To Best the Boys(17)
My nerves flare. “Less ability?”
“Less aptitude—less motivation. I’m referring to those who could elevate their status if they applied themselves harder. There’s a reason those in the Lower district live there, Miss Tellur. And while they should absolutely be allowed to earn a scholarship, putting them in the same league as us only undermines the effectiveness of the process.”
My mouth drops open but no words come out. They’ve been lost somewhere between my head and my rippling, infuriated spine.
“Well, I believe it’s only fair to give everyone a chance,” Seleni says, in a tone warning he’d be wise to watch his mouth.
Germaine shakes his head. “Not when money would be wasted. We all know there’s no way an Upper’s education can be bested by someone who’s barely passed year eight in school. Thus, fully funding their future learning for beating a substandard contest? Promotes a substandard system.”
“And yet you’re entering,” I say quietly.
“But even if a contestant wins,” Moly hurriedly butts in, “they still have to pass Stemwick University’s entrance exams.”
“Has anyone with the scholarship ever not been allowed in?” Germaine challenges. “And money is money, Miss Tellur. If I need to play a game to win it, fine. Doesn’t mean I have to agree with everyone else he’s allowing to play it.”
I swallow and place a hand on my hip. “If that’s how you feel, then perhaps the scholarship contest should be open to women as well.” I look coolly around at the group. “At least that way your friends might have actual competition.”
The words. They spill out like a spurt of blood, and the moment I utter them I wish I could take them back. His expression says I should wish as much.
Germaine flicks his gaze down my body to slowly scan my chest before he slithers it toward my hips. He smiles suggestively and lifts his eyes to meet my glare. Even as he addresses Seleni. “Miss Lake, I’d heard your cousin would be a fun one, but I’d no idea just how pleasurable. You must bring her around more often. I think I’d enjoy getting to know more of her . . . spirit.”
My cheeks warm. I hold his gaze and straighten my shoulders in the midst of this high-ceilinged room with its fancy dresses and fresh faces that suddenly feels suffocating. I lower my voice and flick my gaze down his body. “Mr. Germaine, I assure you—were you given the opportunity to know more of my spirit, I believe I’d find the experience wholly unsatisfying.”
If there was a gasp at my comment before, this time there’s an explosion of laughter mixed with a few eye daggers.
“Annnnd it’s time for more cake,” someone says.
“I think Seleni’s mum is beckoning,” crows another.
Germaine narrows his jaw and dips his head at me. And says quietly, “Perhaps you’d like to test that theory out, Miss Tellur.”
I open my mouth to respond, but his broad-shouldered friend picks up a plate from the fireplace mantel and lifts a piece of Labyrinth cake off of it. His expression flashes furtive. Cruel almost. He looks down at the pastry and takes a bite before he holds the plate above his head. Staring straight at me, he says in a low voice, “Careful, Miss Tellur. Women who don’t know their place have a habit of losing their place, just like your mum did. You keep on with that attitude of hers, and you’ll stay just like her—begging people to buy your cakes and living with a crackpot husband who murders his patients.”
I freeze. Twenty different emotions bubble up and threaten to compress my lungs. I steady my gaze and refuse to let the mixed waves of fury and shame play out across my face, even as I feel my cheeks turn the color of our port town sunsets.
“Rubin and Germaine,” Seleni snarls. “That’s quite enough. Your remarks reek of insecurity, and your offensive manners have tainted the evening as well as my cousin’s opinions of you. I expect—”
“Seleni, dear.” My aunt’s voice rings out from across the room like fork tines clinking on her china. “Bring your friends into the great room. We’re doing a waltz.” She claps rapidly as if to break things up and move us along.
“Oh, and Rhen.” My aunt’s trilling voice calls even louder. “I’ve asked Mr. King there to accompany you in the first dance.”
She claps again, then moves to usher her friends in, and I turn to where she’s pointed—to Vincent, Kenneth’s son, who is standing casually in a cream waistcoat and jacket on the far side of the now-dispersing group. I frown. Was he standing there the whole time? Had he heard the conversation?
“Miss Tellur.” He extends a hand my direction, followed by the same type of wide smile I’ve seen his father give constituents. The smile Vincent used to hate because “it looks hungry” but now imitates so perfectly that I cringe. “It’s nice to see you again. It seems you’ve made the rounds of my friends.” He nods at Germaine and takes my arm, then leads me into the great hall and onto the center of the dance floor. Where he slips my hand into his.
The music tinkles and floats through the blue-and-white wallpapered room, and Vincent lifts his arm to begin. His feet are far more astute than mine, as are his hands, which are cupped around my stiff waist as we step to match the movements of the thirty other couples filling the glittery space. Can he feel my skin squirming beneath his hot fingers?