TOTF Exclusive Excerpt
In a small city called Waverly Green, which is somewhat similar to Regency London but not quite, a few mortals have seen strange occurrences that cannot be explained. Some with secrets of their own—like Miss Camilla Antonius— have heard whispers of a shadowy nether realm full of vice, where seven demon princes rule over seven deadly courts full of sin. Magic isn’t immediately laughed off in Waverly Green, though it’s never openly spoken about either. Unless of course one ventures into the illegal dark market, where it’s said that the stolen art and artifacts are imbued with mystical powers and the dealers might not actually be human . . .
Unbeknownst to Camilla, or anyone in the Green, a curse in that devious realm recently broke, setting one sinfully handsome prince free.
Unlike in a fairy tale, the prince who’s now coming for Camilla isn’t at all charming. But like all storybook villains, if Camilla isn’t careful, this dark prince just might end up capturing her heart.
Unless she succeeds in the impossible and steals his wicked one first . . .
“Gods-damned Fae bastard.”
The Prince of Envy stared at the emerald feather that had just fallen from the unfolded parchment in his hand, heart thundering from the taunt. The area between his shoulders suddenly burned, the need to summon his wings almost painful.
That prick certainly knew where to hit Envy the hardest.
The spell tattooed across the feather glowed in invitation.
He took a steadying breath and glanced up, searching his reflection in the gilded mirror across the room, studying himself with the eye of someone who appreciated art, including the fine art of deception.
Outwardly his expression was calm, bored even. The portrait of royal indolence. His nearly black hair was combed perfectly, his cool, arrogant features set into that troublesome half-smirk that easily won lovers to his bedchamber.
It was just another pretty deception.
Inside he raged, that emotion blazing so wildly his brother Wrath, the king of demons, would sense the disturbance from his circle and eventually come sniffing around.
Envy had gotten good at pretending over the years; a necessity to save his court.
He knew what others saw when they looked at him; the mask he’d crafted of a handsome, devil-may-care prince who liked games and riddles. He understood the well-dressed exterior and disarming dimples he rarely flashed were simply two more weapons in his arsenal. Clever ways to hide the dangerous demon lurking beneath his chiseled façade, the ruthless prince who’d long since lost any sense of morality when it came to accomplishing his goals.
Envy picked up the feather, his thumb brushing the emerald plumage, almost in reverence until that feeling gave way to something darker.
The feather was a reminder of the time his own edges had been more soft than hard, and the note itself was a warning that a new game was beginning.
Be ready. That at least was a promise Envy intended to fulfill. He’d been waiting for this game to start for more than half a century now, watching his court slide closer toward ruin every year. In being soft, in making that one mistake, Envy had damned them all.
That was a secret that wouldn’t remain hidden from his brothers for long, especially if things continued as they were.
Already the signs were clear enough, should anyone look closely. It was apparent in the way Envy’s courtiers grew foggy, or that constant half-second delay amid conversation. As if they couldn’t recall where they were or who they were speaking with.
Thus far it only lasted for a heartbeat, but it would worsen. Time would see to that.
And Envy knew the Fae bastard would draw the game out, wait as long as possible to start, just to weaken Envy as much as he could. Envy, like all his brothers, drew his power from provoking his sin. And a court in peril was the envy of no one.
His court falling would toss their realm into chaos, leave an opening for others—like this devious gamemaster—to try to infiltrate.
If Envy’s brothers knew how dire the situation was…well, he’d make sure they’d never find out. Let them think he was playing one more frivolous game, with nothing driving him other than his need to win to inspire envy, to stoke his sin.
They’d expect nothing less after all his careful maneuvering.
Envy stared at his face in the mirror one last time, ensuring there were no cracks showing, no hint of his true feelings bleeding through his favorite mask, then tucked the feather into his waistcoat and crumpled the note in his fist.
When the time came, Envy would play the game. He’d reclaim what was his, restore his court, and he’d never endanger his circle by becoming intrigued by a mortal again.
Envy tossed the parchment into the fireplace, watching the flames destroy the letter from that cursed prick, vowing to one day see the gamemaster reduced to ash, too.
And just like the fire contained within his private study, inside Envy burned.
Several decades later.
“Oi! Wanna ride the famed one-eyed monster that’s painted on my ceiling, darling?”
As Lord Nilar Rhanes stumbled up the dais to the throne, mocking the Prince of Envy’s legendary bedchamber art, he became dimly aware that something—aside from the obvious treason he was committing—was very wrong with himself.
And yet, try as he might, he didn’t exactly care enough to stop his unseemly antics.
“Who wants to see if life truly imitates art?”
Rhanes pointed to the buxom brunette standing nearest.
For the life of him he couldn’t recall her name, which also struck him as rather odd. Deep down he felt as if he’d known her for ages and had never leered at her like some degenerate from House Lust, one of their rival courts.
Any peculiarity he felt swiftly vanished.
“You, there!” he shouted, voice booming.
Knees high, he pranced before the glittering throne like a proper fool, his legs seeming to move of their own accord.
“Come sit on my lap, love. I’ve got a mighty gift for you.”
Rhanes grabbed his limp cock, sending the ladies into titters.
“You’re a dead man if His Highness finds you up there!” Lord…whoever…called out to him.
Rhanes shook his head, attempting to clear it. He must have had much more demonberry wine than he recalled. Even in his younger years he’d never gotten so pissed that he’d forgotten the names of his friends.
They were his friends, weren’t they?
He glanced at the semi-familiar faces of the lords and ladies gathered—a drunken group of twelve, thirteen including himself. Aside from Rhanes, who wore red, they were all dressed in a deep hunter green. The colors and numbers both felt significant somehow and a bit foreboding as he noticed the hour was nearing twelve.
Midnight.
Flashes from earlier that evening crossed his mind. He was almost certain he hadn’t started the night wearing the red suit—it wasn’t one of Envy’s House colors.
His pulse pounded as words emerged in his fog.
“Same lie Lilac.” The phrase was bizarre. He couldn’t recall if he’d heard it before, he must have, though…
Everything in his head was jumbled and wrong. Except…
Something was happening in their court. Something spoken only in whispers, in shadows, then forgotten…but something was missing. Something vital.
Rhanes disregarded his worry almost as quickly as it had appeared, compelled to keep up his mockery as if he were a puppet whose strings were controlled by some unseen force.
“Come here you little minx.” Rhanes thrusted his hips, pretending he’d bent the giggling, brunette over. “Forget the bedchamber, let’s make everyone jealous as you suck me off right here!”
“She can’t suck what she can’t find, now can she?” someone else heckled.
Rhanes squinted, unsure if this foggy haze was real or only his imagination. A tall blond male with a razor-sharp smile cut through the crowd.
Recognition slowly filtered in. Alexei. The prince’s second-in-command.
If the vampire was here, His Highness was likely nearby…
A flutter of panic stirred in his belly before Rhanes’s attention was yanked to the sudden tolling of the clock tower’s bells. The witching hour was upon them.
Voices, hundreds of them, began whispering as each stroke of the secondhand brought the top of the hour ever closer.
Were those memories? Were they purging at last?
