The Eidolon Page 10

  The prince paused for a moment before snapping to attention and bowing.

  Her papá bowed in return. “Prince Durad.”

  Apparently still speechless and having lost some of his wits, Prince Durad bowed again.

  “Your Grace.” Veronica curtsied.

  The Duke nodded but didn’t look at her. Instead, he turned to the Prince, “I’ve heard report of those lightweight frigates you used to outmaneuver the Turks. Quite brilliant.”

  Durad bowed again, cleared his throat and said, “Thank you, your grace.”

  “The battle on your southern border, a single ship held the west end of the line against half of the Turks when they attacked unexpectedly in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, your grace. The captain in question, Kartal they call him, strung several smaller boats out so that our force appeared much larger than it was. Then he doused the lights on his own ship, snuck behind the Turks and took out three of their finest cruisers. The Battle of Heroes marked a key victory…”

  The two men conversed, one hesitant, the other acting more like an indulgent father to the stranger beside her than to his own daughter. Veronica listened closely. She loved the Kartal stories. She hadn’t realized the self-same hero fought for Prince Durad. If he could inspire such heroics…

  Veronica kept trying to glance at the prince’s wrists, checking for the scars she both dreaded and hoped were there. If they were, she might have a chance at happiness with this man. Last night changed everything for her.

  If the scars weren’t there, she’d be back where she started. Marrying a stranger.

  The prince remained annoyingly still.

  Restless, Veronica examined the man beside the prince, the one she assumed must be his personal bodyguard. He stood the same height as most men, perhaps a bit taller, though his shoulders were wider than the prince’s. She could glean nothing else with that covering on his face and his loose robes save the color of his eyes—she wouldn’t call them simply black. A more dynamic description would suit, like the obscurity of a rainy night or the chill of a wine cellar. He stood so still beside the prince and in such a way that one might never think to notice him or give him a moment’s thought.

  She admired that. It is exactly what she herself had been aiming for. And what she’d come to achieve to a degree. Look at how her own papá ignored her, even dressed as she was like an absurdly giant peacock.

  Matilda poked her side and whispered, “The prince is quite striking, isn’t he?”

  Veronica’s gaze shifted back to the royal by her side and she found herself nodding.

  The queen rose and said, “I think you should take Lady Veronica for a walk in the gardens, Durad, and get to know your fiancée.” She appeared to have lost interest in the military conversation. “The Duke and I have matters to discuss.” She left the room with the Duke’s hand on her arm as though she’d forgotten Veronica altogether.

  Prince Durad bowed and offered her his arm. His sleeve slipped, revealing a perfect wrist. “Would you care to join me, my lady?”

  Veronica’s smile faltered. She shouldn’t have expected such a miracle. She should’ve learned by now that destiny didn’t favor her, preferring instead the most powerful and the most cruel among men. Happiness in her life was only to be found between the walls of Bridges. And she felt blessed with such a wealth.

  Veronica placed her hand delicately on the prince’s flowing sleeve. “It is the queen’s command,” she answered lightly. She gathered up her many skirts in her other hand and walked slowly with him through the parted crowd and onto the terrace. No one seemed to dare snicker or mutter about her as they passed. Perhaps because of her frightening father. Or perhaps because the man next to her seemed to have a mystery about him that left the Ton respectfully speechless. But as she took one careful step after another, she began to suspect it was because they’d ceased to see her when Prince Durad’s presence eclipsed hers so thoroughly.

  They exited into the damp evening and Veronica tried not to be obvious as she drank in the fresh air, untainted by fear, expectation, or ridicule. She couldn’t relax, not with the prince so close, but at least she could think more clearly.

  Prince Durad led her deftly down the garden path and to a clearing containing a single stone bench. With the lamps covered in a shroud of steam, she could hardly see the ground, let alone navigate in The Dress.

