Page 183 of Immortal Rose

Well, yes. That did about cover it. But the reek of their malice and disgust was overcome by peppery excitement—enough that I sneezed. The nuttiness that usually signaled confusion was likewise sweetened until it turned tart. That was curiosity.

Hugh glanced down at me, silently asking if I was still all right. I smiled at him, letting the rest bleed away into the darkness. Someone tutted disapprovingly as Hugh kissed my hand in response, but a nearby woman sighed in appreciation.

Soon enough, the air turned florid. The intensity of it, trimmed with the edge of death that all cut flowers carried, struck my senses in an eruption of rose, lily, lilac, and a dozen other flowers. We passed through the doorway into the vestibule, and there, we found ourselves in the mythical garden of the fairy gods.

Thousands of flowers had been draped and woven together to create a tunnel to guide guests through the long hall. Only some of the chandeliers had been lit, giving the air an ethereal glow.

The attendees had surpassed my wildest fantasies of what such an event would look like. Some women had come dressed as Venia, their hair left to drape over their shoulders in shining, suggestive waves, woven with nets of delicate flowers.

Most had taken inspiration from the fairies, their gowns soft and dreamy in color, made whimsical by unexpected embroidery or embellishments like flower crowns and bodices made of real leaves.

I felt a pang of disappointment Felicity couldn’t be there to witness it herself.

Several House of Rosebourne perfumes and powders had been applied as a finishing touch, some laced with the warm shiver of beautifying magic, others merely thoughtful bouquets of notes that brought their own sense of wonder.

There was something almost elemental about it all—something that felt closer to the ancient rites that had once been performed at the very site the palace now stood.

I supposed that was the point. For all we worshipped God, the ancient deities were still part of the kingdom’s tapestry as much as the fairies were. We had groomed and trained ourselves into something like refinement, but there was wildness that lived in our blood still.

Finally, we reached the open doors leading down into the torchlit sprawl of the gardens. I forced my gaze to pass over the Orangerie, lit from within by lanterns and open to strolling couples; the neatly groomed hedge grove; and the bloomed roses in their full exaltation for Venia, to the base of the stairs, where Glenmoor stood, flanked on either side by palace guards.

He’d ensured that there would be no missing him. His dress breeches and jacket were ivory silk embroidered with gold thread. His waistcoat gleamed a deeper shade of gold than even his hair. But it was the mask he wore, covering the top half of his face, that held my complete attention. It, too, was gold, with gold waving lines rising from it to crown him.

He was meant to be Solarius, the sun king of the ancient gods. Eleanor stood beside him, her spangled mask large enough to cover the entirety of the bruise on her face.

Her gown was truly unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was made with the same ivory silk as Glenmoor’s suit, only embroidered with silver thread. Layers upon layers of luminous tulle swirled around her, culminating in two crescent-shaped wings at her back that looked spun from moonlight and dreams. Her tiara sparkled wildly in the light of the firepots as we approached.

If he was Solarius, then Eleanor could only be Lune. The silent, serene queen of the gods. I burned with contempt at the sight. Exchanging a look with Hugh, feeling his arm tense beneath my hand.

The plan began now.

A faint breeze swept over us, cooling some of my nerves.

The master of ceremonies, dressed in resplendent court attire, glanced at us, then glanced again, taking such a pronounced step back he nearly fell arse over teakettle down the stairs.

“Erm.” He cleared his throat, and I could have sworn he made a small holy wheel over himself before calling, “The Earl and Countess of Foxcourt.”

The hush that washed over the assembled Patricians made the hair rise on the back of my neck. The spite that flooded the air, the sheer suspicion, turned my stomach.

The terrible spell only broke when the master of ceremonies, with obvious relief, announced, “Lord and Lady Ainsley.”

We stopped again halfway down the stairs, awaiting our turn to be greeted by the ball’s preening host. Behind us, conversation buzzed like flies.

“I do rather like her dress,” a lady seemed to shock herself by saying.

True. A smile curled one corner of my lips.

“Better than the monstrosity you’ve chosen this evening, Belinda,” came her friend’s retort. The lady gasped as soon as the words had escaped her, covering her painted lips with her gloves. Her eyes were wide as she sputtered, “I didn’t—that is, I think you look—”

The feathers trimming the first woman’s dress quivered as she snapped her fan open. “The only monstrosity present is your hideous nature, sister.”

“Neither of you are worth the trouble it’s taking to foist you on to unsuspecting husbands,” growled the older man accompanying them.

“Is that how you see me?” his wife asked. “That I was foisted upon you? And here I thought I’d saved you from a miserable existence of plucking your own nose hairs and being made to care about anything beyond your horses.”

I caught Hugh’s eye again as some young lord, his frock coat laden with crystals shaped into leaves, admitted to a friend, “Do you think they’d notice if a case of cheroots went missing from the smoking room?”

The other man turned to him in alarm. “I beg your pardon?”