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The tall, wrought-iron gates leading to Farcliff Castle are open when we arrive, wrapped in silver-and-gold tinsel with a thousand twinkling Christmas lights wound around each spire. The long drive leading up to the entrance is packed full of cars, each more luxurious than the last. There’s a Bentley in front of us and a Rolls Royce behind, and suddenly our town car seems a little too ordinary.
Another reminder we don’t quite belong.
Farcliff Castle looks like something out of a dream. It shoots up into the sky, all towers and stone, with a thousand windows throwing out golden light. A massive Christmas tree stands tall in the middle of the circular drive, at least a hundred feet tall. It’s covered in the most intricate baubles and decorations I’ve ever seen, with a bright star shining up top.
Strings of lights extend from the tree to lampposts around the drive, so it feels like the stars are dripping down around us. My breath catches, and all of a sudden I’m wrapped up in the beauty of it all. I don’t feel like an outsider right now, I just feel like a little girl about to meet Santa Claus.
When a footman opens the door and helps me out of the vehicle, he treats me with the exact same deference as everyone else. “Lady Belcourt,” he says with a bow, and I wonder how many hours he’s spent studying pictures of all of tonight’s attendees. “Please,” he says, leading me up the stairs.
Two other footmen help my mother and father out of the car, and I take the first step up the wide marble staircase to the doors. There’s a rich red carpet laid out, its edges inlaid with gold thread.
Everything oozes elegance and wealth and holiday spirit. A massive wreath hangs above the door, and when I pass under it another thrill pierces my gut.
I’m at Farcliff Castle. I’m wearing a long silver gown, and my inky black hair is styled to perfection. Even if I feel like an imposter, how could I not enjoy this?
Another member of the royal staff greets me, giving me a slight curtsy as she asks for my jacket. I strip the white faux-fur off my shoulders, tugging the ends of my long gloves off and handing them to her. Holding my clutch close to my stomach, I turn to wait for my mother and father.
The three of us are led in a long procession of people toward the main ballroom, where a delicate, classical rendition of a Christmas song is being played. My nerves relax ever so slightly at the comforting sounds of a violin, a cello, and I think I hear a flute and a piano, too.
I can do this. I can attend this ball and act like a lady and make a good impression on Count Gregory. I can make my parents proud and do right by my sister, even if she can’t be here herself.
My insecurities are just that—insecurities. My family is still called Belcourt, and the King is still my second cousin (or first cousin once removed…or whatever). I have as much right to be here as everyone else, even if I didn’t arrive in a Rolls Royce.
But when I step through the tall archway into the ballroom, the air is ripped from my lungs. This is beyond opulent. Beyond beautiful. Beneath my high-heeled shoes, the polished floor is inlaid with intricate designs made from semi-precious stones. Tall columns hold up an arching roof, where four massive chandeliers drip with crystals and lights above our heads.
Garlands of pine and tinsel are strung up around the room, with gold and red and silver wrapped around the branches.
And the people.
Oh, my goodness. Silk and sequins. Fine, tailored tuxedos. Diamonds and pearls and emeralds on every earlobe and neck and finger. Literally everything is glittering.
A waiter presents me a tray full of champagne, and I take a flute with a nod. “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. I don’t normally drink, but I feel the need to do something with my hands. Hold something. Help the illusion that I belong here. As my mother and father trail in behind me, I’ve already finished the drink. Oops. A waiter whisks it away without me having to ask.
My mother’s hand appears on my elbow. “There’s the Count,” she says, nodding to a tall older man across the room. “We should say hello.”
I nod, letting my mother and father flank me on either side. My eyes are still adjusting to the twinkling jewels and richness in the room when I feel a prickling on the back of my neck. The sensation turns to a warm rush that spreads down my spine, bathing my body in heat.
In the opposite corner of the ballroom to where Count Gregory is standing is the Duke of Blythe…
…and he’s staring straight at me.
3
Heath
I don’t want to be here.
Or rather, I didn’t until about two seconds ago.
Who…?
I watch a black-haired beauty enter the room, her eyes widening. She stares up at the ceiling, those red, plump lips falling open.
There’s a twitch in my pants, and I remember I’m a man. A man who hasn’t slept with anyone in far too long, no matter what the tabloids write about me.
My eyes drift down the woman’s slim figure, drinking in the shimmering silver gown that hugs her curves like it was painted on her perfect body. She spins around, and I suck in a breath at the sight of her bare back. Her dress plunges down to reveal her spine, a single twinkling strand of crystals holding the two sides of her dress together.
Curling my fingers into a fist, I let my tongue drag over my lips. My mouth is dry. I watch the woman take a flute of champagne with a nod, drinking it down in only a few gulps. She turns to listen to an older woman speak.