  Blast. How was it that she could leap over the side of the bridge and fend off several grown men but not manage to traverse a simple garden path in a ball gown? The prince steadied her more than once and then seemed to give up, wrapping his arm around her waist until they reached the bench. She half-collapsed, not entirely feigning her role as the weak Miss. Walking in The Dress took a good deal of concentration and skill she doubted any woman could possibly possess.

  She huffed and wiped her brow. “My apologies, Prince Durad. I seem to be defeated by my papá’s talented seamstress.”

  His gaze flickered down to the dress. “You handle yourself quite gracefully. The fault is entirely my own for leading you down this rough, garden path.” He gestured back to the smooth, flat walkway entirely free of debris.

  She followed his gaze and raised a brow.

  “Your dress, it is lovely. You look like an,” he glanced at his bodyguard, who would not meet his gaze, “ocean.”

  She flushed and mentally cursed her papá for putting her in this situation. She tried to shift in her seat but the fabric of one of her skirts caught on a nearby bush. Prince Durad leaned over to help her at the same time she yanked on the material. Her hand caught his cheek in a loud slap. He staggered back and rubbed it with a startled look in his eye.

  “Blast! I’m so very sorry! Please, let me get some help—” She tried to get up but stumbled again and would have fallen if the prince had not caught her arm to steady her.

  “No, my lady. I do not think you should attempt to move for the time being.” He set her back on the bench with exaggerated care.

  She watched him move his jaw back and forth and declared, “This dress is utterly hideous!”

  The prince suddenly laughed, a deep, wonderful sound. “I think dangerous would be a better word.”

  How true. She glanced woefully down at the five hundred silk bows. She’d rather change the pistons in a steam engine than wear this dress another minute.

  The prince squatted before her, looking earnest. “Forgive me, I meant no insult,” he said in his clipped tone.

  She smiled. “I would, if I were you. I’m sure we could come up with some splendid names for this dress.”

  He tapped his chin. “Perhaps The Silken Steamer.”

  “Richmond’s Folly.”

  “The Maid’s Delight.”

  “Forever Blue.”

  They both laughed.

  Several snorts sounded in the corner where Matilda and the Prince’s guard stood. The prince himself rocked back on his heels as he laughed, losing his balance. At the last moment, she reached down and pulled him up, making her arm ache like the devil. He brushed off his robes and sat next to her, his eyes sparkling.

  “Thank you, my lady, for saving my best robes.” His eyes darted to her arms.

  She followed his gaze. She’d forgotten for a moment that a society miss shouldn’t have muscles like hers, nor a grip that could pull a large man off the ground.

  “How embarrassing. I don’t usually go about assisting gentleman. I ride excessively, your highness. We have a manor house in the country. I must be stronger than I thought,” she lied. Not about the house, which was true, but about riding. She’d never been on a horse in her life.

  “I did not know that debutantes still considered horseback riding an accomplishment.”

  “My Papá is rather traditional in some areas, as you can see.” She held up one of her dozen skirts.

  “One cannot help but see.”

  She laughed again.

  He reached over and took her gloved hand in his bare one. “Lady Ver
onica.” His accent made her name sound foreign and glamorous. “I am sure you did not envision yourself married to a foreigner, nor the ruler of a small country like Sombor. Your Queen offered you to me and I could not refuse. Nor did I want to. It is a smart move for Sombor. It will ensure support for my people when the Ottomans move against me, which they assuredly will again someday, as well as financial stability.” He squeezed her hand. “But I am a good man, my Lady. I will endeavor to make you happy not only to keep England satisfied but because I want you to find contentment with me.”

  She stared down at his hand—whether it was browned by the sun or his natural shade, she could not tell. It felt strange to touch a man warmed by foreign lands, by places she had never been.

  It reminded her of another man’s hand, strong and reassuring in hers. She pulled away gently, wondering if all men used such a ploy to gain a woman’s trust.

  Was this handsome man sincere? Did men speak like this often in his culture, so boldly, so straightforward?

