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Chapter LXXIX: Perfume and Mischief
Three days later.
Of course, had he known what was occurring in the southern wing, he might have given better instructions to Allegra. Instead Lucian found himself blissfully in a state of doing whatever the fuck he wanted while entertaining the false impression that he was still in control of his own affairs. Decorum requiring him to be awake until dawn, but his desire to keep his sanity leading him to spend an hour after each day buried in his forge. The old sketches of his broken sword finally drawing enough interest again that he'd sat down on a workbench to try and reconfigure the gears. The kind of thing that was good enough, but at the risk of sounding immortal, could be better.
The arrival of Weylan in said forge resulting in a general sinking feeling as the man took him through the daily briefing. The offering comprising of his schedule for the upcoming season, punctuated by depressing notes on the daily occurrences in his den. For example, the previous afternoon, Sabine had—to the surprise of all—attended the luncheon, but left shortly after leaving a cigarette-burned napkin on the table. Weylan gingerly handed it to him from the ledger. It had the words 'I hate you' scrawled across the back in red lipstick.
He reflected on it. "She's learning Italian?"
"Yes, sir."
"I suppose that's progress?"
"Of a kind, sir."
He waved a hand. "Next," he said. Continuing to sketch while attempting not to tune out the rest of his schedule. A hard lesson so many years ago, but one he was willing to learn if it kept his house in order. Weylan apparently kind enough to have given him some reprieve by limiting the number of dinners, hunts, and clay pigeon shootings which he had to attend. Leaving him now with a burgeoning sense that—with Raze in London for the next two weeks—at least someone had his back in the Scottish countryside.
Until his ear pricked.
"Repeat that."
Across from him, Weylan was looking out-of-place, sitting on a filthy workbench with his moustache precisely centred and coiffed. "Hangrove Society Ball, sir."
Lucian started laughing. Darkly. Ever since Freyja had joined their damnable board of trustees, the Hangrove Society had been trying to get him to host their annual ball. As though the tenth year of saying no was going to change his mind.
"No."
"I'm afraid…" A thick invitation decorated in gold leaf came out of the ledger. "Lady Allegra already accepted on your behalf, sir."
His laughter died. "When?"
"Two days ago, sir…" The young man looked truly apologetic as he held out the paper. It smelled of perfume and mischief. "The ball was to be held in Edinburgh, but upon reflection, Lady Morrigan felt that with all the rationing, Durness was the only den capable of hosting such an event this year—she sends her deepest regrets."
He doubted that.
Also he was feeling confused. The prospect of a ball something that Allegra had suggested, but as far as he'd been aware, it was all supposed to be a 'small and quiet' affair over the holidays. "I thought we were hosting Yuletide this year."
"We still are, sir…" Weylan seemed to know the news would not be well-met. "…only the Lady Allegra suggested we combine the two events…as a financial saving. One ball…but grander."
"What do you mean by 'grander'?"
"Well, it…" For once, Weylan was allowing a mild whiff of excitement to coat his scent. "…it's always a grand event, sir. But it would seem the presence of…yourself and…Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter is considered to be…quite the draw," he said, still holding the accompanying missive like it was sitting on a golden platter. "They're uhm…" He dared to lean forward as though imparting news. "…they're calling it the event of the decade."
"I don't care if it's the event of the century—cancel it," he said, ignoring the invitation in favour of scratching his neck. He felt like shaving, but after years of disparaging every moustached youth trying to keep up with the times, it had become a political statement. The final straw had been Allegra calling it 'unhygienic.'
"Unfortunately…" The perfumed paper came to rest squarely in front of him. "…the invitations have gone out, sir."
"How can they have gone out already?"
"She moves very quickly, sir."
Shit.
He finally picked up the invitation. Scanning the code. Three days of events. Charity dinner and dance. Responses required in the next week. No fighting in the hall. No youth without a chaperone. And no… He stopped at a word…and then pointed with a growing nail. "What does this mean?"
"Oh it's…" Weylan looked happy to help. "…one of the main features, sir. Although a charity ball, most…ladies…see it as a venue for finding…appropriate suitors, so…in order to increase the quality of conversation…and avoid any mishaps, the Hangrove Society instituted a rule of temperance."
Lucian squinted…
…and then his mouth caught up.
"What?"
o…o…o
Ten minutes later.
He found her at the indoor swimming pool. The one benefit of playing host to so many people lying in his ability to stalk into the expansive hall, bark the word "Out!" and hear the sound echo while twenty or so lycans of various ages quickly exited the water for the sake of their lives. And yes, it was heated. The last of them having time only to grab their towels before the hall was empty.
The lady herself lying on a lounge chair by the floor-to-ceiling windows, her hair wrapped in a towel as though she were lying on the beach. Red lipstick. Tinted green sunglasses. They might have been in Cannes, only she was sporting a belted swimming costume—tartan no less—that had no business being in Scotland.
"Allegra, what the fuck?"
She put her sunglasses up. "Is something wrong?"
Incredulous, he held up the gold-leafed invitation.
"Explain."
"Of course, Aleksey—it makes perfect sense," she said, settling back in her chair as though the threat in his tone was an invitation to relax. "Freyja is their patron and anyone who is anyone is already here. We will save a fortune on security alone. I've spoken with Morrigan on the telephone and provided we have the ball here, she is happy to provide half the rations."
Yes, but…
He was trying to put this into words. He'd spent years avoiding Hangrove. Decades. Like a devoted stonemason barricading his castle against exhaustingly trite conversation only to find Allegra handing out keys to the gatehouse. Finally settling on the more diplomatic road rather than just admitting it made him want to claw his eyes out. "I should have been consulted."
She looked perplexed by his reaction. "You said to surprise you."
