I reach for a newspaper to distract myself. He intercepts my arm. “You know what else I know about Belles?”
I should yank my arm away, but I let him hold it. His warm fingers press into my wrist. He turns it over, tracing his fingers along the path of my veins. An urgent knot ties in my stomach, and it only uncoils as I realize that I wanted him to touch me. I wanted to know what that felt like. “Your power lives inside your blood.”
He shouldn’t know these things. I shouldn’t talk about what Belles can do. It breaks all the rules Du Barry taught us. But his curiosity about me, about Belles, is flattering.
His thumb makes its way to the puffed cuff of my dress, then back to my palm. My heart races and I’m worried he can hear it. I swallow. A deep flush snakes through me like the arcana. He twirls his fingers in mine. The pad of his finger traces shapes along my wrist and palm. A star. A square. A circle. A triangle.
“Would you ever give up your arcana?” Auguste whispers.
“No,” I say, pulling my wrist back.
“I meant no offense.”
“You never do.” I return to my search, and hope this buzzy feeling dissipates.
“What are you looking for?”
“None of your business.” I don’t look up at him, for fear I might smile.
“Maybe I can help—”
“Help my favorite with what?” Sophia’s voice cuts through his. My heart all but stops. Her teacup pets bound into the alcove with a series of noisy squeaks.
“It’s nothing, Your Highness,” I say with a deep bow, trying to hide my panic. Alone with one of her suitors. What will she do to me for this offense?
“It can’t possibly be nothing if you’re here in the Imperial Library and surrounded by so many books. I dropped by your apartments, and your staff said I could find you here. They said nothing of my suitor Auguste being with you, though.” She bats her eyelashes, and I can’t tell if she’s upset or teasing.
“I escaped a cabinet meeting with my father and found her on my way out.” Auguste moves to her side. He kisses her hand and whispers something in her ear. She giggles, and Auguste slips out.
“I came here for you, Your Highness.” I show her scrapbooks and newspapers. “It was supposed to be a surprise. I was searching for vintage styles to present to you,” I lie. “Ideas for new trends and unexpected looks for you to try. Especially one for the upcoming Declaration.”
Her lips part in a wide smile.
“People who always aim to please me will be treasured.”
She steps closer, and I am suddenly aware of how very alone we are. Her teacup monkey, Singe, jumps from the table and onto my shoulder. I’m frozen. The nails on his little feet dig into my skin. He pets my hair and leans close.
“But those who cross me . . .”
Singe hisses, his sharp teeth grazing my ear. I flinch and he leaps into Sophia’s arms. She strides away. Her laughter echoes after her down the hall.
39
When I return from the Imperial Library, I find the king’s nephew, Prince Alfred, sitting in the main salon, ready for his appointment. Several female attendants flank his sides. Newsies have filled their papers, tattlers, and scandal sheets with Alfred’s exploits—gambling losses and several marriages and expensive tastes. He’s notorious.
“Lady Camellia.” He lumbers over to me. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Welcome,” I say with a small curtsy. His musky scent fills the whole room. “Your Highness.”
He goes to kiss my hand, then pauses. “Am I allowed to?”
“I’m afraid not,” I say.
He grins and kisses it anyway.
I pull my hand away. My cheeks warm.
“I need a new wife, and I figured the best Belle in the kingdom would help me attain a look that women enjoy.” He releases a deep laugh that makes my stomach knot. “I think I need more charm, too. It wears off too fast, and they leave me.”
His female attendants release a series of fake chuckles and coo over how amusing he is. Servants help him into a seat and yank off his thick boots.
“What number are you on now?” I ask.
“Four, but who’s counting?”
Disgusting.
“The servants will take you to a bathing chamber,” I say. “Then we’ll be ready to begin.”
He insists on undressing in the main salon. A privacy screen is brought out. Every undone button and opened zipper echoes. I fixate on a spot on the wall. His female attendants ogle me. One holds a teacup tiger. It purrs quietly. Another gawks through a spyglass.
“This way to the bathing chambers, sir,” says a servant.
Instead of listening, Prince Alfred marches out from behind the screen. His robe hits the tops of his gray feet. “How do I look?” he says to me, and turns.
“Just fine,” I say.
The servants shower him with compliments and affection.
He finally allows himself to be led from the room. I find Bree stocking a beauty-cart. “Where’s Ivy?”
“She’s been summoned by Du Barry today,” Bree whispers.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
We walk to the treatment room. The bed is dressed with warm towels and pillows. “Light more beauty-lanterns, and melt the pastilles early. Is the Belle-rose tea brewing?”
“Yes, my lady.” Bree brings the teapot over, lifting the lid to show me the swirling rose petals in the hot water. I give her a nod of approval. Anxious nerves drum through me. They’ve prepared the room several times before. It’s always been perfect. But being alone without Ivy, and with this prince, makes me feel uneasy. The memory of Auguste distracts me, untethering my mind and setting it afloat like a post-balloon.
Bree wheels out trays that hold hairbrushes and combs, hot irons and steam curlers, rouge-stick canisters, tiny pots of skin-tone paste, paintbrushes, and various kohl pencils. I take deep breaths, and I hope I can calm the too-fast beat of my heart.
“Set up chairs with pillows for his attendants.”
“Yes, my lady,” she says.
The man thunders into the room and guzzles two cups of Belle-rose tea. His female attendants take their places at high-backed chairs set in the corners of the room. I look away as the servant women disrobe him. He climbs onto the table. They drape his naked body with towels.
“Like what you see?” he asks one of the servant women.
They don’t answer. One giggles. I flash her a look and she quiets.
I try to avoid squirming as I approach him. I place my fingers on his temples.
“Your hands are very soft,” he says.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I whisper. “No more talking now. Let the Belle-rose tea start to work, and relax your mind.”
“It’s hard to stay relaxed around all of these beautiful women.”
His attendants release approving chirps.
“Add the charm last. I like to be my true self through the process.”
“Yes,” I reply.
“I’m very curious about Belles, and—”
“In order for me to concentrate, and let my arcana work, I need complete silence. You understand, don’t you?” I say with a purring voice he seems to like.