  She nearly laughed at the thought. No. He could not possibly mean what he said. Her pleasure at their earlier banter died as she realized she’d slipped in every way since she met the prince. She’d forgotten to guard her conversation not to mention revealing her unusual strength for a genteel woman. With this man, as with all others, she would play the part she’d chosen—the one that kept her secrets safe.

  “I thank you for your kindness, Prince Durad,” she said in a shy whisper.

  “Please, call me Durad.”

  “Veronica.” She giggled and squeezed his hand. “I think we’ll have grand adventures together, Durad.”

  He gave her an assessing glance that she returned with a vacant smile. He must think her mad.

  Good.

  “Yes, we will, Veronica.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “My first order of business is to see London. I haven’t been here since my days at Cambridge, when Emil here,” he nodded at his bodyguard, “and I would sneak away for several days at a time to the big city. Will you take me, sultanim? ”

  Veronica suppressed a shiver. Durad’s charm was deadly, but nothing she couldn’t combat with fluttering eyelashes and absurd comments. “Of course! It would be a pleasure, Your Highness.”

  After helping extricate Veronica from the bushes, Durad led her back into the ballroom. The sound of violins alongside drums and a guitar led the ladies and gentleman in the room in a slow, sensual rhythm that appeared to shock two of Almack’s Patronesses. The most fashionable men dragged their fingers across their partner’s arms and down to clasp their waists in an intimate movement while the older gentlemen mimed the motion, clearly uncomfortable with the dance but unwilling to be considered outmoded. A few debutantes of the season blushed, their eyes bright. It was a popular, new dance—one that men approved of and women would not admit to enjoying.

  The music stopped a moment later and the lights seemed to brighten as if awakening to a new day. Durad stepped forward and the ton slid up to them in waves, as though this too were part of their dance.

  Remembering her papá’s threat, Veronica smiled, curtsied, and chatted inanely with several gentleman and ladies who approached her. She gushed about Durad—his generosity and charm—and tried to appear flushed at the mention of the wedding. She’d never had to hold court in such a manner before, with the exception of her debutante ball where she’d smiled until her head throbbed, hoping her papá would see her as the perfect lady.

  Now, the tension of keeping up such a vacuous act made her want to scratch someone’s eyes out. How could anyone believe her so dim-witted? The men paid her almost no mind, their gazes constantly searching just beyond her left ear as though her papá might reappear. The women were worse, speaking to her only when Durad was already occupied, their eyes never on her. She felt like a screen, both useful for concealing what lay beyond and annoying for doing so.

  She laughed for the billionth time, her throat aching with dryness.

  A wine glass appeared in front of her. “My lady? I think you need this.” The voice that came from beside her was scratchy and painful to hear.

  She took the drink absently. “Why thank—” she turned and the words died on her lips. She dropped the glass, shattering it on the floor.

  One of Durad’s admiring set snapped at a nearby servant and pointed to the mess. She gave Veronica a glance that told her exactly what she thought of Veronica’s suitability as the Prince’s bride.

  Veronica paid the woman no attention in return. She turned first one way and then the other, searching for the man who had given her the glass.

  A gentleman appeared before her and bowed, giving her only a glimpse of the hideous, yellow cut on his face. “Lady Veronica. We haven’t been properly introduced but I hope you won’t mind if I present myself to you. My name is Mr. Ophir Blackthorne.”

  Lady Clarissa and two of her friends turned when Mr. Blackthorne spoke, as though drawn to any deep, male voice. He didn’t look directly at them but his gash was clearly visible. One lady, it might’ve been Lady Green, swooned, falling directly into Durad’s arms.

  Veronica watched the spectacle and wished for the wine glass she’d just dropped, wished for anything to give her a moment to think.

  Blackthorne said, “I apologize for frightening you. Please, allow me.” Taking her arm, he moved her away from the mess the servants were now cleaning up. She concealed her gasp at his touch by biting her lip.

