“I don’t think—”
“We were in Venice earlier this year,” her husband says, dragging me back into his conversation. “Quite a place. You should see Saint Bartolomeo’s while you’re there—the frescoes are better than at Saint Mark’s, and the friars will walk you up to the bell tower if you’re willing to part with some coinage. Avoid the Carnevale—it’s all hedonism and masquerades. Oh, and there’s an island off the coast, with a chapel—can’t remember the name, but it’s been sinking into the Lagoon. It’ll be underwater by the end of summer.”
“My club meets Thursday evenings,” the woman is saying, and Percy is replying, “I don’t think I’d have anything to say.”
But she pushes on. “To have been raised the way you were! In a wealthy household, with natural children . . .”
I can feel waves of secondhand embarrassment wafting off Percy like I’m standing too close to an oven, and the gentleman is tapping the bowl of his clay pipe against the back of his hand out of time with the music, and I want a drink so badly I can hardly think straight.
“It’s a dramatic sight, crumbling and half sunk into the sea.” His pipe knocks into his ring with a clatter that sets my teeth on edge. “We took a boat out, though they only let you get so close—”
“Well, doesn’t that just sound like the most fun thing I can imagine,” I interrupt, louder than I mean to though I don’t retreat from it.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sitting in a boat and watching an island sink slowly into the sea,” I say. “What a thrill. Perhaps while we’re a thousand miles from home, we’ll also take in an eyeful of tea boiling.”
The gentleman is so shocked he takes an actual step backward from me, which is a tad dramatic. “Merely a suggestion, my lord. I thought you might enjoy—”
“I can’t imagine I would,” I reply, stone-faced.
“Well, then. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. Excuse us.”
He takes his wife’s arm, and as he leads her away, I hear her say, “Negroes are so standoffish.” A fitting end to a conversation that was essentially prolonged mortification for all parties involved.
The ambassador looks as though he’s about to scold me, but he’s distracted when his wig catches on a passing woman’s and they’re both nearly uncoiffed. I look over at Percy, hoping he might thank me for saving him from conversing further with that cow, and then we’ll conspire about how bloody awful this night has turned out to be. But he’s frowning at me with nearly the same enthusiasm as the ambassador. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask.
He blows a sharp sigh through his nose. “Must you be an ass to everyone you meet?”
“He was the one giving daft travel advice.”
“You’re being obnoxious.”
“Zounds, Perce. Be a bit gentle, why don’t you?”
“Can’t you put in some effort? Please? Even if you don’t give a whit what anyone has to say, these are important people. People who could be good for you to know. And even if they weren’t, you should at least try to be kind.”
God, I would cut off my own feet for my champagne glass to magically refill itself in this moment. I’m craning my neck for a passing server. “I really don’t care who anyone here is.”
Percy grabs me by the sleeve, pulling me around so we’re face-to-face. The back of his hand brushes mine, and we shy from each other like spooked horses. That goddamn kiss is ruining my life. “Well, you should.”
“Why does it matter to you?” I snap, shoving my fists into my pockets. His cravat has slipped, and I can see my teethmarks crawling up his neck, which is just bloody aggravating.
“Because we can’t all have the luxury of not caring what people think of us.”
I scowl. “Leave me alone. Go speak to someone else.”
“Who am I meant to speak to?”
“Fine, go serve the drinks, then,” I snap, and immediately wish I hadn’t. I reach out before he can say anything and take hold of his arm. “Wait, I’m sorry—”
He shrugs off my grip. “Thanks for that, Monty.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“But you did,” he says, then stalks away. All the righteous indignation I’ve been nursing for days wilts like butter in the sun.
Worthington reappears suddenly at my side, scraping a hand along his wig. A small blossom of starchy powder blooms from its strands. “Where’s Mr. Newton gone?”
“Don’t know,” I reply, resisting the urge to toss back my coupe one more time to make certain there isn’t a last swallow clinging to the bottom.
“Come here, you should be introduced to the Duke of Bourbon,” he says, fastening my arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and I am pivoted to face a man coming toward us. He’s a stocky and ungenial-looking fellow in a red-and-gold justacorps, with a curled wig enveloping his head like a horned cyclone. “Do try and be civil. This is the young king’s former prime minister—he’s just been dismissed for unknown reasons. Still a touchy subject.”
“I really don’t care,” I reply, though in the back of my head I can hear Percy’s admonition to try and be kinder like the echo of a cymbal. A stab of guilt goes through me, and I think, perhaps, it might be novel to give this society-manners thing a bit of an effort.
“Good evening, my lord.” The ambassador darts into the path of the duke, who looked ready to pass us by, and offers a short bow.
“Bonsoir, ambassadeur,” the duke replies, hardly bothering to make eye contact. “You look well.”
“Always a pleasure. A fine evening, as is usually had here. How good to see you. Not that it’s a surprise. Of course you’re here.” Bourbon looks as though he’d like to sidle away from this conversation, though the ambassador seems equally as desperate to keep him anchored. “Will His Majesty be in attendance?”
“His Majesty remains indisposed,” the duke replies.
“A shame. We all pray for his swift recovery, as always. May I present Lord Henry Montague, Viscount of Disley, recently arrived from England?”
Just try, says Percy’s voice in my head. I give the duke the most sincere smile I can muster, dimples employed for fullest effect, and offer him the same small bow the ambassador did. It feels like a strange imitation, a stage version of the way I’ve seen other men behave. “It’s a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he says, his tone noticeably absent of any pleasure as he wraps me in a stare that could pin a man to the wall. “You’re Henri Montague’s eldest?”
Always a hideous place to start, but I keep that luminous smile fixed. “Yes.”
“Henry is touring,” the ambassador says, like that might somehow open a conversational door, but the duke ignores him and keeps that calculating gaze fixed upon me. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck. He’s not a tall fellow, but he’s solid, and I’m neither of those things. In that steel-tipped stare of his, I feel significantly smaller than usual.
“How fares your father of late?” he asks.