Why had he thought such a ridiculous thing? He struggled to recall the last time he’d drunk from the chalice. Perhaps that would make this end. Whatever this was.
Rhanes covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut as the cacophony grew.
The voices unified and that same odd phrase broke free, loud and clear.
Same lie Lilac. Same lie Lilac. Same lie Lilac. Same lie Lilac.
“Shut up!” he yelled, earning a few more jeers.
Rhanes cracked an eye. Bloody hell. He was drunk as sin. No one else was speaking now.
He staggered up toward the throne, willing to take his chances with angering his prince in favor of stopping the room from spinning. He just needed one moment of stillness, one beat to breathe, to think. If he could only remember…
Everything screeched to a halt the moment he sat.
Each lord and lady crumpled to an unmoving heap on the checkered floor, like chess pieces knocked astray.
A game. That had to be what was happening. The prince would know for certain. And Alexei would find the prince.
Rhanes stiffened, searching for the vampire but Alexei was nowhere to be seen.
“What the—”
The bells stopped ringing. Midnight had finally come.
Dark smoke suddenly twisted up and around the throne, forcing Rhanes to hold his sleeve to his nose, eyes stinging. He searched out the source and caught sight of himself in a mirror across the chamber, his mouth falling open in horror.
Half the throne was untouched and the other half, the part where he sat, now chained by magic, was engulfed in flames.
He was burning.
Whatever fog had been hovering vanished and reality hit Rhanes hard and fast. He screamed as the very real flames whipped him like a sadistic lover, melting his flesh.
He wanted to save himself, run far from the deadly flames, but for some reason, all he could scream was “SAME LIE LILAC!”
As the blessed darkness of unconsciousness slowly descended, Rhanes could have sworn the prince finally emerged from the shadows, emerald eyes glittering.
A tiny spark of hope lit within him. The prince was stronger, he’d resist the madness before they were all damned. He had to.
“Same lie. Lilac,” Rhanes whimpered.
Same lie Lilac. Same lie Lilac. Same lie. Lilac.
The prince stood over him, merely surveying the scene, as if committing it to memory.
With Death hovering seconds away, Rhanes finally gathered the last of his will. “What…does…it…mean?”
“It means the game has finally begun.”
Anger flickered in the prince’s face before he strode from the chamber.
Soon Rhanes was alone. Or maybe he wasn’t…
He closed his eyes, his mind growing dark. Still.
Maybe Prince Envy had never truly been there and maybe he wasn’t burning on the Hexed Throne at all.
PART I
Miss Camilla Antonius had very little patience for fools, even handsome ones.
And Lord Philip Atticus Vexley—with his golden hair, tanned skin, and roguish grin—was among the finer specimens in both areas. Especially if he thought she’d create another forgery for him.
Which, as he swept into the art gallery just as the sun was setting—in his buffed riding boots, burgundy swallowtail jacket, and close-fitting camel breeches—Camilla knew was precisely the reason he’d come.
It was almost closing time, and the secretive glint in Vexley’s eyes was most unwelcome; they were not friends or confidants. Nor were they lovers. In fact, if Camilla never saw him again, she’d host a soirée fit for the crown to celebrate her good fortune.
“Working on anything intriguing, Miss Antonius?” “Just a landscape, Lord Vexley.”
It was not the truth, but Vexley didn’t deserve to know that. Camilla’s art was deeply personal to her, drawn from her mother’s warnings, her father’s stories, and her own loneliness, which helped her see the world as it truly was.
Her art was often her soul laid bare, a part of her she hesitated to share with just anyone.
Thankfully the easel faced away from the door and Vexley would need to walk around to view it. He rarely put such great effort into anything but his own scandalous reputation.
Camilla pushed the stool back from her easel and quickly abandoned her painting as she moved to the old oak desk that acted as the register and a wonderful partition to keep the irksome lord at bay.
“Was there anything I could assist you with, or are you simply admiring the art this evening?”
His attention dipped to her paint-splattered smock. She hadn’t removed it upon his arrival, and the slight pressing of his lips indicated that he wished she would.
“Don’t play coy, darling. You know why I’ve come.”
“As we’ve previously discussed, my lord, the debt has been paid. I’ve even secured a memory stone for you. All you have to do is feed that particular memory to it.”
Or so Camilla had been told by the dark-market dealer she’d purchased the alleged magical stone from. She hadn’t felt any buzz of magic, though that wasn’t exactly a surprise, all things considered. Still, Vexley refused to accept the stone.
He gave Camilla a bemused look as if her denying him something he wanted were more outrageous than a magical stone that could withdraw any memory he chose to give it.
Lord Vexley wasn’t quite a dandy, but he certainly spent money like one. He was the firstborn son of a viscount and as such had indulged in only the finest things for the whole of his spoiled thirty years.
Four years prior, after a rather scandalous theater incident that involved not one but two stage actresses and a very public display of drunken affection during what was now called “the intermission of infamy,” his father had cut him off from his inheritance and named his brother the heir instead, a bold move that should have shocked all of Waverly Green’s elite.
But much to his family’s surprise, Vexley’s antics hadn’t disgraced him in the slightest. If anything, he’d become something of a rapscallion legend around the Green.
Society praised incorruptible morals above all, especially for women. But virtues never held the same appeal as sin. They weren’t as thrilling to gossip about over tea, and no matter how prim and proper high society claimed to be, they all loved a good scandal, the more salacious, the better. Nothing in Waverly Green was ever as entertaining as watching someone’s fall from grace.
Satire-sheet columnists often followed close on Vexley’s heels now, desperate to be the first to report on his next potential scandal. Everyone knew he’d been disinherited, so the source of his income was a growing mystery most of the city wished to solve.
Vexley laughed it off, claiming he was a smart gambler and made wise investments, but people still whispered more nefarious stories about his growing fortune.
Some rumors claimed he’d made a deal with the devil, while others whispered about a bargain he’d struck with the Fae. Camilla alone knew the full truth.
Due to what she called the Great Mistake, she now unwittingly funded his extravagant lifestyle and placed herself in danger of being caught by the press.
The last painting Camilla had created and sold for him had almost been discovered as the fraud it was, and if the collector hadn’t imbibed too many glasses of claret, then promptly relieved himself on a priceless sculpture, in front of the entire party of lords, ladies, and even a duke, thus causing quite the stir as the duchess fainted right onto the foul mess, Camilla’s reputation would have been ruined.
A scandal of that magnitude would destroy her hard-won standing as Waverly Green’s most sought-after art dealer. And the selfish scoundrel standing before her—with his damnably charming smile and freshly pressed suit—knew it and clearly couldn’t care less.
“Honestly, Camilla darling—”
“Miss Antonius,” she corrected primly.
Camilla’s smile was nearly as tight as the grip on her paintbrush.
Vexley, or Vex the Hex, as she’d taken to calling him in her head, had been blackmailing her for that one horrid mistake she’d made eons ago, and—after they’d struck a bargain for his silence—he was supposed to have purged the memory into the rare magical stone after she completed three forgeries to sell for him.
