Revenge and the Wild(48)

James walked her to her table and helped her to her seat. She liked the attention somewhat. It wasn’t often someone treated her like a lady. It wasn’t often she acted like one.

She smoothed her skirt around her, feeling better once she sat.

“I’ll go get you something to drink.”

While James fetched her drink, she looked around at the other guests. There were humans and creatures alike. Nigel invited creatures to all his social events to keep politically neutral. Westie had never minded their presence in the past as long as they didn’t hog the booze. Now dry, she still didn’t mind. The socialites’ discomfort upon seeing the creatures amused her.

Banshees, ghouls, elves, and werewolves had shown up. There were also vampires. She’d almost missed Costin sitting in his dark corner with his posse all around him, long hair nearly covering his face. He looked paler than usual. His cheeks were gaunt, and there were lavender pouches beneath his eyes as he trained them on her, following her every move as though there were an invisible web that linked them together.

Isabelle slipped into the seat beside her. “You look positively green,” she said.

Good, Westie thought, thankful for the distraction. At least Isabelle couldn’t tell she was flushed.

“I feel like all the colors in the world mushed into brown paste,” Westie said.

“You can’t get sick—you’re a debutante,” Isabelle said.

“I wasn’t aware debutantes were immune to illness.”

Isabelle plucked a garlic-stuffed olive from the hors d’oeuvres on the table and delicately put it into her mouth. “Well, they are.”

“Why aren’t you wearing the dress I had fitted for you?” Westie asked.

Isabelle was wearing an off-the-shoulder red silk dress with a plunging neckline, much like the one Lavina had worn when she landed in Rogue City. The bronze owl earrings were the only thing Isabelle wore of the ensemble Westie had given her.

“That old thing?” Isabelle took a cheese ball from the platter and bit into it with a grimace before she spit it into her napkin. “Lavina says red is all the rage in the city.”

That old thing? That old thing had been a cherished gift from Nigel. Westie had spent her entire allowance to have it cut up and fitted to Isabelle’s smaller frame, ensuring that Westie would never be able to wear it again. Isabelle threw it away to look like Lavina. Westie wanted to rip the bronze owl earrings from Isabelle’s ears but contained herself. At least those she could get back after the dance.

Westie sighed. “So Lavina likes red. How . . . appropriate.”

Isabelle was about to bite into another garlic-stuffed olive but thought better of it. She cupped her hand to her mouth, breathed into it, and sniffed. The result left her face crushed.

“That’s garlic in the middle of that olive. I thought it was a pimiento. Why didn’t you warn me? Now I’ll have garlic breath when I dance with James.”

“Is James on your dance card?”

Westie was surprised by the jealousy she felt. Knowing there was no love lost between the Lovett heir and the Fairfields had changed the game. He was smart, and he hated the Fairfields as much as she did. It was possible he could be an ally in the war against her family’s killers.

Isabelle removed her small leather-bound booklet from her cleavage. “Well, no, but there are a few spots open should he want them.” She gave Westie a curious look. “Do you mean to keep him all to yourself?”

“What? Of course not.”

Isabelle snagged the fan rudely from Westie’s copper fingers, nearly ripping it.

“This is your dance card?” Isabelle said. “Why is everything you own more beautiful than everything I own?” she complained while studying the list of names on the fan. She looked up with a mischievous grin. “I was wondering why none of the other girls had James’s name on their cards. It looks like someone is squirreling him away for herself.”

Westie snatched the fan back.

“It’s not like that. I have no interest in James Lovett.”

“That’s obvious enough.” Isabelle studied a glazed carrot round carefully and gave it a sniff before dedicating herself to eating it. “Everyone knows you’re waiting for Alistair.”

Alistair walked into the room just then. His mask was repaired and gleaming in the gaslight. Isabelle’s lip curled in disapproval.

“I don’t get what you see in him,” she said as she looked around the appetizer tray for more treats. “I just don’t get it.”

“He’s not yours to get,” Westie snapped.

Isabelle smiled, raising her hands to pantomime surrender.

When Alistair saw Westie, he waved. He moved through the crowd, politely acknowledging guests he knew, then breathed a sigh of relief when he sat down beside her.

With a roll of her eyes, Isabelle left the table to seek out more popular company.

“What’s her problem?” Alistair asked.

“She’s a bitch.”

He nodded.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

The compliment meant nothing. He told her she was beautiful each time she wore a new dress. It was good manners. Nigel used to say her beauty was like a spider’s web. Those poor, poor boys, he would say. But what good was beauty if it couldn’t capture the heart she wanted?