LUCIEN

  Morning tea at Harrowhal Hall had been a usual thing for Lucien for the last few days. The staff were too formal, so was Alistair. Only Henrietta made the tedious lessons on becoming a gentleman bearable.

  The sixth day was for the waltz. Lucien stood in the South Hall, adjusting his tie the proper way—breathing be damned—as he waited for the others. His eyes strayed toward the corner, drawn to the heavy oak double doors that stood slightly ajar.

  The Long Gallery, he remembered Henrietta calling it.

  Driven by a sudden, rebellious urge to escape the upcoming dance lessons, Lucien pushed the door open.

  Cold air hit his face, smelling of centuries-old furniture and the faint, metallic tang of stone. It was a corridor of impossible length, patterned after the great houses of the mid-17th century. To his left, a row of towering windows threw rectangular blocks of pale morning light across the floor. To his right, the ancestors of Harrowhal watched him from their gilded frames, their painted eyes trapped in layers of yellowing varnish.

  Halfway down the gallery, sitting atop a table of polished stone, a silver-framed photograph caught the light.

  Lucien moved toward it. Unlike the oil paintings of men in ruffs and doublets, this was a crisp, black-and-white window into a more recent ghost.

  There stood a man who could only be the late Lord Harrowhal. He looked formidable, standing on the very terrace Lucien had walked across that morning, but in the photo, it was a different Harrowhal Hall. The stone was crumbling. The ivy was choking the windows. The gardens, void of the modern topiaries, were lined instead with the strange statues of the Harrowhal coat of arms: gargoyles and griffins.

  Lucien realized Alistair's slip of the tongue was right—this was "Harrowhell."

  "Lucien, dear," Henrietta called, having discovered him. She picked up one of the photos on the table. "You've found my late husband."

  "Do you miss him?"

  A loud laugh from Henrietta rang along the gallery. She nearly dropped the frame from her hand.

  "William was a blackguard who loved only himself and his cigars. Our marriage was one of convenience. If there was anything to miss, it was his constant irritation with life itself. It was entertaining, in a way—watching him squirm at the mere indignities of everyday living. Come along now, your dance master is here."

  They proceeded to the Great Hall, a vast space with parquet floors. Alistair was already there, and three others. Heatherrow and a man and woman wearing white gloves.

  "Lucien, this is Mr. Beckett."

  He had impossibly good posture and a quite intriguing mustache that had a personality of its own.

  "Good morning, Master Lucien." He bowed, one hand tucked behind his back. "Today, you will learn the waltz. This is Nina, she will be your follow."

  She was slender and poised. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun, and she wore a flowing floral dress with white gloves that reached her elbows. She curtsied to greet him.

  "Shall we begin?" Mr. Beckett raised a hand, and the music began. Lucien noticed then the small chamber orchestra tucked into the gallery above.

  Marvellous. Just more eyes to witness his two left feet.

  Lucien had read the books. He knew the terms and the frame of the steps but doing it with an actual girl was a different tale entirely.

  The first few minutes were nothing short of a disaster. Alistair, prim as he was, could not help but stifle a laugh when Nina yelped. Lucien had stepped on her, twice. Heatherrow was horrified and Henrietta was calm, which was surprising.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  An hour passed quickly with not much progress. Henrietta called for refreshments or as Alistair called it, the elevenses. But when the footman arrived, there were no trolleys, only a frantic face.

  "My Lady, forgive me, but there is—"

  Lucien did not hear the rest of it. Henrietta and Heatherrow followed the footman out. They came back and everyone in the hall straightened their backs without command, because with them was Corin Clarendon.

  "That's an immaculate knot, for once." Corin gestured on Lucien's tie.

  "Thank you. I'm barely breathing."

  Alistair stared down at his funny socks—deep maroon with yellow kitties—to hide his grin. He had been tightening the noose on his neck every time he could see it slipping.

  "Show me your waltz."

  Patrice, who was with her, brought a chair from a corner and set it behind her so she could watch.

  There goes the elevenses, Lucien thought in despair.

  He felt bad for Nina. The lady had not yet recovered from earlier assaults, and now she must endure Lucien again.

