well beyond her rank in court with no explanation whatsoever: scandal, perversion, and mystery all in one satin-wrapped package. Murmurs of “Your Grace” can be heard as curtsies and bows make a well-coiffed ripple across the room, as though it were the surface of a placid pond and I an offending pebble.
I am not, however, a duchess. Upon my betrothal to the King, the citizens of Sonoman-Versailles eventually afforded me that address—Your Grace—to hide the fact that I am, by birth, nobody. At least in the eyes of the fashionables at court, where wealth and title mean everything. To have neither and yet be betrothed to the King? The false address seems to make them feel better about that. It makes me feel worse.