The trouble with scoundrels and blackguards was, they hadn’t a modicum of honor.
They were now approaching six forgeries, and Camilla needed this to end.
No matter how talented she was, if anyone found out what she’d done, aside from possible arrest and facing the gallows, she’d never sell another painting in Waverly Green. Or any of the surrounding towns or villages in Ironwood Kingdom, for that matter. Not that she ventured outside Waverly Green often.
Ironwood Kingdom was a small island nation that could be traversed by carriage in a handful of days, but everything she knew was in her city and at the country estate two hours north of it. If she were forced to leave Waverly Green, all Camilla’s hopes and dreams of having her gallery flourish to keep her father’s memory alive would wither and die.
Men like Vexley could thrive on scandal and ending up in the satire sheets, but women—especially of her station—weren’t afforded the same status. Camilla needed to walk a fine line, showcasing the art she curated in scandalous ways but never becoming the subject of scrutiny herself.
Through personal experience with her father’s most famous painting, Camilla had learned early on that high society loved a bit of drama and a good show—as was evidenced by the soaring popularity of satire sheets and caricatures.
Luckily, for now, society couldn’t stop talking about her unique exhibitions. Short of committing a heinous act of violence upon Vexley’s per- son, Camilla would do nearly anything to keep her gallery and name free from the more vicious gossipmongers, who loved nothing more than to tear others down for a passing bit of drawing room entertainment.
She often read the gossip sheets just to remind herself what was at stake, to serve as a constant warning of how carefully she needed to tread as she fought to maintain her glittering reputation in society while also garnering respect as a gallery owner. They’d tolerated her taking over her father’s gallery because they loved Pierre and his unconventional nature. But she knew the gossips were waiting like carrion vultures, hoping to swoop in and feast.
Camilla’s true hope was to one day win people to her gallery through her own paintings alone, and that would never happen if her reputation was in any way sullied.
She stole a quick glance out the window, relieved that no columnists were lurking, waiting to report on Vexley’s current whereabouts. She could already imagine the unflattering headlines if they found the Angel of Art and the Devilish Deviant cavorting alone.
“I can no longer help you with that other matter,” Camilla said quietly. “If you’d like to commission a custom work,” she added before Vex- ley could continue any paltry attempts at charming her, “I’m more than happy to—”
“Cannot and will not are extremely different things, Miss Antonius.” She seethed at his arrogant, dismissive tone. As if she were unaware of the difference between the two and he’d just shared earth-shattering news with her.
Vexley raked his ice-blue gaze over her face, taking liberties to admire her lips a bit longer than was considered polite. His attention shifted to her cool silver curls, her delicately upturned nose and naturally golden skin.
Camilla’s deep silver eyes were always what drew a suitor in, though, and at the moment, Lord Vexley was seemingly transfixed by them.
She’d heard rumors that that half-lidded, come-hither look he was giving her now had worked in seducing several widows and even some women who weren’t lacking a husband.
Lord Philip Vexley was an unrepentant rake, and rumor had it that his troublesome mouth was quite pleasing when he got someone between his silken sheets. He hadn’t visited Camilla’s bedchamber, nor would she ever invite him there.
Blackmail, she found, dampened any thoughts of passion.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he drawled, ignoring the steam Camilla was almost certain billowed out from her ears whenever he adopted that condescending tone. “You aren’t exactly in a position to turn down the work, are you? What with the information I have about that one little famous painting you sold me. You remember the one, don’t you? I still have it.”
“Vexley,” Camilla warned, glancing around the quiet room.
No columnist had showed up, and since it was the middle of the week and it was near closing, the gallery was blessedly empty. Due to her limited funds, she’d had to dismiss her assistant this morning, a choice that broke her heart. And was now proving even more terrible as the opportunistic scoundrel closed in on her.
“In fact, it’s such a fine painting I had to hide it from view,” he continued, pressing a hip against the large desk as if leaning in to share a secret. “Lest anyone try to steal it from me.”
The famous painting was a forgery, the first and the last she’d ever wanted to create. Two years prior—and nearly eight years to the day after Camilla’s mother abandoned them—her father had abruptly taken ill with a mysterious affliction and could no longer work.
Camilla had emptied their coffers in a desperate attempt to save him, and she would do it again. She’d had several physicians visit their home, had even ventured into the forbidden dark market in search of a magical elixir, convinced his illness was not of this realm.
All attempts to battle Death had been in vain.
It had hurt terribly when her mother disappeared, one bright morning the spring before Camilla came of age, but her father’s death had truly broken her heart.
Pierre had been fearless, as an artist sharing every part of his soul with his audience, as a father raising Camilla on his favorite tales of magic and adventure, of dark realms far beyond Ironwood Kingdom’s shores. Camilla still worried she wasn’t living up to all he’d taught her.
After his death, she’d painted the forgery only to raise funds. She’d hated being dishonest, had considered trying anything else, but both their town house and the gallery were set to be wrenched away by debt collectors, even after she’d pawned all her jewels, and the silver, and rented their country estate for barely enough coin to maintain the staff and groundskeeper’s salaries. Camilla had nothing left to sell. Save her art or her body.
Or the one thing she hadn’t the heart to pawn. And that sentimentality had come back to haunt her. In more ways than one.
Somehow, though not utterly surprisingly, Vexley had been both cun- ning and sober enough to spot a minute difference between the forgery and the real painting, and instead of being enraged that she’d attempted to cheat him, had immediately come up with a scheme to profit from her talent. It wasn’t honest work he was requesting now.
Nor would he be paying for her services.
Camilla smothered the urge to knee him in the groin and plastered on another smile.
“A gentleman of your breeding is known to stick to his word, sir. We had a bargain and I’ve more than paid in full. Shall I fetch the memory stone?”
Vexley tossed his head back and laughed, the sound genuine yet somehow grating for that very reason. He found her amusing. Wonderful.
“My darling, what if I were to propose marriage? Would you be more inclined to please your husband then? Surely you’d wish to ensure that we had a comfortable life with a roof over our heads and fine foods in our bellies.”
Now it was Camilla’s turn to laugh. Marriage. To Vex the Hex. And with it a lifetime of servitude and forever being a cheat and liar. Along with the string of lovers he’d not be discreet about and the whole ton thinking she was a plumb fool.
He eyed her speculatively, brows raised, and she realized he hadn’t been jesting.
Camilla cleared her throat, searching for the most diplomatic response to soften the blow. The privileged men in their world did not take well to their whims and fancies being denied, and while she might loathe him, she needed to remain in his good graces until he purged that damning memory and set her free.
“Unfortunately, I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. My gallery keeps me quite thoroughly busy and—”
“You’d continue with your gallery, my dear. With your talent and my connections, we could make more gold annually than the Crown.”
“We were almost discovered!” she hissed. “There will be no money if we’re hanged.”
“You worry too much.”
