The Duke of Snow and Apples (6 page)

“It is lovely, no?” Setting aside the pink dress, Miss Lamonte crossed the room and took up the red one by the shoulders, shaking it out. Even an uneducated peasant couldn’t miss the expensive cut of the gown.

This gown was not meant for an innocent debutante who wore only virginal muslins in watered-down colors. Made of rich, heavy red silk with a low neckline and high waist, it boasted full puff sleeves, intricate flame-pattern embroidery in gold thread along the bodice, and gave way to full, flowing skirts that ended with an elegant scalloped hem. This was a woman’s gown, a goddess’s gown, belonging to an age-old cult that worshipped the swell of hip and the glory of cleavage.

“You would never guess who this masterpiece belongs to,” Miss Lamonte said. She draped it over herself and gave a dramatic sigh. “Such a shame.”

“Are you mending it?”

“No, merely looking at it. It is no crime. Miss Charlotte never plans on wearing it. I doubt she would even notice it was missing.”

The image of Charlotte wearing that dress burned itself into Frederick’s brain before he could defend himself. That fabric caressing those lovely curves, the deep, seductive red bringing out the fairness of her skin, the warm tones in her hair. As if the idea of that gown had opened a door, Frederick’s thoughts imagined the arch of Charlotte’s long neck, the line of her shoulder, the plunge of her cleavage, all of which the magnificent gown was expressly designed to highlight and emphasize.

All that remained of his cold place was a lukewarm puddle. He ducked his head before his face could betray him, and tried to sidle behind one of Miss Lamonte’s mismatched chairs as some of his other parts were already betraying him. What was Charlotte doing to him?

“How disgusting,” Miss Lamonte said.

“What?” Frederick squawked, his face burning.

“That she would rather wear such pallid piffle”—here the lady’s maid jerked her head toward the gown she’d been mending, a frothy concoction of lace and pink muslin so sweet it made Frederick’s teeth ache just looking at it—“than this masterpiece. I’ve tried to convince her, but will she listen to me? She is a child.”

Frederick stared at the gown, the pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. Of
course
Charlotte wouldn’t wear the crimson dress. No clockwork debutante could get away with a color that daring, a cut that sultry. This was a gown that the
other
Charlotte would wear, the one who laughed and danced and teased Frederick to utter distraction, who was inexplicably too shy to emerge in public.

Heavenly Maiden, just
looking
at that gown set his heart thudding. What was the matter with Charlotte Erlwood? Why did she act like a spelled doll in front of her peers, the ones she wanted to impress, while only Frederick got to see the maddening, silly, tempestuous woman? Why did she make that part of her a secret, a secret only
he
knew? What was he supposed to do about that? The very thought dug under his skin like an itch that crawled up his throat and into his mouth until only something spoken rashly and without thought could scratch it.

“She’s changed her mind.”

Miss Lamonte started. “
Pardonne?
”

“That’s—that’s why I’m here,” Frederick said. Heat rose behind his eyes as his blood, his heart, his thoughts, all started coursing faster and faster. He hoped Miss Lamonte wouldn’t ask him to explain. He hoped she would believe him and he could get this over with before reason caught up to his galloping tongue and put a stop to what he planned to do. “Her ladyship’s grandniece has me running her messages. She’s changed her mind. About the dress. She’s decided to wear the red one. Tonight. To the ball.”

Miss Lamonte’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “She was most adamant the red gown was not to be worn. She asked me to mend the pink one to be ready to wear.”

Frederick glanced at the rose-colored dress. Perfect and pink—fit for a doll. Sudden anger, surprisingly hot, flared in his chest. If he caught Charlotte speaking little-girl witticisms in her little-girl dress, he would tear it off her himself. However, the thought of Charlotte in the crimson gown sent heat spiraling downward to pool in his groin.
If she wears the red, I might want to do the same thing.

No. Focus.
“She told me she wasn’t so sure.” He closed his eyes, praying both women would forgive him eventually. “She said she didn’t trust a…lazy Selencian upstart to mend her pink dress to her satisfaction in time. She didn’t want to appear in public in anything bearing, uh, second-rate stitches.”

Miss Lamonte went very, very still. Not with a placid stillness, but the calculating frozen stance of a predator right before it decides to pounce and maul the petrified footman, er,
prey
standing in its path. If Frederick showed fear, it was over.

The entire reason he was doing all of this was to get Charlotte out of his head so he go back to feeling nothing. She wanted his help to hook a bachelor. With this dress, she could catch a thousand, and she wouldn’t need to bother him anymore. He thought of his cold place. He tried to build it up again—steel, ice, frost on a morning window. Slowly, he buried his fear and his trepidation down, down, under the snow. With a face as smooth as a mirror, he intoned, “Her words, Miss Lamonte, not mine.”

