Belinda stood, smiling. “He’s just a man, my dear. They’re not worth quite all that much fuss.” Her eyebrows lifted slightly, though the smile remained in place. “They’re certainly not worth forgetting manners over.”
Pink-cheeked guilt overcame the girl and she ducked her head, hands clasped together at her hips. “I’m sorry, my lady, please forgive me, it’s only that—”
“You’re forgiven,” Belinda said, still amused. Ten years of playing the lesser parts, filling household roles such as the one that was this girl’s livelihood, had done nothing to prepare Belinda for the constant source of delight that playing an upstairs role brought. She had let the stillness fade away far too often the last several days, allowing herself to be caught up in good cheer and the pleasantries of wealth. She could play lady disdain, but for Marius there seemed no point; he was caught already, and charmed by the openhearted and good Beatrice. Until she had to meet with his friends again—a time when reserve would more suit her anyway—Belinda could allow herself the revelry of simple joy. Capturing a light cloak from her bed where it lay, she followed Marie downstairs, fully aware the girl trailed after to watch Marius’s reaction to the gown.
But it was Javier who stood alone in the lobby, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he studied a painting—a particularly awful portrait of Beatrice’s late father—that hung in a place of pride near the door. The prince wore grey, both incredibly subdued and unexpectedly flattering to his complexion and hair. As he turned from the portrait, a smile of appreciation already settling on his face, the maid gave Belinda a desperate glance over her shoulder, as if to say, You see, my lady? He was worth forgetting to knock!
And Belinda, astonished, gave the girl absolution in the form of a faint nod. “Your Highness.” She had no need to hide her surprise, nor did she think Javier would find insult in her gaze searching the corners of the room and landing in confusion on the door before finally returning to him. Beneath the heavy brocaded vest he wore white, startling against skin to which torchlight and fading sunlight gave a golden cast.
“Please,” he said, “Javier. If my friends court you, then we must be friends, too.”
“Javier,” Belinda said faintly, then smiled. “Not James?”
“Good Lord, no,” Javier said with a smile of his own. He was more attractive in evening light than he had been in the club. “James is a construct, meant to hide behind, and evidently a poor one. No, my lady, please, call me Javier.”
“Then you must call me Beatrice.” Belinda spoke reflexively, stepping forward to take the arm that Javier offered with another smile. “But my lord…I had thought Marius would be here tonight…?”
His eyebrows drew down over eyes that ate up the color of the lights with the same faint gold sheen that his clothes and skin did. “Marius’s mother has taken ill. He will not be joining us tonight after all.”
Surprise splashed through Belinda with such alacrity that for the first time in days she deliberately curtained it with the stillness, letting her heartbeat slow in the few moments before she spoke again. “He hadn’t sent a message. I hope she’ll be all right? It was kind of you to come for me instead, then.” Suspicion flowered at the back of her neck, a hot feeling of certainty that had no root. “Lord Asselin and Lady Eliza wait for us in the carriage?”
Javier’s frown deepened a little. “They’ve both sent their regrets, each of them vying for who is more disappointed to not see you in your new gown, which is,” he took a perfunctory breath, “lovely. I’m afraid it’s my company and mine alone tonight, Lady Beatrice. Forgive us all for the change in plans.” The words and the tone were perfectly matched: polite regret, a vague aura of discomfort, mild humour at the situation. It was a flawless performance.
Hot flares wrapped around Belinda’s throat and crept over her scalp, making her shiver even in the warmth of the room. The stillness within her gave her room for certainty, even without being able to make sense of it: beneath the prince’s words lay no surprise, no dismay, and an unmistakable air of triumph. The emotions were strong enough to be her own, as if they came from within her own skin, rather than from the prince whose arm she was on.