Vexley waved off that most important detail as if it were nothing at all. “And there won’t be another scare like that. I hadn’t heard that Harrington already possessed that piece. It was easy enough to convince him that his original was the fraud and Walters’s was the original, wasn’t it? He handed it over to me just as I said he would. And anyway,” Vexley went on, “do you really believe anyone would question my wife? If they did, all we’d need to do is update your wardrobe with some low-cut gowns and they’d hardly care what you were saying or selling after that, my dear. I assure you their attention would be thoroughly diverted. Your bosom is quite impressive for someone of your stature. We can certainly work with that, use it to our advantage.”
“I—” Camilla was at a loss. Vexley seemed entirely certain that she’d be pleased to have her mind ignored in favor of her body being ogled to further their scheme.
A scheme she wanted no part in.
If he pressed the issue of marriage, it could become a true problem.
In fact, since they were alone and he was encroaching on her personal space, they were teetering near scandal now.
Camilla wasn’t exactly middle-class, even if she operated a business. Her father, eccentric though he might have been, had been high-born and titled. She’d spent nearly all her inheritance trying to save him, so her earnings were critical for maintaining her home and staff. Her father used to say how proud he was of taking care of generations of staff. She did not want to let anyone else down by having to let them go.
All Vexley would need to do was come around to her side of the desk and give the impression that something untoward was happening; then if one columnist spied the action through the window and reported on it, Camilla’s life and all she’d worked hard to achieve would be in total ruin.
An icy finger of dread trailed down her spine.
The lord standing before her had no qualms about blackmail and might very well be desperate enough to trap her in marriage. Then she would be his pawn for the rest of her days.
Vexley suddenly reached for her bare hand and brushed a chaste kiss across her knuckles, his cool lips causing a slight shudder of revulsion that he mistook for pleasure. His pupils dilated, mouth quirking upward. He thought much too highly of his ability to seduce.
“I see you’re overcome by my charms. Let’s continue this discussion another time. I’m hosting a lavish dinner party in two nights to show off my most recently acquired treasure; expect an invitation shortly.”
Before she could find a reasonable excuse to decline, Vexley turned on his buffed heel and exited the gallery.
The bell tinkling overhead was the only indication he’d truly been there and it hadn’t been a wretched nightmare.
He wished to make her Lady Camilla Vexley. God save her.
She pushed that horror from her mind and glanced at the clock. Thankfully it was almost time for her weekly dinner with her best friend, Lady Katherine Edwards, and Camilla’s own beloved cat, Bunny, whom Katherine watched while Camilla worked at the gallery.
Kitty had been there during Camilla’s darkest hours, a guiding light and advocate for Camilla’s place in society who ensured that Camilla attended all the balls and social gatherings, regardless of her financial difficulties. She not only acted as Camilla’s chaperone when necessary, she was the truest friend Camilla had ever known, and Camilla was grateful for her in many ways. Without Kitty, Camilla wasn’t sure what would have become of her.
To pass the last half hour before closing, Camilla returned to her painting. Getting lost in creation was precisely what she needed to do to forget Vexley’s absurd proposal.
She’d been trying to paint a world she saw repeatedly in her dreams, one where winter reigned in all its stark, lethal beauty.
Camilla had just returned to her easel, plucked up her paintbrush, and sat when the bell over the door sounded again. This time she nearly snapped her brush in two.
How dare he come back and coerce her again.
She closed her eyes and prayed for some hidden well of strength to appear and save her from committing murder. At eight and twenty, she was far too young to be either locked in a cell or beheaded for strangling that scheming, arrogant rake right then and there.
“Apologies for any insult it causes,” she said without peering out from around her easel, “but I am not in the market for a husband, my lord. Please just go.”
A beat of silence passed. With any luck, Vexley would be insulted by the bite in her tone and would turn right back around and leave for some faraway city at the edge of the world.
“Well, that’s quite a relief, considering I’m in want of a painting, not a wife.”
The deep, rumbling voice had Camilla immediately standing up from her stool to see who it belonged to, her lips parting in surprise.
The man who stood just inside the doorway was most decidedly not Vexley.
For a moment, Camilla somehow lost the ability to speak as her attention roved over the dark stranger.
This man was tall, his hair black with the slightest hint of brown in the flickering candlelight, and while his frame was lean, she noticed the hardness of his body as he moved farther into the gallery, his clothes tailored to show off the definition.
Not moved but prowled.
Camilla innately sensed that she was in the presence of a jaguar—a sleek apex predator one couldn’t help but be fascinated by even as it drew close enough to bite.
His eyes, a unique, lovely shade of emerald, glittered as if he knew where her thoughts had traveled and he rather enjoyed the idea of sinking his teeth into her flesh.
Whether he would do so for pleasure or to cause a bit of pain, Camilla couldn’t immediately discern. Though if the wicked gleam flaring to life was anything to go by, she’d choose the latter. Which indicated he was quite dangerous, yet her heart wasn’t pounding from fear as he stalked closer, his gaze lazily taking her in as if he had every right to do so.
This man owned every inch of space around him, including her attention. Camilla found she couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried. Not that she was trying very hard.
He wasn’t simply handsome, he was striking, his face a study of fine contradictions that made her fingers twitch with the urge to paint the hard, chiseled angles of his face, the soft curves of his lips, and those jewel-toned eyes that stood out against his bronze skin, forever capturing that devilish glint on canvas.
His beauty was cold ruthlessness with a regal edge. A polished blade meant to be admired even as it cut you down. He’d make a fine portrait, one Camilla imagined would cause quite the stir among noblewomen.
Her cheeks pinked at what she’d said about marriage, and she hoped it was too dim in the room for him to notice.
A hint of mirth curled the edge of his sensual mouth, indicating that he had indeed picked up on her embarrassment.
If he was a gentleman, he’d let it pass without comment. “You are Miss Camilla Elise Antonius, I presume.”
His knowing her middle name struck her as odd, but when he studied her appearance with quiet intensity once again, she could barely form a clear thought.
No one had ever looked at her with such singular focus before—like she was both the most glorious answer and an exceptionally troubling riddle tied into one.
“Correct, sir. How may I help you?” she asked, finally regaining her wits.
“I came to discuss details of a piece I’d like to commission,” he began, his voice like warmed honey melting over her, “but I’m intrigued by you now, Miss Antonius. Is that how you welcome all patrons or just the ones you find incredibly handsome?”
Only the ones I find insufferable, she thought crossly as the spell she’d initially felt broke.
Camilla bit her tongue to prevent herself from outwardly commenting on his arrogance.
She’d been wrong. He was no jaguar, he was a wolf.
Which meant he was just one more cocky aristocratic dog she’d need to rid herself of this evening.
“Are those the specifications?” she asked, nodding to a crisp piece of hunter-green parchment he held.
Her tone was as cool as the autumn air outside, but the gentleman didn’t seem at all put off. If anything, a flicker of intrigue ignited in those impenetrable, jewel-like eyes.
He silently held the parchment up for her, not moving from where he stood near her desk.
Camilla hesitated. He was making her come to him.
It was either a subtle show that he could be trusted, or a calculated move to exert his will upon her. Given the dangerous curve of his mouth and the cold calculation in his eyes, it had everything to do with power.
Here stood a man who wanted to be in control. Camilla considered kicking him out to put him in his place and his wolfish smile grew wider, his gaze quietly mocking.