“Of course,” she replied, every word a piercing icicle. “The red gown it shall be.” Her icy displeasure lasted only a moment before fiery outrage devoured everything else. “But if she thinks I’m going to continue mending her pink gown tonight, she will be very disappointed!
Encah!
I am lady’s maid to Lady Balrumple! I am too busy to do every little thing for a slip of a girl!”

She took up the red gown, and shot a venomous glance in Frederick’s direction. “What are you still doing here? Get
out
, damn you!”

Obedient as always, Frederick ducked out of the room, albeit not fast enough to outrun the prickles of guilt and unease that dogged him.

Chapter Six

After breakfast with the Dowagers, Charlotte spent an uneventful morning working on her correspondence. So far, she had three frantic posts from her stepmother and two from Sylvia. She answered all three of her stepmother’s letters with a single missive containing a bland and oblivious retelling of how much she was enjoying herself in Lady Balrumple’s company.

Stepmama might scold, but she hadn’t ventured near Charmant Park for ten years and Charlotte doubted even her spontaneous escapade would change that. In fact, she counted on it. Seeing the weather was good and clear, Charlotte opened her window and summoned a sylph in the guttural language of low magic. The filmy air-spirit took up the letter and flew off, the sealed envelope wavering on the breeze like a papery bird.

Wind magic, low and high, came so easily to Charlotte. Sylphs always appeared when summoned and always behaved. She could air post a letter to a friend as far away as western Dalcone and expect it to arrive. She could cast wind-wards and protective breezes without causing a single wrinkle or blot to blemish her looks.

But who needed any of that? It was fire magic she needed. Fire, controlling as it did heat and light, was the basis for glamours and illusions. While she’d never use it to hide or blur her real appearance, she wanted to at least
keep up
with the society belles who had easy magic and easy beauty. Store-bought glamours were so unpredictable, and the last self-spelled glamour she’d created had faded within minutes and left a mottled, red patch the size of a copper between her shoulder blades. She’d avoided fire after that. The Erlwoods might be descended from Fey, but their diluted bloodline meant some care still had to be taken with high magic and its damaging effects.

Meanwhile, she shredded the two letters from Sylvia without opening them and fed the pieces to the salamanders in her hearth.

The afternoon promised to be just as tedious. Tonight the Seven Dowagers and their guests had been invited to a ball held by Lord and Lady Mettle. Because of that, most of the other guests restricted themselves to quieter activities in the library or drawing room. Charlotte didn’t want to sit still and behave. There’d be plenty of that at the ball, and every moment wasted was one less moment for preparation. Charlotte glanced toward the bed, noticed the bell-pull, and remembered a way to kill two birds with one stone. She reached over and gave it a yank.

…

Frederick met her in the downstairs foyer with her pelisse and bonnet in one arm, and a picnic basket in the other. He already wore his voluminous greatcoat and high, polished boots.

As he helped her into her heavy, warm pelisse, he asked, “Where are we walking today?”

Charlotte thought for a moment as her hands buttoned her coat up to her chin. “Why don’t you decide? You know the grounds better than I do, I dare say. All I need is fresh air.”

“Of course, miss.”

Truth be told, there wasn’t much to look at outside. The vivid sprays of autumn foliage had blown away long since, leaving the trees empty and bare, the fields sere and brown. Only the pines, gruff and bristling like irritable old ladies in thick green coats, held any color.

Frederick led her along the house’s south front. Ahead of them, a small stream burbled sluggishly underneath an ornate footbridge. Across the water, the land rose, with a picturesque set of ruins topping the hill. Charlotte glanced back at him, following a respectful two steps behind her, head down.

“Try and keep up,” she called. “I can’t speak to you if you’re behind me!”

“Yes, miss.” With only two strides, he nearly overtook her, and she had to quicken her pace to match his.

“What have you learned so far?” she asked. “Interests? Secrets? Preferences?”

“Favorite colors,” he said.

“That’s an excellent start,” Charlotte said. “Wearing a gown that suits a bachelor’s taste, or even a simple, elegant accessory that catches their eye can give me the advantage I need. What does Mr. Oswald prefer?”

Frederick looked at her sideways, eyes narrowing. “He’s your first choice?”

“He’s the most
reasonable
choice. Ambition is all well and good, but I shouldn’t let an acceptable match get away because I’m too busy chasing an
exemplary
one, like Lord Elban. Then I might end up with no match at all.”

