The Cerulean (The Cerulean Duology #1) - Amy Ewing Page 0,25
the waitresses at the clubs were another matter, but Leo would never actually marry one of them.
“Leo doesn’t know anything,” Agnes said, speaking for the first time and, as usual, embarrassing everyone. Thankfully, the doorbell rang. Swansea was there in an instant, opening it and bowing low.
“Good evening, sir. May I take your hat?”
“You may indeed, my good man!” The voice was cheerful and more boisterous than Leo had expected for an associate of his father’s. The Pelagan stepped inside and passed his hat and cane off to the butler.
He wore a suit, thank god, not the tight pants and billowing silk shirts that the upper-class Pelagan men were known for. His eyes were lined in kohl, though, another embarrassing Pelagan male fashion, and his hair was a mass of bright red curls, with a single seashell, a creamy white miniature conch, pinned on the left side. Leo was pleased he wasn’t wearing one of the ridiculous headdresses that most elite Pelagans (both men and women) favored. Agnes was obsessed with Pelagan fashion, and he could see her eyeing the conch shell with interest.
“Good evening!” he said to the room at large. “What a delightful house!”
Everything he said seemed to end in an exclamation point, and Leo couldn’t tell whether the man was being sincere.
“I am Ezra Kiernan,” he said with a flourishing bow that had Marianne and Elizabeth giggling behind their hands. “And where might I find Mr. Xavier McLellan?”
“You may find him here.” The voice that spoke was deep and grave, imbued with unmistakable power.
And with that, Xavier McLellan stepped into the room.
8
Agnes
AGNES HATED FORMAL DINNERS.
She hated social events of any sort, especially when her father and brother were involved. If she could have her dinner sent up to her lab and eat among the frogs and rabbits and rats, she’d do it gladly. They were better company than most of the men in Old Port City, and smarter too.
She would have given anything to have been born in Pelago. She hated Old Port, with its stuffy ways and rules. She hated the starched dresses and tight corsets, the way she was expected to be silent and pretty when she wasn’t good at being either, the fact that every second brought her closer to the one thing she hated most about being a woman in Kaolin: soon she would have to marry.
As if in response to that thought, her eyes flicked to Marianne’s cleavage. Agnes had tried not to stare when the girl had been introduced, but she couldn’t stop herself from imagining tracing a finger over the lush curve of skin, how warm and soft it would feel. . . .
But her father was in the room now, and she pushed the image away quickly. Those thoughts were dangerous. Lethal. Not even Xavier’s money or fame or reputation would be able to save her if it came out that she was that sort of girl. Knowing her father, he would probably be the one leading the charge against her.
“Ah, my dear Xavier, we meet at last,” Mr. Kiernan said exuberantly, making another big bow. “After so many months of correspondence, it is a pleasure to be face-to-face.”
It was hard to tell what Xavier thought of this flamboyant Pelagan man—though Agnes had some guesses—because her father was an expert at hiding his emotions. She had learned to read him a bit after eighteen years of study, but not enough to say that she understood him. Their main commonality seemed to be looks. Sometimes she studied her hair before bed, searching for any hint of her mother’s red in it. She’d even put a few strands under her microscope once, but no, it was brown brown brown.
Her father smiled and held out his hand. “I do hope your trip wasn’t too taxing.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Kiernan said, grasping Xavier’s hand in both of his. “But it is a relief to have such a long journey at last be at an end.”
“I’m certain it is.” There was a surety in her father’s tone that made Agnes feel like she was missing something. “May I offer you a refreshment?”
As if summoned by magic, Swansea appeared with a tray of champagne for the men, as the women had already been served. Agnes gripped her flute, thinking it might be the only thing to help her through this night. Then she could go back to her lab and be herself, and wait, without much hope, for a letter that could change her life.