“Unlike asking for your hand, you’ll find it’s a rather simple request.” His attention never wavered from hers. “Come. Look for yourself.”
Said the wolf pretending to be a sheep.
Camilla highly doubted that anything this man wanted would be simple but made her way to him nonetheless. The faster she knew what he desired, the faster she could send his dark, mysterious arse on its way and be rid of him—and his wicked grin—for good.
Few things pleased the Prince of Envy more than making a strategic move.
Fortunately, as he placed the parchment down and slid it across the old desk, careful to avoid snagging the paper on the scarred wood, today was one such glorious day. He was one step closer to unlocking his second clue.
From what he’d briefly observed of Waverly Green, the females in this realm were taught to please males. He had little doubt that Miss Antonius would have the painting completed by week’s end. All he’d need to do was walk in, command the room, and she’d do his bidding.
The woman who now stood across from him narrowed her silver eyes, her full lips turning down as she read. Her embarrassment had quickly given way to annoyance.
The feeling prickled over his skin, not quite the stabbing sensation of fury, but with enough effort, he was certain she’d get there. And as that was his brother Wrath’s sin of choice, Envy wanted nothing to do with stoking Camilla’s anger.
“See?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual, though internally he was feeling anything but. His heart thudded against his ribs the longer the artist stared at his note. She wasn’t reacting the way he’d imagined.
When she finally glanced up, he offered her one of his most sinful smiles.
She arched a brow, less than impressed.
Well, then. He’d get straight to the point.
“As promised, it’s a rather simple request, Miss Antonius. I want a painting of a throne. Pristine and dazzling on one side and blazing with flames on the other. If you succeed in this piece, I’ll commission another.” The petite artist carefully handed the slip of paper back, then brushed her hands down the front of her work smock as if the paper had grossly offended her.
His gaze sharpened at the unexpected movement, his hand simultaneously flexing toward the emerald-studded dagger he always wore strapped beneath his jacket.
Wrath was the general of war, but Envy could wield a weapon just as easily, and any sudden movements had the warrior in him on high alert, no matter how mundane a potential adversary might seem.
Miss Antonius repeated the motion, and Envy forced himself to relax and really take her in, realizing that—with her shimmering silver hair and unique eyes—there wasn’t anything mundane about Camilla’s appearance after all.
In fact, as he studied her further, he couldn’t help but note that her mouth looked like a heart, and if he’d had a mind to paint her, that was precisely the shape he’d use to capture it on canvas. The gentle sweeps and curves of both the upper and lower lips were wonderfully balanced, her Cupid’s bow a study in perfection.
Unaware that she’d caught his attention, Camilla dragged her teeth across her lower lip as she fussed with her clothing.
Those lips were plump, tempting things that caused his gaze to linger and his mind to spin with all sorts of wicked ideas. He’d been so focused on his weakening court, on the game, and on the curse before that, that he hadn’t thought of much else.
Temptation and sin fueled him, and he’d neglected both for far too long, it seemed.
His brother Lust would be too pleased.
Envy immediately stopped his mind from wandering down roads he refused to travel and watched Camilla cringe slightly at the rough-spun work garment, then untie the strings at her waist, promptly removing the paint-smeared apron and shoving it under the desk.
He gave her a cool look.
“When can you begin work? This is rather time-sensitive, Miss Antonius.”
“Apologies, but I must have missed your name, Lord . . .”
Clever woman, her interrogation was subtle. Based on his fine suit and the elegant, cultured manner in which he spoke, she already knew he was a blueblood.
Little did she know he wasn’t human, and he was no mere lord; he was one of the seven ruling Princes of Hell.
In some mortal realms they were known as the Wicked—a name they’d earned after eons of perfecting that moniker through sinful games and debauchery.
He was playing one such game now—except these stakes were the highest he’d ever played for.
“Lord Ashford Synton. But those who know me best simply call me Syn.”
It was a lie, naturally, but it would be the first of many now that he could do so.
“Well, Lord Synton,” she said, using his full surname to clearly remind him she was not one of his acquaintances, “I must decline this commission but am happy to consider another.”
“Pardon?”
Envy’s eyes narrowed. Of all the ways he’d considered this meeting might go, he hadn’t once imagined her declining his patronage.
He needed that painting to unlock the next clue.
And, according to the previous clue, which had played out in his throne room, she needed to be the one to create it. Same lie Lilac deciphered was Camilla Elise. He still hadn’t quite figured out why it had to be her, but he’d have an answer to that particular mystery soon enough.
Envy’s spies were currently unearthing all they could find on the artist, and whatever secrets she had wouldn’t stay hidden from him for long.
By week’s end, Envy would know every sin, vice, or virtue she held dear, and then he’d exploit that knowledge for all it was worth. Everyone wanted something, and he’d happily pay Miss Antonius whatever price she required.
Camilla nodded to the paper.
“You’ll need to find someone else to paint that for you, my lord.” “That won’t do. You’re the best, hence my coming to this . . . establishment.”
He glanced around the gallery. The wooden sign outside swinging pleasantly in the breeze proclaimed wisteria way. It was hand-painted, yet elegant, and utterly charming.
The exterior was a simple stone cottage with lush vines of wisteria hanging over the entry. Something quaint one would imagine in any provincial countryside, if one had brought the countryside into the heart of the vibrant art district and wedged it between two larger, less welcoming buildings.
Inside, it felt more like a darkened chamber where secrets were whispered and clandestine meetings were held.
Dark carpets were layered over broad floorboards, and the walls were papered with a deep hunter-green brocade. Paintings and sketches in every medium hung in gilded frames, while sculptures and statuary stood guard over dark corners.
On a tiny round table in the alcove where she’d been painting by candlelight, multiple cups of used paintbrushes were collected in every size and shape imaginable, the water a swampy array of discarded colors.
Her canvas faced away from the door, leaving him to wonder what she’d been working on. Everything else in the gallery had been meticulously set up, showing the art to its best potential. It was all most intriguing. And not entirely what he’d expected.
Much like the woman standing before him, who, he realized, was studying him as closely as he’d just examined her gallery.
“I’ve not seen you at any society function nor heard any mention of you before, Lord Synton. Are you visiting?”
A tinge of annoyance hit him. He’d been in this mundane city for nearly two weeks, slowly restoring an old estate that overlooked the whole damned town. Surely she’d heard some whispers of his arrival. He managed a tight smile.
“For the time being, I’m staying indefinitely, Miss Antonius.”
It was close to the truth. Envy was prepared for anything—perhaps Miss Antonius would take longer than expected to paint the Hexed Throne, or the following clue might keep him here.
Of course, he’d also wanted a base from which he could keep watch—if the game had led him here, other players might soon follow. Or worse, had already arrived.
“Well, then, welcome. I can happily direct you to someone else who can help you.”
Envy noticed that her emotions had changed slightly. While he still sensed her annoyance bright and clear as day, he also felt a rising tide: impatience.
He could not fathom anyone feeling put off by his company.
Perhaps he should have listened to his brother’s ridiculous scheme to woo Camilla. If he flirted with her, she couldn’t possibly dismiss him so thoroughly.