“Ah, you’re being reasonable.”

“Yes.” She slid Frederick a curious glance. Was that sarcasm?

“You’re very fortunate then.” He stopped as they reached the top of the hill and faced her directly. “They both have the same favorite color. Red.”

“
Both
of them?” The notion struck her as a little too convenient. She brushed past him to examine the ruins, composed of a few crumbling walls and broken columns of pale pink stone draped with now-dead garlands of ivy. “You’re sure?”

Frederick nodded. “With Mr. Oswald, the color reminds him of roses.”

“That sounds like him.”

“And I heard from a lower housemaid who heard it from a groom who overheard Lord Elban telling his valet how he’s planning on re-holstering his curricle in crimson, because the shade pleased him so much.”

“Oh.” Charlotte turned away to hide the spasm of frustration that crossed her face.
Red.
It
had
to be red
.
She turned and sat down on a half-built wall. “I have a lovely…pink gown that should be just the thing.”

“
Pink
?” Frederick squawked.

“Pink is derived from red,” Charlotte explained. “It’s a perfectly acceptable color.”

The footman spluttered. “Pink is not red.”

“There isn’t an enormous difference.”

“Really? Because I would think far differently of Viscount Elban if he decided to upholster his curricle in
pink
.”

“Ha! True enough!” She pursed her lips, feigning disappointment. “I didn’t bring anything in red.” She met his spark-bright eyes and thought she saw a flash of greenish-yellow light. She felt the oddest sense of confusion coming from him.
Confusion? Where did that conclusion come from?
A moment later, the color vanished. Charlotte blinked.
Must have been a trick of the sunlight.
“What is the
matter,
Frederick?”

“Nothing, miss.” His gaze dropped, hiding his eyes behind his lashes.

“Not
nothing
. You were pink a moment ago, and now you are
red
.” She smacked him playfully. “There
is
a difference between pink and red, you know.”

That coaxed a grin out of him, a flash of white teeth that set Charlotte’s nerves humming. When he looked at her with those eyes and smiled at her with that boyish shyness it was deceptively easy to forget conversation with him was discouraged.

Unsettled, she turned her attention to the heaps of crumbled masonry around them. “I don’t remember these ruins. They look ancient.”

“This was built in an earlier time,” Frederick intoned. He set the picnic basket down in the middle of a room surrounded by four crumbling walls, which shielded them, somewhat, from the wind. “A barbaric, primitive era, when our ancestors thought, ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to build a new outbuilding, quit halfway through, and tell everyone we did it on purpose?’”

Charlotte lifted her head to catch the tail end of Frederick’s smile before he tucked it away and focused on removing a salamander-bottle from the picnic basket. Slowly, the foolish truth of the ruins caught up to her. “Ancient indeed. Five years?”

Frederick shook his head. He gave the bottle a jolt, set it on the ground, and removed the lid. The heady warmth of a campfire emerged, as the wakened fire elementals danced and shivered.

“Three?”

“Her ladyship had this installed the summer before last. Realized she didn’t really need a new dairy but if she let a few weeds sprout up and purchased a few broken columns she could add an ancient, crumbling castle to her property without the expense of actually building one.”

Charlotte laughed. So did Frederick, with a soft, low chuckle, as if his amusement surprised him. He closed his lips in a firm line, cutting off the sound of mirth, as he removed plates, bread, and cold chicken from the basket.

Charlotte filled her plate as Frederick manfully attempted not to look awkward standing and watching while she sat and ate. She tore off an extra leg of chicken and pointed it in his direction. “I can’t possibly eat all this. Have some.”

Frederick stared at her as if she’d offered a severed human leg.

Embarrassment sent hot prickles up her neck, suffusing her cheeks with color. His changeable, sea-colored, un-footman-like eyes had made her forget. She covered up her blunder with a haughty sniff. “A well-rewarded footman is a silent footman. I can’t have you gabbing my predicament up and down the gossipvine. Besides, I can’t eat with you staring at me like a mongrel puppy. It’s indecent.”

For a frozen, staring moment Charlotte thought Frederick would refuse. Then he folded himself into a cross-legged position across from her. He sank his teeth into the chicken leg, licked grease from the corner of his mouth with his tongue. His too-blue eyes flashed up to meet hers, and Charlotte burned nearly incandescent with mortification when she realized she’d been staring. A mongrel puppy, indeed.

“Just think,” she spluttered. “Hundreds of years from now, this will be a famous historical monument—to the frustrated dairy maids of old.”

