To Best the Boys(19)
“And what about you?” His tone stays just as taut. “How’s your research on the disease coming along? Have you found anything more on it yet?”
It’s the same thing he’s asked every time he’s decided to speak to me in the last year. Like it’s the one nod to the past he’ll allow. “Have you figured it out? Do you know how it started? Did you find a cure?” I frown and answer honestly. “Not yet, but I think we might be close. If the medical community or politicians could take it on and fund more actual research—or even take an interest—”
It’s his turn to frown as he reclaims my waist with his hands. “They’ve got other things to focus on, and they’ll just get caught up researching how it originated rather than fixing it.”
I start to argue, but he lowers his voice into a sense of urgency that’s familiar to the team we used to be. “Keep working at it. I know you can find the cure. And when you do, my constituents will adore you for it. They may not even mind that tongue of yours,” he adds with a chuckle, then twirls me past three older gentlemen before he returns to lock arms with me.
Finally, the dance is over and everyone is clapping, except for Vincent, who hasn’t yet released me. Instead, he leans in. “Now that that’s settled, let’s talk of better things—such as you. Because I confess to having another reason for hoping you’d be here.”
My body stalls. I gulp and catch the glances of a group of women emerging into view over his shoulder. They’re swathed from head to toe in the latest fashions, low-cut bodices and bustled skirts, and they’re all watching us. The curve of their lips say they’d be proud to have their daughters where I am—wrapped in Vincent’s arms, his gaze looking at mine with so much favor. I swallow down my nerves and allow a nudge of guilt. Uncle Nicholae would also be proud.
Vincent peers around as if he, too, can feel the ladies’ attention. He grabs my hand and leads me from the room of flushed faces and out into a side hall. “My parents were hoping your family might like to join them for the opening picnic tomorrow.”
“I’m sure they would like that, Mr. King, but—”
“Good. And on a more intimate level, Miss Tellur . . .” He pulls me into a small recess, away from prying eyes, and looms his face close to mine with a look of presumption. “I believe it’d be most honoring of you to lend me a token to carry into the contest.”
A token? Honoring him? I furrow my brow. I’ve heard of girls giving such things to the entrants before, but I’ve never been asked. My stomach twists as that feeling of being a trapped animal squeezes tighter.
“Perhaps a kerchief or hair ribbon?” he prompts.
I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod and give an awkward, “Thank you. Maybe I can think of one and let you know once I arrive?”
“Of course.” His grin comes as smooth as his warm breath on my neck, and for a moment I’m tempted to stop this nonsense. To beg him to go back to who he was before—a friend I miss, exclaiming over a mutual discovery—rather than whatever this new role is that he’s playing. But the last time I did so, he irritably informed me that he’d grown up and perhaps it was time I did too.
I firm my jaw and peer around him—to get away—and spot a group of men slipping up the stairwell at the end of the hall with my uncle, toward the floor that holds his study. The next moment they’re gone and Vincent’s gaze flashes to where I’m looking.
He frowns and looks back at me—and suddenly his fingers are beneath my chin, tipping it up toward him. “I’d very much like to hear more about your experiments. You said you’re getting close?”
“Yes, I—”
He puts a finger to my lips and slouches in at an awkward angle, and oh-hallowed-Francis, I think he’s intending to kiss me. I yank back. “Mr. King, what are you doing?”
He drops his finger and retreats with a look of surprise. Then nods. “My apologies for coming off a bit too forward. It’s easy to do with you.” He holds out his hand. “But as penance, might I invite you to join me in another dance?”
I don’t want to dance anymore. I don’t want to do this with Vincent. Whatever this is he’s doing. I want to make my stomach stop shaking and get this weight off my shoulders—this pounding pressure that says something is wrong with me, and Vincent, and his friends, and this place, and that any other girl in my shoes would be flattered while I simply want to leave.
“I think one is all I’m good for. Besides, I just realized I haven’t yet paid my respects to my uncle. If you’ll excuse me?”
He stiffens a moment, then just as quickly relaxes and bows. “Of course. I look forward to your return.”
I pull away, hoping he’ll see fit to invite another girl, and leave him to make my way toward the arched staircase as a loud laugh goes up from a group surrounding my aunt. They’re talking of holiday trips they’ll be taking this year. I swallow and press through the bodies of guests who smell of soap and perfume and apparently enjoy this type of thing. Is this really the life of comfort Mum and Da hope I’ll have?
Because everything about it makes me feel uncomfortable.
I pick up my pace and shove through the archway that leads to the study.
The staircase and landing are empty. Not even a speck of dust on the shiny balsam wood beneath my quiet footsteps or fingers as I hurriedly trace the paneled walls up to the lavishly carpeted second story. A wide hall with three doors on either side greets me at the top, and shadows of male figures extending from the second room on the right match up with the voices emitting. This is Uncle Nicholae’s section of the house.