Envy quietly seethed. Most humans had quite a different reaction to his kind. Demon princes had a certain dark charisma that attracted lovers; some believed it was due to their power to wield sins. He’d been certain she’d be taken in with little to no effort on his part.
He tried to keep the contempt from his voice.
“Is it a matter of payment?” he asked. “Name your price.” “I assure you it has nothing to do with money, my lord.”
Her chin notched up defiantly. Envy knew damn well that she wasn’t in any position to turn down work that would pay so handsomely.
“Is there anything else I may help you with, or will you be on your way?” she asked. “I’m afraid you’ve come at an unfortunate time, as the gallery is closing.”
“Perhaps.”
Envy debated whether to use a bit of his sin to influence her agitated mood but decided against it. Fae games were tricky. Players couldn’t use magic to win. It kept the playing field level, reducing immortals to mere humans. Envy would burn before he’d admit how exciting he usually found that challenge. But these weren’t usual circumstances.
For him to move forward in this game, Camilla needed to freely choose to paint the piece.
And she’d need to do so soon.
“Might I inquire as to why you’d turn down my work?” he asked, mindful to keep his tone pleasant.
“Of course.” Her smile was as sharp as the dagger hidden on his hip. “I refuse to paint any hexed object. And correct me if I’m wrong, my lord, but the Hexed Throne is one of the most powerful.”
Envy appraised her in a new light. “What does a woman of your standing know of hexed objects?”
“Enough to decline getting involved with one.”
At last, Miss Antonius came out from behind her desk, sweeping past him toward the door, where she placed her ungloved hand on the crystal knob. Paint speckled her skin like a colorful constellation of freckles.
“Perhaps you should visit the dark market on Silverthorne Lane. They’ll know much more about that particular realm of art than I do.”
With that she tugged the door open, the bell ringing in finality. The Prince of Envy was being summarily dismissed.
He blinked down at the little hell beast before him, and she smiled even more sweetly back up.
“You may wish to hurry, my lord.” She glanced out at the darkening sky, her silver irises like strikes of lightning against the storm clouds. A beautiful portent of doom. “It looks about ready to rain.”
A clap of thunder punctuated her warning, and before he knew it, Envy was standing outside and the quaint door was being slammed and locked in his face.
Two beats later, the candles went out, plunging the gallery into complete darkness.
Envy cursed every saint he could think of under his breath as the first plump drops of rain freckled his shoulders. Then he heard the scrape of a boot, only seconds before his companion stepped from the shadows, chuckling darkly.
“You’ll just walk right in, was it?” the Prince of Pride asked, grinning wide, his eyes an annoyingly bright silver against the night. His chestnut-brown hair was mussed, giving the impression that a lover had run their hands through it. “Simple as that.”
Envy gave his brother a murderous look. “I thought you were waiting at the pub.”
“Changed my mind.” Pride shrugged. “I wanted entertainment. How does it feel to have your balls handed to you?”
“Not now.”
Envy headed across the street toward the nearest awning, wanting to escape the impending storm and his damned brother. His cavalier mask was slipping.
“Now is the perfect time to point out it was a dismal plan,” Pride said, strolling beside him, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Even Lust’s idea was better.”
“It’s Lust’s only idea.”
“Point? It always works.” Envy gritted his teeth.
“So, Lord Syn.” Pride still drawled, but there was a sharper edge to his voice now. “Care to explain how the fuck it’s possible for you to lie?”
“Not particularly.” Envy wasn’t in a giving mood. “Aren’t you supposed to be searching for clues to Lucia’s whereabouts?” he asked instead.
“Perhaps you aren’t as heartbroken as you’d like everyone to believe.”
It was a low blow, but Envy needed to be left alone before Pride noticed the cracks in his armor. If he could have risked the power needed to summon his wings, he’d have catapulted into the heavens, leaving his brother behind. As it stood, Envy had to remain grounded until he won the gods-damned game and fully restored his magic.
All levity vanished from his brother’s face at the mention of his missing consort. Pride’s lips pressed together tightly, revealing the ancient scar that still carved a path across his lower lip. For most, Pride pretended to be a drunken rake, obsessed with all that glittered. Frivolous, egotistical. Unconcerned with anything aside from pretty lovers, parties, and baubles.
But Envy, king of masks, knew these were false identities his brother wore. Pride was much more calculating than he let on. His secrets were so vast, even Envy’s best spies hadn’t unearthed them all yet.
“Don’t get pissy because I was right,” Pride snapped icily. “I told you to court her first, then ask her to paint the throne for you. Why else would she help a stranger do something so dangerous? Put yourself in her position—would you risk yourself?”
Envy grunted, and Pride studied him more closely.
“Wrath said you’re abysmal at strategy, and you’re proving him correct.”
Envy swallowed a retort. Wrath and Emilia had visited his House of Sin a month or so previously, and he’d narrowly avoided them discovering the slow decline of his court. Thankfully the worst symptoms had been held at bay by a curse that was recently broken.
Pride mistook his silence for quiet contemplation.
“If you’re that repulsed by Camilla, perhaps one of our brothers might seduce her in your stead. I’m sure Lust or Gluttony would be willing to help,” he said. “Perhaps they’d even team up if she asked them nicely.”
“You’re not offering,” Envy pointed out, watching his brother’s face carefully.
Pride glared at him but finally shut up.
Envy glanced back at the gallery, annoyance rocketing through him.
Even in the dreary storm there was something otherworldly about the building, something enchanting. Much like the vexing woman who owned it.
Pretending to court her wouldn’t be a hardship. But he had enough to focus on without adding another distraction, and mortal courtship was rife with inane rules and tiresome ballroom dances. He had no patience for promenading around for others to gossip about.
He had a game to win. And he’d wasted enough time.
“I’m quite through with your ego for one night.” Envy yanked his House dagger from its sheath, the emerald in its ornate hilt winking in the growing darkness. Princes of Hell couldn’t be killed by one another’s daggers, but they could be sent right back to their circle of the Underworld, whether the prince wished to travel or not.
“Go home, Pride. Unless you’d like a matching scar on the other side of your face.”
“Stubborn prick.” Pride held up his hands and stepped back. “Why won’t you just ask for help?”
Envy pressed his lips together, remaining silent. His brother gave him a disgusted look.
“With Camilla’s first refusal, you’ve now got two chances left to unlock the next clue, right?” When Envy still refused to speak, he added, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Honestly, have you considered selling the gallery and moving to the country?” Lady Katherine Edwards asked, handing Camilla a glass of sherry. “Vexley would surely lose interest with time, especially if a buxom theater singer caught his fancy. Again.”
“Mm. If only I could be so lucky.”
Camilla sipped her drink as she warmed her slippered feet by the crackling fire in Lady Edwards’ finely appointed drawing room. A beautiful redhead with dark brown skin that didn’t believe in holding her tongue, but who could certainly hold her own in Society, Katherine had been Camilla’s dearest friend since they both debuted ten years prior.
Katherine had been new to Waverly Green herself, then, and she’d bonded with Camilla immediately over both being outsiders of a sort. Even after she’d married, Katherine had kept their weekly dinner plans, becoming like a sister over the years, someone Camilla confided almost all her fears in.