"I told you to change the Rumour—without affecting me," he said, lowering the invitation so she could read the part where the most tedious ball of the year was now being hosted in his home. "This affects me."
She gave a heartfelt sigh of commiseration. The closest she'd come to seeing things on his level. "I'm sorry, darling, but this is exactly what is needed," she said, ignoring the invitation and instead reaching down for a small jar on the tiled floor, starting to dab an ointment on her wrists. "We all agreed…and it is happening."
"What do you mean you all…"
"The entire council."
"How?"
"Telephone."
It was worse than a coup.
He tore up the invitation. "I'm not attending."
'Yes, you are—you have been eschewing your duties for the past ten years." She closed the jar. "Your time is up. Therefore you will preside over the ball."
"I have no time."
"Find it."
"Why?"
"Because if you cancel, the unmarried youth of our society—and their parents—will host a mutiny on your doorstep."
Ugh, he thought. Eying the torn invitation with distaste and then brusquely shoving it in his pocket.
"How many days?"
"All three."
"Can Raze do it?"
"No."
It was a flat no. The kind of thing that spoke of the years that she'd watched him throw her husband into every single bureaucratic line of fire that could help him avoid a society dinner.
"Dante?"
"He's in Delhi."
"This is not consensual," he muttered.
"Of course it is, darling—I've spoken with Freyja," she said. "…and we both think it's a marvellous idea."
No.
It was not.
Because he could see it already. An entire evening wasted beside a fucking palm plant, listening as hoards of gentry regaled him with their plans for adding a new conservatory to the country home. All for the good of the cause, of course—creating work for their poor fellow lycans and all that. He'd be sitting there for endless hours, listening with glazed eyes, first to the people on his left, then to the people on his right as the rest of his life flashed before him. And that was without wine.
"Can we not…" He could hear how desperate he sounded. His hands rising first to his temples followed by the back of his head, fingers clasped together. "…postpone it at least?"
"Don't be silly, Aleksey—we have to move quickly."
"On what grounds?"
"Scandal."
"It was chess."
"Three hours of chess…"
He raised a finger. "Two."
"…while lounging in her quarters…"
"Rena was there," he interjected. Now pacing along the water edge.
"… on the same night as a formal dinner for the Northern delegation," she finished before he could say anything further. Not even bothering to temper her tone as they both knew he was guilty as charged…and that Freyja had spent an hour waiting for him.
The scent war finally resolving itself into a frustrating vice around his neck as he saw with painful clarity how restricted his life had become. He'd spent a hundred and fifty-odd years skulking around shadows, rarely able to see, let alone touch, his wife; and now six hundred years later, he was being treated like an unbridled degenerate for being comfortable in his own home.
Allegra fully aware of where his mind had gone, but unwilling to budge for the sake of his past. "Aleksey, you know I can only advise you," she said, picking at random from the pile of reading material at her feet. "But if you are going to spend these hours with Reinette, then…at least let me control the narrative."
He scowled, pulling the invitation out again so he could start shredding it again. "In what manner?"
"Give them what they want," she said, using her magazine to indicate the sun rising beyond the glass. "None of this hiding away. We remove the veil. Dress her properly. Erling is happy to escort her—and as long as the four of you are seen together in the weeks leading up to the grandest ball of the year, the Rumour gets its story and at the end of the party, everyone goes home."
That…
…fucking shit.
It was only by sheer force of will that he kept the words down. His hand idly reaching up to scratch his throat again. Why the fuck was it so blood-forsakenly itchy, he wondered. Attempting to sound disinterested. "And he has Gottfrid's approval for that?"
"One would assume," Allegra said, frowning over her copy of Harper's Bazaar. "Not my first choice, but the Rumour will eat it up like marrow—and apparently, the boy is very interested in conversing with her. Did he not mention it?"
He started picking gold-leaf off his nails. "He did."
"And is it a problem?"
In theory, his scent was masked, his expression neutral…and yet somehow, like the devil she was, Allegra was now looking disturbingly interested to hear his opinion. And yet, why did it feel like if he gave said opinion, he'd be burning a lifeboat while sailing across an ocean of things not being said…
He shrugged.
"No."
"Good." Allegra flipped a page. "If she can handle secretly visiting the docks, she can handle the six weeks leading up to a ball." She started counting her fingers. "That gives us four rides, three walks, two dinners and one event where you inexplicably have to leave before the second half."
"That's a quadrille," he said pointedly. This was not going the way he'd planned.
She smiled warmly.
"I know it's a quadrille," she said, practically petting him with her tone. Her primary focus on an issue of Vogue that for reasons beyond his comprehension featured an Art Deco version of herself on the cover. "That's why we are using it. This way, you get to have your cake…and eat it. Only Freyja will be eating it with you…at Hangrove."
Ugh…
It was unconscionable.
At least with the Yuletide ball, there'd been a chance of enjoying oneself. Hangrove just sounded like a societal nightmare planned by the Lycan Women's Temperance Society. He needed to reestablish boundaries. Still holding the torn invitation, he pointed at Allegra. "This isn't finished."
"No, darling." Putting her sunglasses back on, she leaned back to bask in the sun. "This has only just begun."
He nearly stopped at that.
A hair away from saying something…and then cutting his losses by stalking from the hall. Had Allegra been in charge seven centuries ago, the war would have been won before they'd left the blood-forsaken castle.
A/N: Sorry for the wait—the last two months got away from me (As usual all the things that could happen DID happen, but pshh, moving on). At least I have a few chapters written, so I'll be posting them presently. Many thanks to Ursiearielw12, Books-n-Harleys, O pior, Guest, Florals4, LovingBitch, and MermaidVampire for the reviews and alerts. As always feel free to read and review!