Scarred(Never After #2)(53)
I straighten my black vest, then walk to where my black tailcoat is thrown across the chair, picking it up and easing my arms through the sleeves.
“This changes nothing with our plans,” I say to Edward, a sly grin creeping along my face. “Might as well make tonight a two-for-one special.”
The last ball held in the Saxum castle was when Michael assumed the throne, throwing the most lavish event since the turn of the century ten years prior.
I didn’t attend.
Must have slipped my mind.
Still, I knew that by presenting Lady Beatreaux to the court, she would be the center of attention.
However, I didn’t expect for it to affect me the way it is.
I watch her from the shadows of the ballroom, my blood bubbling like a vat of acid as I watch her paraded around on the arm of a dozen different men, all clamoring for a chance to dance with their future queen.
My brother sits next to my mother in a blocked-off area meant for the royal family, underneath a shimmering black and gold awning made of the finest drapery.
“She’s quite the beauty, isn’t she?” a slurred voice murmurs behind me.
I glance over, annoyance lancing through my bones that someone thinks they can speak of her. That irritation only grows when I see a short and stocky man with far too many jewels and red hair as bright as the sun, swaying in place, his wine sloshing over his glass.
Lord Claudius, the Baron of Sulta, which is a town across the plains of Campestria near the southern border. He used to spend summers with our family at the country estate, and has always been quite envious of my brother, almost to the point of obsession.
“Hello, Claudius,” I sigh. “Good to see you’re still quite the little creeper.”
He grins, tipping up his glass and draining the wine. “And you, Your Highness, still lurking in the shadows. Still hiding from your brother like you did when we were kids?”
Chuckling, I spin around to face him, dwarfing him with my shadow. “Were you even invited tonight, little man? Or did you sneak your way in to be close to Michael?”
I reach out, gripping his shoulder. “Maybe if you put on a dress, you can trick him into thinking you’re a whore, and he’ll let you slurp on his cock the way you’ve dreamed of for years.”
His face drops into a furious scowl and he rips himself from under my hand, storming away without another word. My eyes follow him as he walks to the center of the ballroom, tapping the shoulder of the young man dancing with Lady Beatreaux, and replacing him, his grubby fingers gripping her waist and pulling her into him.
Anger eats through my skin from the inside out when he touches her, her smile becoming forced, eyes flashing with unease.
Normally, I’d enjoy her discomfort. But only when it’s at my hands.
He dances them around in a simple foxtrot, his palm moving farther down her waist until he’s skimming just above the curve of her ass.
I’m two seconds from shoving my way through the ballroom and flaying every single one of his fingers, but before I can, she extricates herself from his grip.
He bows as she moves away, heading across the shiny tiled floor and out into the hallway.
Anticipation tightens my muscles as his beady eyes stalk her, and I see the moment he makes the decision. He stumbles his way across the floor, following her out of the ballroom doors.
I glance at my brother, expecting him to be seething with rage, but instead, he’s busy looking off to the side of the room, making eyes with one of the servant girls standing against the far wall.
Disgusting.
Cracking my neck, I weigh my options. I could follow them or I could ignore it.
Sara Beatreaux is not my problem.
Normally, I wouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
CHAPTER 30
Sara B.
I feel him behind me before I see him.
I’ve barely made it to the door of the ladies’ washroom when I’m spun around and pulled into a dark corner off the main hall, pressed against the stone.
“Get your hands off me,” I hiss, glaring at the ruddy face of Lord Claudius. His wine-soaked breath is putrid, even more volatile now than it was when we were dancing.
This is the last straw of my sanity, after having been paraded around on the arms of several men, dancing until my feet went numb. When Marisol had me practice, I had assumed it was to dance with my husband-to-be, not with everyone else attending.
But Michael has barely spared me a glance all night. He gave a halfhearted speech about how his cousin had been ill long before this evening, and how he was lucky to have me at his side through the sorrow of his loss, but since then, he’s been a ghost, pawning me off as if I’m an obligation he can’t wait to be rid of.
“You’ll regret this when you’re sober,” I try again, pushing against the lapels of his tuxedo.
“You’re a beautiful woman, milady,” he slurs. “No one would blame me for sampling the goods.”
“His Majesty would blame you,” I reply, panic creeping through my muscles. “You’d be put to death.”
His fat fingers slide down the front of my ball gown, scrunching the satin and lace, his forearm pressing against my windpipe, increasing pressure until my airway starts to close.