With a few exceptions…
While Katherine might be Camilla’s dearest friend, even she didn’t know the full truth behind Vexley’s proposal.
“Well, if he’s hell bent on courting you, why not consider his offer?” Katherine asked, settling back into her velvet chair as Camilla took a generous sip of her sherry to drown out the absurd idea. “He is the son of a viscount. Grandson to an earl.”
The door creaked open as a large, gray and white feline nosed its way in.
“Bunny!” Camilla immediately brightened and Katherine snorted.
“I had a carriage sent for her earlier. I know how lonely she gets when you’re working.”
“You’re looking as regal as ever,” Camilla said lovingly to her cat, who gave her a once-over, then sat and began washing her long, beautiful fur.
“Anyway,” Kitty said, “back to the matter at hand. Why not Vexley? He’s from good stock.”
“He is the disgraced son and a notorious scoundrel. Satire sheets have dubbed him ‘the Golden Tongued Deviant’ for heaven’s sake, Kitty. Did you not see that last caricature of him? Lewd would be too mild a term for it. It was so explicit I heard that three carriages collided outside the storefront where the illustration was displayed last week.”
“And I heard seven new lovers visited his bedchamber because of that very satire sheet,” Katherine volleyed back. “I also have it on good authority that the moniker is quite fitting. And it has nothing to do with his scintillating conversation skills or lack thereof.”
Outside the light rain that had begun earlier turned into a menacing storm, the howling winds now whipping tree branches against the windows like great demonic beasts as the two women cozied up to the fire with their glasses of sherry.
Like clockwork, after dinner Lord Edwards was off to his gentlemen’s club, affording the women time to drink and laugh like they used to before he and Katherine married three Seasons prior. Rumor had it he went often to stave off frustrations over not yet producing an heir.
It was a subject Kitty didn’t like to speak about, though Camilla knew why and kept her secret, just as Kitty had kept so many of Camilla’s.
“I cannot even fathom Vexley seriously considering marriage,” Camilla mused. “Seven new lovers in as many nights is appalling, even for Vexley.”
“Now darling, I never said seven nights. Rumor has it he took part in his very own bacchanalia and not one lady went away disappointed.”
“Of course.” Camilla exhaled loudly. “A gentleman ought to only contain vice when purchasing art—as to spend copious amounts of coin on it, most especially in my gallery—and then be virtuous in his marriage. On that principle alone I’d never marry Vexley.”
Her friend snorted. “Oh, darling, no. There’s a reason people say reformed rakes make the very best husbands. You want a wicked man in the bedroom. The wickeder the better, in fact. If anything, you ought to thank Vexley for his recent escapades. At least you know he’s well-seasoned and has stamina.”
“‘Well-seasoned’,” Camilla repeated with a smile and a slight shake of her head. “It’s hard to tell if you’re describing a man or the perfect cut of meat.”
“Some would argue that’s precisely what rakes are. If you’re lucky, you’ll find yourself a prime piece of filet to sink your teeth into.”
Katherine pretended to take a big bite.
“Kitty!” Camilla laughed. “That’s horrid.”
“Teasing aside, if you recall, William had quite the reputation before we wed, and I have no complaints.”
She sipped her sherry, eyeing Camilla over the glass.
Camilla stayed mulishly silent.
“Vexley might be crass and vulgar, but I know several women who’ve complained that their husbands are selfish lovers, never concerned with ensuring their wives are equally satisfied. Is that not a virtue?”
“Katherine,” Camilla sighed. “Be serious. Virtue and Vexley are as compatible as oil and water.”
“You just need to find yourself a virile man with questionable morals and bed him whenever the mood strikes you.”
As if it anything could be that simple for a woman in this world.
“Since Vexley is clearly not to your liking,” Katherine finally continued, “have you come across any other potential prospects for a loyal companion?”
Camilla cringed. “A loyal companion” was what Kitty insisted upon calling her search to find a discreet lover for Camilla, an endeavor Camilla heartily disapproved of.
Aside from a few heated kisses, some heavy petting and a clandestine meeting with an infamous hunter that introduced her to her first orgasm, Camilla had little real-world experience, living off the details told to her by her married friend. After seeing the pain of her father’s heartbreak when her mother left, Camilla rejected the idea of marriage.
She never seriously considered Kitty’s idea, though she still desired a man’s touch. Katherine not only knew this, but often tried to play matchmaker, much to Camilla’s amusement and horror. Once her mind was set, Katherine wouldn’t be deterred.
Had Katherine been in the gallery tonight, she would have thought Lord Synton would do just fine for Camilla’s loyal companion, thanks to the sheer dominance that seemed to radiate in the space around him. He was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it.
Synton had walked in and practically laid claim to the gallery with just one arrogant glance, owning everything, including Camilla’s good sense.
Irksome though that trait might have been during the day, Katherine would claim it was an attribute at night in the bedchamber, especially if he’d made it his mission to own Camilla’s body with that same level of authority.
“Your silence leads me to believe you have found someone interesting.”
“No,” Camilla lied. “Not at all.”
Unbidden, and not for the first time that evening, her thoughts turned to a mesmerizing pair of emerald eyes and a sensual mouth that had boasted a very devilish grin earlier.
On the carriage ride over to her friend’s house, while the rain lazily drummed its fingers over the roof, Camilla had rested her head against the cushioned wall, closed her eyes, and somehow found herself imagining Lord Synton sitting next to her on the bench, slowly tugging her close, his fingers drifting along her arms, exploring the tiny swath of skin exposed where her gloves and gown diverged as if it held the answer to each mystery in the universe.
He’d lock those emerald eyes on her, watching as he leaned in slowly, affording her time to stop his pursuit, before gently running his lips along the sensitive skin of her neck in a whisper-soft kiss. When her breath hitched from the sensation, he’d work his way along the curve of her shoulder, then down along her décolletage.
His mouth becoming bolder, as each expert flicking of his tongue or gentle scrape of his teeth caused a bolt of heat to sear through her.
When she was practically panting, only then would his singular focus fix on her bodice, as he carefully pulled at each lace, undoing them with maddening precision. And then he’d discover one of the most scandalous secrets for a spinster: her love for lingerie, garments that made her feel beautiful, pieces that she acquired quietly from the modiste that were delicate and soft and feminine as they hugged her curves.
Camilla had trailed her own fingers from the bench to her lap, drawing her skirts up, the rustle of the silk its own forbidden music against the rumble of the carriage’s wheels. Slowly she’d began stroking the sensitive skin above her lace-edged stocking, inching ever closer to the growing heat between her legs.
She had touched herself in the carriage while envisioning it was his fingers between her thighs, working her body until the coachman rapped at the door, startling her back to her senses and—frustratingly enough—preventing her from achieving her release.
Lord Synton indeed. He was just a rake she needed to stop fantasizing about. Especially after he requested the one thing she would never paint. Anyone interested in a hexed object was to be avoided at all costs. Both her mother and her father had warned her against them—it had been a rare time they’d both been insistent.
