Divided Enchantment (Unbreakable Force Book 4) (3 page)

8

Grace

T
he Flores Winter Social was a major event. All the important people of Ruis were invited and the Flores family spared no expense in decor, music, and food. The entire house was decorated in splendor, the most skilled musicians were hired to play, and the finest wines and delicacies were put out on several long tables that were lined up against two of the walls in the ballroom.

Grace was wearing her red dress, the neckline just low enough to emphasize her full bosom. Her hair was swept up, blonde ringlets falling on either side of her face. Her rouge was set. She wore pearl earrings and a matching necklace, and her snug white gloves were delicately crocheted. Her mask was small and white, edged with gold. She looked absolutely lovely—her father had said so. She knew so, too, after looking in the mirror.

She was going to turn heads tonight. Normally the thought thrilled her. It was fun to see how many men she could lead along. Tonight, though, she felt positively ill with nerves. She pressed her hands to her stomach, trying to stay calm. Why did she invite Bran? Her father couldn’t possibly approve of the man she’d chosen; her mother certainly wouldn’t. What would everyone else think of the stranger? That dratted Mr. Jameson expected her to dance with him. Three whole dances! Why had she said yes?

She put on a smile and greeted people warmly as they crossed the Flores threshold. Men’s eyes, single or not, turned to her. She remembered Polly telling her she’d be a head-turner, and she was right. But what about Bran? There would be plenty of other beautiful women. Would he still find her pretty?

“Grace!” With a swish of gold silk, a young woman wearing an elaborately painted mask hurried toward her. It was Annabelle, Grace’s lifelong friend. They hugged briefly, then Annabelle stood beside her, practically bouncing on her toes. “I’m so excited!” She looked over the party with a gleam in her black eyes. “It’s been
ages
since I’ve been to a social. My family and I have been in the city of Harbor for months now and have just come back.” She smiled, her jet-black hair tumbling to her shoulders in silky waves. “Parties are not nearly as fun in Harbor as they are here. How was Sen Altare? And did you really get captured by rovers?”

“Who told you that?” Grace laughed.

“You’re the talk of the town, dearie,” her friend replied. “Word is a tall barbarian carried you off to make you his bride.”

I wish,
Grace thought sourly, but simply sniffed. “If that were true, how could I possibly be here?”

“The inventor saved you, of course.” Annabelle’s eyes were constantly shifting as she compared the men—eligible and non-eligible alike—in the room. “But then he had to go and destroy the Tower, throwing our entire city into chaos. All that for a slave woman. He’s quite mad, you know.”

“Undoubtedly.” Grace still didn’t see Mr. Jameson, but she noticed with alarm that Mr. Hartford saw her, and was pushing through the crowd in her direction. She grabbed Annabelle’s arm, pulling her the other way. Annabelle saw and giggled, putting a slim hand to her mouth to stifle it.

“Come now, Grace, Mr. Hartford may not be much to look at, but he’s filthy rich.”

Grace shuddered. “I’d sooner marry . . . just about anyone else, really.”

Annabelle didn’t hear her. “Be still my heart,” she murmured, looking toward the entrance. “Who is he?”

Grace’s head snapped toward the ballroom entrance and, though she was several yards away, found herself swallowed up in the intense gaze of a tall, lean man.

Bran. He’d come! He looked smashing, dressed in a black jacket, red vest, and form fitting gray trouser and black boots. His mask was adorned with black swan feathers. Grace’s knees wobbled under the intensity of his stare, but she tried to hide it as she walked over to greet him.

9

Bran

B
ran felt a little unsteady looking across the room at Grace. Shades alive, she had always been a beautiful woman, but tonight she was absolutely stunning. Her hair caught the light of the lamps, making her hair seem to glow. Her silk ball gown exposed pale shoulders, and her full, red lips curved upward in a smile. She glided gracefully across the room to stand before him. She looked up with a smile. “You came.”

Bran had to swallow twice before he could speak. “I couldn’t turn down your invitation.”

“I’m glad. Did you have any trouble getting in?”

Bran smirked, pretending to be confident. “I’m Lord Sirius Archer of Sen Altare. I get invited to all sorts of parties.”

“See?” Grace laughed, putting a delicate hand to her mouth. “I told you it would work.”

Bran scanned the area. The ballroom was massive. It could’ve held fifty nomad tents with room to spare. Candles set in sconces lined the walls, and chandeliers sparkled with light. Tables were practically groaning with the weight of food and drink. His stomach growled, and he eyed the tables again. He’d been in such a hurry to get there he didn’t stop to eat. Grace noticed and tugged on his arm. “Are you hungry? Come, you can—”

“Miss Grace, there you are.” A tall gentleman, wearing an outrageously large silver mask, came to stand by her side, placing a hand on her shoulder in a way that seemed much too familiar to Bran. The man smirked at him. “If you don’t mind, Mr.. . .”