“Ha!” The deep bark of laughter echoed off the half-finished stone walls, followed by choked coughing as the aspirated chicken leg prevented further response. Charlotte passed a bottle of mulled wine without thinking, and Frederick took a pull without hesitation.

Silence seeped in between them, albeit a warmer, comfortable sort. With a start, Charlotte discovered that, in a half-finished dairy surrounded by cold wind and weeds, she’d somehow found the happiness that had eluded her over the last several days. How odd that she should find so much of it here, sitting on hard stone with a laughing footman, when the hours she primped and posed in a ballroom wrung barely a drop of pleasure out of her.

…

She ought to have preserved some of that happiness in a bottle, for she found very little of it once she forced her life back into its proper confines. In the afternoon, she casually asked Lord Elban if she could borrow some sheet music, played a little piece on the pianoforte, and commented on how much she enjoyed playing. She simpered when Mr. Oswald described his attempts to create a rose hybrid. She attempted conversation with the newly arrived Lord Noxley, a young man of eighteen with bright red hair and the overripe pout of a child long indulged. She quickly found him too distastefully in keeping with Frederick’s warning. She held her coy little smirk pinned in place so long that by the end of dinner her cheeks ached.

Thankfully, before duty required her to sustain her rickety expression of relaxed interest over tea in the drawing room, her great-aunt intercepted her, her face grim.

“My dear, I’m in a terrible crisis, and only you can help me!”

Before Charlotte could think or react, she was bustled away and deposited in a dressing-room decorated to Aunt Hildy’s notoriously colorful taste. Ornate, heavy furniture of dark mahogany carved with demon faces snarled at saintly white marble cherub sculptures lining the mantel. The wallpaper, hand-painted in a design of blooming green bell-trees, clashed with a thick purple Elassine carpet.

Besides that, the room looked like someone had massacred a milliner’s shop. Lifeless gowns lay draped over every flat surface like opposing casualties in a war, bleeding streams of lace and ribbon. Charlotte spotted nearly every sort of color and fabric on display: white tulle, yellow crepe, green sarcenet, blue taffeta.

Aunt Hildy tramped in after Charlotte, an exhausted general. Lamonte followed two steps behind.

“You see, Charlotte?” said Aunt Hildy. “I have absolutely nothing to wear for the ball tonight! I thought I might choose the round gown with the white-figured silk, but realized that would be too plain. Or perhaps the lavender brocaded taffeta, but lavender’s a dull color for such a grand occasion. I simply cannot choose. What a failure! I will be the laughingstock of Lady Mettle’s ball!”

“You could never be a laughingstock, Aunt Hildy.”

“Well, maybe not,” the Viscountess admitted. Her gaze glimmered with canny understanding. “Not if I had someone to help me choose.”

Charlotte could only smile at the obvious ploy. “It would be my pleasure. Why don’t we dress for the ball together? Lamonte knows what I am wearing.”

“A marvelous idea!” Aunt Hildy cried. She banished the lady’s maid with a shooing gesture. “Go! Fetch Miss Erlwood’s gown!”

Together, Charlotte and her great-aunt decided on a lavish tunic of burnished gold silk worn over a light muslin under dress. As Aunt Hildy cooed over the fabric, Charlotte felt the old rush of girlish admiration for her great-aunt. Lady Balrumple had married early, to an elderly Viscount who’d had the compassionate foresight to die early as well, leaving her a sizeable income. Ever since, Aunt Hildy had been free to live and act as she saw fit.

Charlotte wasn’t free. She still had to marry, since it was either that or become a spinster. Charlotte never particularly cared for the dull, milk-fed boys back home in Glenson with their muddy boots and their hunting dogs. They all acted like the kings of summer, but Charlotte had beaten them at enough leg races and tree-climbing contests and wrestling matches as children to know they were all talk.

Once they all grew up, every gentleman stopped looking
at
her, but
past
her to where perfect, poised Sylvia held court. The same older sister who had once climbed as many trees and fished for undines in as many streams as she had. The same Sylvia who chose to solve nearly all her childhood problems by placing two tiny gloved fingers in her ears, setting her feet wide apart, and howling loud enough to wake the Mirror Queen until she got her way.

Charlotte’s fingers trembled as she fastened a charmed necklace around Lady Balrumple’s neck that turned her snow-white hair a heavy, molten gold. There
had
to be better prospects than the Glenson males if she wanted to live free of her parents or Sylvia. At one point, she might not have thought it such a bad thing to live in her sister’s household, but that was before Mr. Peever had walked into their lives and pressed that first kiss onto the back of Charlotte’s hand. And before Mr. Peever had proposed to Sylvia instead of her.