Page 13 of The Duchess Games

“For a man?” Cat asked, forgetting to play coy or to fuss with words as she ought to. “Absolutely not.” No matter how much Callum invaded her thoughts. “But for the last currant bun? To the death.” She hadn’t had one since last Christmas. Sometimes she dreamt about them.

“She’s vicious,” Viola agreed.

“I shall keep that in mind,” Summer laughed.

Callum had just made it through the bejeweled mob when the butler announced a tardy guest. “Lord Eliot Howard, the Earl of Blackpool.”

Summer groaned. “Bollocks.” She gave Cat a sidelong glance. “Forget I said that.”

“Forget what? I must have gotten water in my ear today and I cannot hear very well out of that side.”

Summer slipped her arm through Cat’s as though they were already lifelong friends. There were tiny glass beads stitched to her gloves. They could keep a family in flour and bacon for a month. “Are you quite sure you won’t compete for my brother?”

Cat thought of his strong, gentle hands. His brief, shy smile like candlelight in a winter window. The key lodged behind the bones of her stays dug into her skin.

“Alas,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

“It’s on you then, Miss Viola,” Summer said.

“I’m ready.”

“I am happy to hear it,” she said, as her mother was announced by the butler. “Because here we go.”

“I thought it was to start tomorrow?” Viola asked, already putting her glass down in anticipation. She would have rubbed her hands with glee if she thought no one was watching.

“Don’t be fooled,” Summer murmured. “It started the very moment the invitations were issued.”

Cat had paid dearly for their invitation.

Naturally, she did not say so.

The dowager duchess surveyed the acolytes, staring down her patrician nose. The woman did not appear to blink. It was unnerving. Her dress was the color of ice, the kind that broke under you on a pond in later winter with no warning. Equally unnerving.

A hush fell and she took it as her due. “A duchess knows her curtsies.”

There was a pause, a shiver of understanding, and then a veritable stampede.

Callum moved as if to slip out, but his mother’s hand caught him, nails digging into his sleeve. He allowed it. Cat imagined he did not wish to cause a further scene. As if that were even possible. His gaze settled on her. She could not read it.

Hopeful duchesses-to-be approached the dowager. Candlelight gleamed off gold and silk and jewels. It was as bad as making your curtsy to the queen. Or so Cat imagined. Women from fishing villages were not invited to the palace. But at eleven, Viola had decided it was quite possible that the queen might come to Cornwall for stargazy pie, and so she rigorously practiced her curtsies. Truly, there were princesses with less practice. Their mother forced her to stop when her left knee swelled up in protest.

“It’s ghastly, isn’t it?” Summer said. “I can’t imagine what my mother is thinking.”

“And your brother?” She should not have asked. It was too forward.

“This was not Callum’s idea, I assure you. I can’t think why he allows it.”

Callum’s expression did not change. He was silent and his reputation for being cold and imposing solidified, especially next to Lord Blackpool who leaned against the wall next to him with a smile or a wink for every lady. They approached the dowager duchess flustered and left, just as flustered, if for another reason. The earl was very handsome with straight dark hair from his French-Micmac mother. He drew the eye and knew it well. But Cat’s eye still skipped over him entirely. Lord Blackpool was fairy glitter. Callum’s presence had weight. She felt it like a hand gripping her throat. His hand.

She could see it clearly and wondered how everyone else only saw that terrifying severity. A flash of the Callum she had once known superimposed over this older, perfect version.

“Lady Ruby’s curtsy is flawless,” Summer murmured. “Lady Imogen is lovely, but her father is political. He would marry her to a goat if he thought it would further his ambitions.”

“And that matters?”

“It will when he pressures her too hard, and she cracks.” Summer tilted her head. “Lady Siddal is a widow, but penniless. She may be ruthless.”

Cat snorted. Lady Siddal hadn’t met Viola.