“Lord Archer.” Grace said, turning to the man. “Lord Sirius Archer of Sen Altare.”

“‘Lord,’ is it?” Mr. Jameson drawled. His eyes took in Bran’s clothing. Bran tried not to wince; he was wearing his very finest, but they were still rather plain compared to the men here. “Well,
Lord
Archer, if you’ll excuse us.” His hand—Bran resisted the overwhelming urge to break it—lifted from Grace’s shoulder only to take her hand. “You promised me the first three dances, Miss Grace.”

The young woman grimaced, but without another word allowed Mr. Jameson to lead her out onto the dance floor, leaving Bran quite alone.

10

Grace

“
T
rust me, Miss Grace.” Mr. Jameson’s grip was iron and quite uncomfortable as they waltzed across the ballroom floor. “You don’t want to get mixed up with the likes of that man. He may cut a fine figure—” Mr. Jameson’s mouthed tightened in displeasure, “—but coming from the south, he’s sure to have no manners, and wouldn’t know how to treat a lady properly.” He smiled condescendingly down at her and it took everything Grace had to keep from smacking him upside the head. Pompous fool.

When they turned, she momentarily stood on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder and was shocked to see Bran talking quite animatedly to another woman. Another turn in the waltz and she momentarily lost sight of him. A break in the crowd showed the nomad chief again. He was talking to Annabelle! Out of all the women there, Annabelle was the last woman Grace would have picked to interact with Bran. If Annabelle got it into her head that she fancied the man, she wouldn’t be happy until she had him wrapped around her finger.
That dirty puzzle.
Annabelle
would
talk to him. Grace would have to strangle her later. How dare she talk to her Bran?

Perhaps Mr. Jameson realized what she was doing, but whatever the reason he firmly led them to a different section of the dance floor, quite effectively blocking her view of the handsome nomad. “Quite the cold winter we’re having, wouldn’t you say?” He began to engage her in pointless, boring conversation that Grace was obligated to answer. The first dance finished, and the second began. It felt endless.

Grace ground her teeth in frustration. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her evening going at all.

11

Bran

B
ran stared after Grace’s retreating form. Did she not care for him? He had been so sure she did. But if that were really the case, why did she dance with another man? His hands curled into fists at his sides. A young woman walking past him tripped and stumbled. Bran instinctively caught her, helping her regain her footing.

She looked up, pushing her golden mask up onto her forehead to get a better look at him. She smiled demurely through long, dark lashes. Her hair was black as crow feathers, and glistened in the light. “Thank you, sir.” She stepped closer, her gaze traveling over his body in a way that wasn’t demure at all. “I really must watch my step.”

“No problem.” Bran’s eyes lifted over her head, scanning for Grace. There, in the center of the ballroom. She looked stiff and thoroughly uncomfortable. Good.

“And to whom do I owe my thanks?”

Bran blinked, looking down again at the young woman. He’d forgotten about her. “Bran—er, I mean, Sirius. Sirius Archer.”

“Oh?” Her enormous eyes were the color of midnight. “And where do you hail from, Mr. Archer?”

“Lord Archer,” he corrected with a grin. “From Sen Altare.”

“A Lord?” Bran didn’t think the young woman could get any closer, but she did; they were almost touching. “How exciting. Grace didn’t tell me about you.”

I can see why.
Bran wasn’t interested in anyone besides Grace, but he’d have to be a blind fool to not be aware that the young lady was pleasant to look at. “Are you a friend of Miss Grace, then?” he asked. He flicked his gaze to where Grace and the cursed Mr. Jameson had been dancing, and was disappointed when he couldn’t see them in the crowd.

The young woman grabbed his arm with both hands, pulling him toward double doors that led to an outdoor balcony. “It’s rather warm in here, wouldn’t you say? Come, let’s go outside for a bit. The winter air will do you some good.”

Bran frowned. She was being awfully bold for a woman who hardly knew him. Why so interested? “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He wasn’t sure how a lord from Sen Altare was supposed to act though, and allowed her to tug him outside. They were the only two out on the balcony. It was dark, and a chill wind had sprung up.

The young woman clutched her crocheted shawl around her narrow shoulders and sat on a marble bench. She patted the empty space next to her, and he sat. “It’s a mite cold out here.” She laughed, shifting closer so their legs touched. “It was a bit stifling in there, though. My name is Miss Annabelle Fontei. But
you
can call me Annabelle.” She smiled slowly.

Bran looked around. They were well and truly alone. He hoped there wasn’t some angry father ready to spring out at him. He had no idea who this woman was, but didn’t want to be rude. He sat on the edge of the bench, as far from her as he could.

