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Those poor parents. No one should have to see their children die, old ladies would whisper. Then, I heard it was an overdose.
Judgment and sympathy, so tightly intertwined it’s impossible to tell the difference between the two. His brother was a drug addict who overdosed, and his parents couldn’t take the heartbreak. Or maybe the shame.
And the new Duke of Blythe?
He retreated. Brooding, unreachable, and attractive enough to make him interesting. Schoolgirls all over Farcliff are obsessed with him—Kiera being one of them.
Right now, I appreciate him if only for the fact that it’ll give me something to do while I’m at the stuffy, pretentious Royal Christmas Ball.
Operation: Get A Selfie With A Reclusive Duke has begun.
I grin at my sister, then do my best to school my features before turning around to nod at my parents. “Let’s go.”
2
Ada
As my parents and I get in the town car that will take us to the castle, I let out a long breath.
My mother reaches over to pat my thigh, giving me a tight smile. “It’ll be fine, Ada. Just be yourself. Your father and I appreciate you stepping into your sister’s shoes tonight.”
My father glances back at me from the front seat, his icy blue eyes deathly serious. “Count Gregory will no doubt be disappointed that he won’t get to speak to Maggie, but I trust you’ll do your best to make a good impression.”
I give him a quick glance. “Of course.”
“His marriage to Maggie is important,” my mother adds.
Shifting my faux-fur wrap tighter around my shoulders, I nod. “I understand.”
My gut churns uncomfortably. It’s not fair that Maggie has to marry a man like Count Gregory. She doesn’t get to fall in love or choose someone she loves. For our family, she has to sacrifice her chance at a loving relationship.
It’s not to say that Count Gregory would never love her, or she him. I’ve never met the man. He could be lovely. But it’s just the principle that bothers me. My sister is a prima ballerina, gorgeous and willowy and intelligent, and she has to marry a man who’s done nothing but live off his family’s wealth. He donates to universities, sure, and is well-connected with basically every educational institution in the Kingdom, but still. That doesn’t necessarily make him a loving husband.
This isn’t a Jane Austen novel. It’s the twenty-first century. It shouldn’t be happening.
Staring out the window, I turn my attention to the snow-covered countryside. It takes about forty-five minutes to drive into the city from the Belcourt Estate, and I take that time to admire the Kingdom. Farcliff is located between Canada and the United States, to the east of the Great Lakes. This time of year, the last weekend of November, it’s cold and snowy and incredibly beautiful. It feels like the whole world has been blanketed in white, with only our black car carving a path through the silent countryside.
We drive through a forest of pines, their branches heavy with fresh snow. Spiny, leafless trees stick out between them, each slender branch topped with its own layer of white. When the city looms up ahead and the trees give way to buildings, my nerves heighten.
It’s silly, really. I shouldn’t be nervous. I’m a performer. I’ve played piano in front of packed concert halls. I have no problem being on stage, seated in front of a gleaming instrument, playing music that I’ve spent hours practicing.
But this? Being in the castle, surrounded by wealth and prestige and dukes and duchesses and even the King and Queen?
What if I forget how to curtsy? I could trip and spill red wine all over the Queen’s dress. Am I supposed to call the Queen “Her Royal Majesty” or just “Her Majesty?” Will there be dancing? Maggie is the dancer in the family. My feet are only good for jogging and pressing the pedals on my grand piano.
Deep breaths, Ada.
I need to relax, but my heart thuds until I feel my phone buzz in my clutch. I pull it out to see a photo of my sisters and…a printed photo of the Duke of Blythe. Kiera is pretending to kiss the Duke’s lips, the sheet of paper crinkling against her face. Maggie laughs beside her.
A message follows: Don’t forget the selfie.
My nerves ease, and my lips tug up into a soft smile. I answer: I’m on it.
When my phone buzzes again, I expect to see another message from Kiera. Instead, a daily reminder to take my birth control pops up. Thank goodness I keep extras in every purse. I pop a tiny pill in my mouth, swallowing it down as inconspicuously as I can.
The familiar action settles my nerves the tiniest bit. It’s just one evening, and it’ll be fine.
Right?