  It was her training that saved her, the endless balls she’d attended and lunches she’d endured. The hours she’d spent with a mask so vague, it’d nearly become her natural expression. Veronica smiled, feigning indifference, and swallowed her fear as she extended her hand. She watched him bow and raise his face up for her inspection. She pulled her hand back slowly, though it nearly killed her not to yank it from his grip.

  “Thank you, Mr. Blackthorne,” Veronica said politely, as though she’d never seen him before. As though the last time they’d met, she hadn’t burned him with her Tesla-ray and fled, leaving him there alone, dead at her hands. She wanted to both congratulate herself for her fine acting skills and sink through the floor.

  “You are most gracious, my lady.” As he spoke, the single, raw, yellow gash running from his ear down to his mouth pulled up the corner into a hideous half-grin. Stitches still crossed half of the wound.

  He turned his face so that she could only see the unmarred half. “I apologize. A recent accident during routine fencing training. I know it’s unsightly—I hope I’ve not caused you to become ill.”

  “N … no not at all, Mr. Blackthorne,” was all she could manage. Every smell in the room seemed stale and her stomach churned.

  Mr. Blackthorne couldn’t know who she was. Yet there wasn’t any way he could simply be one of the crowd of well-wishers. Was there? She clamped the lid down on her frenzied thoughts before she ripped away from him, fled, and caused a scene.

  “Over here, my lady.” He led them to a corner of the ballroom.

  She tried to breathe normally, in and out. This could not happen. A part of her felt relief that Blackthorne lived, yet the greater part admitted a shame and guilt she thought she would never feel. She had done this. Turned a man into the horror that stood before her. She thought for a moment she might be dreaming, but this man and the newly scabbed wound on his face was not just something out of a nightmare—he was a walking spirit from the darkest part of her soul.

  “May I congratulate you on your engagement?”

  “W … why thank you.”

  He nodded and rested his hand on his rapier, his gaze roaming the room.

  She cleared her throat. “Do we have a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Blackthorne?” She kept her tone light.

  He grinned at her and the sight stole her breath yet again. It transformed his face into an even more hideous reminder of the damage she’d done. The unmarred side of his mouth rose higher than the other so that his smile appeared lopsided and cruel. He watched her reaction with knowing eye
s.

  “We do, in point of fact. A Lord Grillett?” he said.

  The name grated on her ears. “You must be mistaken. I’ve never met Lord Grillett.”

  His eyebrows flew up in a macabre gesture. She barely concealed a shudder.

  “I … I’ve heard of him, of course.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She’d seen him once from a distance, as the Eidolon, during a mission several weeks ago. In the moments just before she planned to grab a group of children, Lord Grillett and his men swarmed the factory for a surprise inspection. Veronica had to cover her ears when the children’s screams began.

  “Oh? My mistake, my lady. Nevertheless, I am glad to meet you,” he said.

  “How kind of you,” she replied with an empty titter.

  His eyes finally freed her, focusing instead on Alec, her brother, who had just arrived. He stood by the door, wineglass in hand, searching the crowd. “Your brother is looking for you.”

  “You know him?” she asked, startled.

  “Your whole family is well-known, my lady.”

  “Of course. I must go to him. If you will excuse me.” She stepped forward but Durad appeared in front of her with an apologetic grin. He bowed over her hand. “Please honor me with a dance, my lady. I promise to move slowly.” He winked.

  Her fingers unwittingly tightened on his. “Durad. This is—” She turned to introduce Blackthorne, but he’d vanished. She searched the milling crowd, still numerous even at this late hour, but he’d disappeared as quickly as a breath on a cold day. She waited for a sense of relief at his departure but instead found herself even more nervous not knowing where he was. Why had he left so quickly?

  He must’ve been toying with her. He knew who she was. Somehow, he knew.

  “Veronica?” Durad asked.

  “N … nothing.” She smiled through her lingering horror. “Have you met my brother? He just arrived.”