“Lord Archer.” The young woman shifted closer to him. “What is it like in Sen Altare? I’ve never been to the southern city. My father doesn’t have any estates there, though many in Ruis do.” Her dress was cut low enough that Bran cleared his throat in alarm when she leaned forward a little. “I’d love to visit someday. Perhaps you could—”

“Well, isn’t this cozy?” Grace stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a glare on her face. Annabelle jumped, startled, but Bran kept his expression calm as he looked up at the angry woman.

“Yes, it is,” he said blandly, satisfied at the fury on her face.

“Well,” Grace’s chin rose as she looked down her nose at him. “If I had realized you were so busy with
Annabelle—
” She shot the dark-haired woman a venomous look, Annabelle staring coolly back. “—I wouldn’t have interrupted you.” She turned with a swish of red silk and marched back inside, back stiff with anger.

Bran leapt to his feet, ignoring Annabelle’s protests, and strode after Grace. He caught up with her inside in the hallway and grabbed her arm. She glared up at him. “Let go of me.” Her voice was ice. He ignored her demand.

“What’s your problem?” he growled. “You made it perfectly clear you preferred the other man’s company to mine, yet you get your shift in a wad when
I
talk to another woman? What kind of double standard is that?”

Grace’s mouth hung open in astonishment. “What do a few dances with Mr. Jameson have to do with anything?” She looked bewildered. “It would have been rude to not accept.”

Bran’s frown deepened. “In our nomadic society, a woman does not dance with a man she is not romantically interested in. By accepting his offer, you’ve made it quite clear you prefer his company to mine.”

“It was three dances!” Grace’s face was flushed, her eyes glittering with outrage. “You really think that means I like him? It’s call being polite, Bran, something that is obviously foreign to you. I would have embarrassed myself and my family if I’d declined.”

Bran stared down at her, trying to come back with a response. His mind was blank. He knew those from Ruis and Sen Altare had different cultures from the nomads, but he didn’t realize it went so far. It was ridiculous that a woman would dance with a man she had no intention of potentially marrying.

“You shouldn’t have danced with him,” he muttered.

Grace’s gaze softened. Not by much, but a little. “If you claim the remaining dances, I won’t have any choice but to comply.”

“Well then,” Bran put her arm in his. “I claim the remaining dances.”

“And stay away from Annabelle,” she snapped. “She’ll try to snatch you up quicker than the last hotcake if you’re not careful.”

Bran smiled. “I’m not interested in Annabelle.” He looked down at her. The redness in her face had diminished somewhat, but she still looked flustered. Still beautiful. At this point they were back in the ballroom. Masked couples circled their way about the large room, while servants carried trays filled with tall goblets of wine. Mr. Jameson detached himself from the crowd at the same time that Annabelle caught up to them. The dark beauty looked decidedly sullen, and Mr. Jameson’s expression was one of irritation.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Grace,” he said. “I was wondering if I could have the pleasure of the next—”

“Miss Grace will be dancing with me,” Bran said firmly. His grip on Grace’s hand tightened before he could catch himself, but was pleasantly surprised when she squeezed his hand briefly in return.

Mr. Jameson didn’t look convinced. “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Grace?” he asked.

Grace nodded. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Jameson,” she replied, “but I assure you I have no need of it.” She turned to Annabelle. “Mr. Jameson, I don’t believe you’ve made the acquaintance of Miss Annabelle Fontei. Annabelle, this is Mr. Jameson.”

She all but dragged Bran away as the former two made polite introductions. Bran smothered a laugh. “That was brilliant.”

Grace’s lips twitched, she was trying to hold in a chuckle. “Those two deserve each other.” They were in the center of the ballroom, and she turned to face him. “You know how to dance, then?”

Bran smirked. “A little.”

He was considered a very good dancer in the clan. He quickly discovered, however, that dances in Ruis were nothing like tribal nomadic dances.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, after stepping on her foot for the third time.

Grace winced. “I thought you said you could dance.”

“Oppressor dances are pointless,” he shot back. “There’s no soul in them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you want me to show you?” He tilted his head, listening to the music. It had no solid beat in its rhythm, but he might be able to make it work.

“How much ‘soul’ does your dance have?” Her lips curved in a smile. “You’ve already drawn much attention simply by being here. You might not want to garner more.”

Bran nodded. “The first nomad to ever be invited to a Ruis social, no doubt.”

“To any social as a guest, even if I’m the only one to know it,” Grace replied. “Nomads have come to socials in Ruis, of course, but always as slaves. I met Adaryn at a party. Aaric had brought her.” She was silent a moment, and when she spoke, her tone was reflective. “I don’t think she knew it at the time, but she was already in love with him. I was jealous.” She laughed.

“Are you still jealous?” Bran asked seriously.

Grace shook her head. “Of course not. Not when I have you.” She smiled up at him for a brief moment before pulling him over to the tables, ending their conversation.