Hexed objects weren’t quite sentient, but they weren’t entirely without thought either. Camilla knew the witch who’d created them had done so out of hatred, and through dark magic, granting the objects leave to become more twisted and chaotic as the centuries went on.
According to her father’s stories, this meant they could even shift forms—what was once a throne might take on the appearance of a book, or a dagger, or a feather, allowing it to prick or sting or kill for amusement. It might even decide to take over a living creature, inhabiting their form until it grew bored and abandoned the shell of the host.
“Camilla?” Katherine’s concerned face came into view. “Darling, should we open a window? You look a bit flushed.”
“No, please. It’s that last sip of sherry, I think.”
Camilla internally cursed Lord Ashford Synton and his seductive, arrogant mouth for distracting her all over again. It was entirely infuriating to at once both dislike a man and to also be attracted to him. She couldn’t believe she’d thought of him in that manner.
Though the same couldn’t be said about some other men she despised. She’d never almost brought herself to climax in the back of a carriage while imagining Vexley.
And Camilla silently vowed to never think of Synton in that way again either.
“Vexley mentioned hosting a party, have you received an invite?” she asked.
Katherine regarded her for another long moment before finally nodding.
“It was delivered right before you arrived. Please say you’re going,” she pleaded. “I cannot bear the thought of being there without you.”
If Vexley sent an invitation, Camilla would need to say yes to avoid his ire, no matter how much she wished not to.
Though, an idea was beginning to take shape.
If she went to Vexley’s home during what would certainly turn into a raucous event, Camilla might be able to locate that first forgery.
Vexley said he’d hidden it—which meant he was keeping it in a private room no guests would visit during the festivities, giving her an excellent starting point.
While the party was in full swing, Camilla would search until she located it then set it in the nearest fire before Vex the Hex ever knew what she’d done, thus saving herself from any further attempts at blackmail.
It was risky but should the plan work, the reward was too great for her to miss taking the opportunity.
There had been desperation in the troublesome lord earlier and Camilla knew one day soon he’d find a way to force her hand.
“Of course I’ll attend.” Camilla held up her glass to her friends and clinked it against hers. “I cannot think of a better way to spend the evening.”
“Liar.” Katherine laughed and shook her head. “But I’m glad you’ll be there. You know how delightfully boisterous those affairs get, especially when Vexley’s been drinking.”
Camilla did know and she prayed Vex the Hex wouldn’t let her down.
Katherine’s face brightened. “Speaking of interesting affairs, have you heard about that new lord who’s recently arrived? A lord Ashford something. Everyone’s talking about him.”
Camilla swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.
“Oh? I hadn’t heard. At least people aren’t still whispering about my mother.”
Katherine gave her a sad smile. She’d tried to shelter Camilla from the worst of the gossip over the last decade, especially as ruthless mammas did their best to ensure their daughters married the best men of their Season.
“From what you’ve told me, Lady Fleur was never a shrinking violet, which is why they still speak of her, ten years later,” Kitty said, sensing where Camilla’s mind wandered. “And she was right that all those doltish mothers just envied your talent. Do you remember what you told me she said?”
Camilla huffed a laugh. “They didn’t envy my talent, Kitty. They thought me odd and didn’t wish for their sons to court me.”
Kitty’s smile turned devious. “She said, ‘They are all fools who seek only to divert attention from their idiotic heirs and their undeniably tiny members.’”
“You must have remembered that story wrong,” Camilla said, amused.
“Perhaps, I might have embellished. But I think they were worried you’d paint unflattering, but horridly accurate nude portraits of their flaccid, noble cocks.”
Camilla covered her face with her hands, trying to get that imagery from her head.
Before she’d left, her mother—Fleur—used to smile wickedly and tell Camilla she’d send an army of fleas into the bedchambers of the nastiest nobles, ensuring they bit their bottoms, so they’d incessantly feel the need to scratch their asses at the next ball.
The idea of the prim and proper lords and ladies struggling to maintain decorum with a rashy backside gave Camilla a perverse sense of glee. For all her faults, Fleur knew how to make Camilla smile with her wicked sense of humor.
“Has she written?” Katherine asked, her voice quiet now.
Camilla shook her head.
“No. I imagine she’s exploring the world the way she always wished to.”
Katherine sipped her sherry, giving Camilla a private moment to collect her thoughts. She always felt conflicted when conversations turned to her mother, though it was easiest to recall the confusion and abandonment she’d felt when Fleur left.
Yet, when Camilla was a child, Fleur had been the one to start telling stories almost too fantastical to be real. She’d speak of shadow realms filled with curious creatures. Goddesses, demons, vampires, and shifters. Seven demon princes, each wickeder than the last.
Camilla would curl up onto the settee beside her, close her eyes, and dream.
Pierre had listened intently to each story too, and Camilla suspected it was the magical way her mother spoke that had inspired her painter father to turn his brush to the scenes she’d depicted.
At first, Fleur had been enchanted with his art, encouraging him to not worry about his title, to pursue his passion and open the gallery. But as he’d become obsessed with capturing the elusive fables she described, he’d begun demanding more stories, more descriptions. Fleur grew annoyed, then bored, and then withdrawn.
Looking back, Camilla should have seen the signs. Fleur had become restless, leaving the house nearly every day, never settling when she finally was home.
She’d never told a soul, but her mother had left her one thing: a locket, one last secret she shared with her daughter.
Camilla didn’t want to dwell on the past. She felt the loneliness creeping back in, an ache that never fully went away, only quieted with the passage of time.
Nervously, she toyed with the locket, which she still wore every day.
Katherine noticed her friend’s familiar gesture. “You’re hiding something.”
“I met him earlier,” she said, drawing the conversation back to less treacherously emotional grounds. “The mysterious new lord.”
“You rotten bore!” Kitty’s eyes rounded. “Why wasn’t that the first bit of news you shared? Was he handsome? Or did his eyes look as if he could burn your soul from your body?”
“Who on earth do you speak to?”
“Live a little, darling. He’s either handsome or homely. Though beauty is rather subjective, isn’t it?”
Camilla lifted a shoulder casually then dropped it, not committing to revealing anything.
“There’s not much to tell,” she said.
“Humor me, then. What were your first impressions?”
“You’re impossible,” Camilla said teasingly.
“Curious, not impossible. You do know how much I adore learning secrets first.”
“Very well. He’s tall, arrogant, and probably has a tiny penis. I can’t imagine why else he’d behave so boorishly. You should have seen the way he walked in earlier, demanding a commission. As if I am someone to be ordered about for his pleasure alone. Men like him are abhorrent. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s convinced the sun rises and sets because he wills it to. Forget laws of nature. Lord Synton is God the creator and don’t you dare forget it, peasant.”
Kitty’s eyes sparkled with barely suppressed mirth.
“I see there’s nothing to tell at all. Except you’re going to fall madly in love with him. Or maybe he would be the perfect, loyal companion!”
Camilla was going to do no such thing and he would absolutely not be her anything. She held her glass up when her friend offered a refill, keeping her convictions to herself.
With luck, Lord Synton would never darken her doorstep again.