Catherine, her thoughts in turmoil, did her best to keep her eyes locked on the white overhanging cliffs so she wouldn’t be tempted to seek out Jest in the crowd. She was sure that with one look at her, he would know the depth of her thoughts.
The orchestra leaped into a waltz and Catherine could feel the King gathering his courage to ask for another dance, and so she thanked him exuberantly for the quadrille and escaped into the crowd before he could find the words.
All around her, the festival’s guests began to divide into couples and line up for the next dance. Cath avoided meeting anyone’s eye, unwilling to be drawn into a conversation or another dance, to be captured in the endless turns and figures and trivial chatter until the festival ended and they all dispersed, afraid to be caught in the dark now that a monster was on the prowl.
She snapped from her thoughts to the sound of her own name roaring in her ears. The crowd had pushed in towards her. A dozen women were chattering about the rumours of her courtship, a dozen men were inquiring after her dance card and then backing away jokingly, pretending that they didn’t want the King to take offence. Hands brushed her sleeves and smiles hovered Cheshire-like before her face. ‘Lady Catherine, how lovely you looked during the quadrille.’ ‘Quite the favourite with the King these days, aren’t you, Lady Pinkerton?’ ‘You looked beautiful out there – positively regal!’ ‘Catherine –’ ‘Catherine –’ ‘Catherine –’
Lowering her head, she tried to shove her way through, begging to be allowed to pass. Her mind was spinning, tumbling, as the crowd thickened with congratulations and compliments and twittering praise. The grins of strangers who were too blind to see the frustration behind her pretty face and pretty clothes and pretty life—
A cloud of white smoke burst at her feet, filling the air around her with startled gasps. Catherine froze. Within moments the smoke was so thick she couldn’t see her own hands outstretched before her.
Then there was a gloved hand in hers, fingers entwined, tugging her forward. Jest.
She followed without question, disconcerted at the press of confused bodies.
The smoke thinned as she was pulled up an embankment of craggly white stones, a narrow path tucked into an alcove beneath the cliffs. Jest glanced back to check that she was all right, before guiding them behind a wall of fallen boulders. Their surfaces sparkled with bits of quartz.
It was not as private as a sea cave, but it was serene and they were alone, at least for a time. Catherine, panting, was warm from her brow to her toes, but the shaded spot was comfortable and already her breaths were coming easier.
‘Are you all right?’ Jest said, cupping her hand and looking at her with the same concern he’d had when she’d awoken in the gardens.
She nodded. ‘Better already, thank you.’
‘I thought you were going to faint again. Have you eaten anything today?’
She gulped. ‘Y-yes. A meat pie, when I arrived this morning.’
His mouth quirked. ‘Excellent choice.’
The past few minutes faded away and once again Cath was standing on the surf, staring out into the sea, and realizing with sudden certainty that she was losing her heart to this fool.
She pulled her hand away and turned to peer through a crack in the rocks. On the beach, the smoke was clearing fast, leaving a fine mist over the baffled onlookers. The orchestra was still playing, though, and the confusion was giving way to another dance.
Jest brushed a lock of hair off her shoulder. ‘You don’t enjoy dancing?’
She shut her eyes. His fingertips lingered on the bare skin of her neck and she couldn’t resist leaning into them. ‘We can’t all be great performers.’
‘Yet you are a lovely dancer.’ He was so close she could feel the heat coming from him, cutting through the chill of the wind. ‘Beside you, even the King looked half respectable. It’s easy to see why he wants you for his queen.’
Her stomach dropped. There was no bitterness in his tone. She wondered why. Surely, if their roles were reversed and Jest was in the midst of courting another girl, it would have been shredding her to bits. Her emotions would have been lemon peel dragged across a grater.
She stepped away and opened her eyes, keeping her hands anchored to the glittering white stone. ‘You shouldn’t touch me,’ she said, her voice strained around the rapid beating of her heart.
Jest leaned against the stone. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ She couldn’t tell if he meant it.
Her heart tugged towards him. She wished that she hadn’t pulled back. She wished that he had pulled her closer.
‘Tell me, Sir Rook, did you behave this way with all the ladies in Chess too?’
‘Which behaviour are you referring to? My good manners, my charming witticisms, my beguiling charisma—’
‘I was referring to your determination to make me blush, for no other purpose than to laugh at me later.’
He blanched, then took a step closer. Cath could hear the creak of his leather boots. ‘I assure you that when I replay this conversation in my head later, it will not be in laughter.’
Cath lowered her lashes, her insides fluttering. ‘I should get back. My parents will worry.’ She turned away.
‘Wait?’
It was a question, not a demand, and so she waited. Stupid hope coursed through her veins.
‘It isn’t my place, of course . . .’
Gulping, she turned back. Jest had removed his gloves and was busy choking them in his fists. Though his expression was calm, his hands said otherwise.