The Queen's Assassin (The Queen's Secret #1)(83)

The silence between them stretches for an age. Shadow won’t look him in the eye, and Cal feels dread in his heart and a temporary weakness in his knees. All his dreams turn to ashes in his mouth. There is no future here; she has withdrawn from him. She is a closed door and he is out in the cold.

Without another word, he walks out, the door swinging closed behind him. “Excuse me, sir!” the lady’s maid exclaims when he passes, despite the fact that he bumped into her and not the other way around. She hurries back into the room as he walks away.

His first thought: I’m not attending this party. His second thought: Of course I am. I’m Caledon Holt. I am the Queen’s Assassin. He feels particularly murderous tonight.

His third thought: This is why I vowed never to fall in love.



* * *





CAL WAITS UNTIL THE revelry is in full swing—and he’s had a few drinks—before making his appearance. It’s not as grand as the Small Ball at the palace, but it’s impressive nonetheless, and the crowd is substantial. He’ll give Duchess Girt credit for that. She knows how to throw a party. And the Montrician nobles know how to show up.

Speaking of Duchess Girt . . . He spots her standing near a table of sweets, talking to some of her friends, other aristocratic women donning the same elaborate costumes and garish makeup—white faces, bright red mouths, pink rouge, sharp eyebrows.

He takes a glass of champagne from a passing tray. Across the room, he sees Shadow. Just as beautiful as the last time. She’s wearing the same dark blue dress, but her hair is styled differently—worn naturally, without a wig, her short hair sleek against her forehead.

Shadow is dancing with King Hansen. A slow waltz. Too slow. Cal hates the sight of them together—he has to stop himself from pulling them apart. That’s not gentlemanly behavior, he tells himself. And Shadow is doing what he asked of her. Becoming closer to the king, trying to gain his favor. He resists the urge to interfere.

Not only is she dancing, but laughing and smiling, too. He hasn’t seen her that way in days.

The song ends and Cal is thankful, but now she’s dancing with one of Montrice’s young lords, Earl Something-or-Another. Cal can’t keep their names straight.

Cal makes a beeline for the duchess. “Excuse me, may I have this dance?”

She is shocked, but thrilled. She hands her glass to one of her friends and grabs Cal’s hand. “Yes, of course,” she coos.

He spins her out to the dance floor and she melts into shrieks and giggles. People begin talking about them behind their fans, which only encourages him. He pulls her in tighter. “Oh my,” she says breathlessly.

By tomorrow morning everyone in Montrice will believe he’s sleeping with Duchess Girt. He scans the crowd, looking to see if he’s being watched by the only person who is his intended audience tonight.

Finally, he spots her, being led in a passionless dance with that priggish earl. Shadow catches his eye but turns away, her gaze stony.

Good. That’s what he wants. He feels petty. Vengeful. And maybe, possibly, just a little bit drunk. He looks right at Shadow as he twirls the duchess.

Shadow narrows her eyes at Cal, then gives the hopeless sap she’s dancing with her most seductive gaze. The earl is smitten, and Shadow snaps her fan open and closed at him.

Cal flushes bright red to the tips of his ears, his heart pounding with fury.

The song ends. Dancing couples pull apart to clap for the orchestra. Cal turns to look at Shadow, but her dance partner is clapping alone. She’s already gone.





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Shadow

THE APHRASIAN CONSPIRATOR IS HERE. I can feel it. It’s overwhelming, almost suffocating. As if the air is too dense. There’s someone at the party working with dark and malevolent magic. The talisman from my aunts is tucked into a pocket of my underskirt, and it’s been humming all evening, growing hot, then cold, then hot again.

While the duke and duchess were away, I slipped from the house with a shopping basket, as if I were going to the market in town; instead I combed the woods where the hunt had taken place to see if I could find more obsidian shards.

The sun was high in the sky when I found a tiny shard. I swept that onto a leaf and put it in the pouch. I feel it grow hot and then cold again against the outside of my thigh. Sometimes it gets so hot, I’m afraid it’s going to burn me, but somehow it doesn’t. It’s responding to a dark mage, I’m sure of it.

Duke Girt is the obvious culprit, but he came late to the party and the obsidian was humming even before he arrived. I’ve been making the rounds all night, dancing with everyone I can, to see how it reacts. It also gives me an excuse to stay away from Cal.

I can’t think too much about him, lest my heart break any more than it already has. I can’t think about what my mother has asked of me. But there is no going back now; there is only a way forward and there is no escape. I promised my aunts I wouldn’t run away this time.

So I stay where I am, even if I can’t bear to see the hurt on Cal’s face. I have to tell him, but I am too afraid. There’s also a small part of me that can’t bring myself to tell Cal because it believes this won’t be real until I do, that maybe it won’t be true until I utter the words out loud.

An earl and a viscount and a marquess take turns twirling me around the dance floor. Young, old, and in between, it doesn’t matter. A few of the boldest among them try to place a wandering hand in the wrong place without so much as a blush, or get their foul beer-tainted breath so close to my face I could faint. Or punch them in the teeth.