  The strings played. The dance started smoothly, even though Lucien was stiffer than before. Feeling Corin's eyes on his disoriented feet, he looked down, making sure he didn't maim Nina this time.

  Corin laced her fingers together, and her forefinger began to tap. Up, down, up, down... and then she stopped, and so did Lucien's rhythm. Nina cursed in Russian as Lucien's weight fell heavily over her.

  "I'm—so sorry!" Lucien pushed himself up and helped Nina to her feet. "That was—I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

  "Yes..." She held her spine. "...sir."

  She was being too kind, but she probably wanted to stab him with her heels.

  Lucien turned to Corin. She tilted her head—her way of saying it would be better if he simply put himself below the ground.

  "Heatherrow, could you fetch Alistair a pair of gloves?" she ordered.

  "Yes, Miss."

  Corin stood, and Patrice brought her a set that looked exactly like the ones Nina wore. She walked over to him and laid a gloved hand against his chest. "I didn't expect much, actually, but you are the worst thing I've seen today since Vicki."

  That was an attack on Lucien's pride. "In spite of all the rumours about me, I'm not perfect, Corin."

  Her hand wrapped around his tie, tugging it down and forcing his face to hers. "You have to be," she whispered. "If you ruin this gala for me, Lucien... I'm going to hurt you. Say that you understand."

  She was not even fuming; she was just cold. Corin stood just below his shoulder, slight of build, yet she still managed to inspire so much fear.

  Lucien swallowed. "Crystal."

  "Excellent. Now, watch Alistair closely. See how real gentlemen do it."

  They took the centre, and every eye in the hall focused on them. Lucien watched Alistair Ascor and understood that he was miles away from him. Alistair was precise and gentle at the same time. He never looked at his feet—not even once—his eyes only on Corin. The music swelled and they became even closer, a breath away from each other.

  Lucien balled his fist at the sight. There was none of the awkwardness he and Nina had shared. Corin and Alistair looked perfect, intimate, and Lucien could tell this was not their first time.

  "Are you really just going to stand there and gawk?" Henrietta muttered beside him.

  "I'm nothing like him, Henrietta."

  "There are a dozen boys like him in her circle," she spoke, her voice a dry rasp. "But you outranked them all, didn't you? The boy from nowhere with nothing."

  Lucien turned to her then. "What are you saying?"

  "If you want the Clarendon rose, Lucien, you must be ready to bleed for her. You are far too nice—and in this world, one must be willing to take."

  It's not like that. I don't want her. I don't—

  The music entered its second part, something he never heard because Nina and him couldn't make it past even the intro.

  "If you wait for the song to end before you move, I'm going to strike you with my cane." Henrietta warned.

  Lucien stopped thinking and just walked to them. The music kept playing but Corin stopped Alistair.

  "I think I got it." He said to her and offered a hand. "Shall we dance now?"

  "If you step on my foot—"

  "You're going to kill me. I got it, Corin." Lucien insisted.

  She let go of Alistair and took Lucien's hand.

  The musicians slowed, then smoothly restarted the waltz. Lucien pulled Corin close—closer than necessary. He felt her grip on his left hand tighten. They moved, attuned to the music and the rules of the dance. Lucien kept his eyes only to her. He had watched her dance with another boy, and all that time, Corin had been the one leading. She couldn't help herself. It was simply who she was.

  He didn't allow her to do that now.

  "What are you doing?" Corin asked, feeling the sudden shift.

  "Dancing."

  He pulled her even closer. He could hear the gasps from the gallery; Patrice looked ready to step in.

  "Lucien—you need to stop."

  "Am I making you nervous?" His hand on her shoulder blade pressed tighter.

  He twirled her once. It was elegant. And when she came back to face him again, her eyes were softer.

  "I hate dancing, and fancy food, and tea," Lucien told her. "But if you need me to become a gentleman, then I'll become just that for you."

  The song was finished, and everyone clapped softly.

  "Well done!" Henrietta cheered. "Well done, dear boy!"

  Lucien stepped back and bowed his head down to her hand. Lips hovered just a fraction above the fabric—a ghost of a kiss. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Clarendon."

  "No," she said. "You call me Corin."

  A faint smile bloomed across Lucien's lips as he stood, spine straight.

  "Corin."