Prada and Prejudice (10 page)

But I can do this. I'm Rebecca. I'm smart and charming and outgoing. Everyone loves an American with stories to tell. I can be that girl. Tonight, I
will
be.

Chapter 15

Alex is sitting on a stool in a small room near the entry, the double doors propped open. He doesn't see us; he's just staring into the glowing embers of the fire, his hands clasped in his lap.

I stop in the hall, taking the opportunity to stare at him, even though I'm sure Emily will tease me about it later. She's insane if she thinks I actually like him. I just like
looking
at him. The second he opens his mouth, the appeal is gone. And the more I learn about him, the more I despise him. He doesn't care about anyone
--
not Emily, not his own kid, not his servants.

Today, he's ditched the leather riding boots for some fancy shoes and tall socks. And I
should
think that looks totally lame. I mean, the socks go practically to his knees. His snug pants are navy blue. I can't see the front of his matching jacket, but from behind I can tell that it fits him.
Really well.
In fact, his whole outfit looks like a second skin. It's a shame he's such a complete jerk, or he'd be a great catch.

When he spots us, he stands and leaves the fireplace. Now that he's facing us, I can see he's wearing one of his white neckcloths, tied and looped until his whole neck is covered. His vest is a blue and silver paisley pattern, with buttons just as shiny as his shoes.

But what I'm really drawn to is his face
--
that strong jaw, those burning eyes. His strides are long and purposeful, and before I can inhale a last calming breath, he's in front of us.

"Good evening," he says, and then bows.

Emily and I do our best curtsies.

"Evening," she says.

"Evening," I say, even though at this point it sounds completely redundant.

"Are we quite ready? The landau is waiting."

He emphasizes the
waiting,
like Emily and I are running late. Whatever.

Emily nods, and so I do.

By now I've figured out they never call a carriage just "the carriage," but by the specific name for each one. I'm pretty sure the more carriages you have, the richer you are.
Emily said once that the Earl of Porth could not afford to "keep a carriage" because of his gambling habits, as if that were deplorable.

So I'm guessing since Alex
has something like eight carriages, he's pretty rich. I've also realized my original estimate of servants was way,
way
off. I've come to the conclusion that there are at least forty. Maybe fifty.

I wonder if
any
of them get real weekends.

As we walk toward the front door, Emily does her best to embarrass me. "I've loaned Rebecca the dress she is wearing. Doesn't it look beautiful on her?"

Oh God, really? She had to go there? I don't understand why she doesn't totally hate him. He obviously doesn't care about
us.

The expression on his face is still the perma-blank look he's been sporting since the moment I met him, but he turns to stare at me, his piercing green eyes cutting right through me. And so I stare back, even as my cheeks heat up to the point where my whole face must
look like a red tomato. So much for my fair skin.

I don't even think he's going to say anything. But then he speaks. "Yes. She looks lovely," he says. And I swear
--
by the tone of his voice, it sounds like he might actually mean it.

Emily nods. "Are we ready?"

The three of us walk out the enormous front doors as a carriage is pulling around, the horses' hooves clattering on the rocks. This particular carriage is apparently a convertible because the benches are in open air, and I see folded black fabric behind the seats, which might work as a roof if you pulled them up. The doors have some kind of crest or coat of arms painted on them.

This carriage, with gleaming silver all over it, is more decked out than the last one I rode in. It's being pulled by the glossiest horses I've ever seen; they look like brand new pennies. There are two servants in the front seat, dressed in Harksbury's standard-issue black uniform. One of them jumps off before the wheels have even stopped turning and pulls out a step. The other just sits atop his seat, holding the horses steady. One of the horses prances in place, the harness jingling. The whole thing is rather elaborate and grand.

Alex escorts me to the carriage, and I'm hyperconscious of how close he is. He steps to the side of the door and offers me his arm to climb in. I notice how the cuff of his jacket is turned over his hand; his knuckles almost disappear into the sleeve, and there's another shiny brass button near his wrist. Yes, his jacket definitely costs more than anything I own
--
even my shoes.

He's standing there with his face turned upward and such an arrogant look in his eyes that I flirt with the idea of ignoring his hand and climbing in on my own, but I don't want to anger him. So I rest my gloved hand momentarily on his fingertips and pretend I don't feel the hot tingles shooting up my arm at his touch.

Why is he being nice? Is he doing this because that's who he is, or is this one of those
required
things for guys of his
...
rank?

Emily climbs up and sits on the bench beside me. Alex sits across from us, and all at once the air is sticky and a little too heavy. We can't ignore one another when we're staring right at each other.

But who wants to talk to a guy like him?

The open carriage is a little breezy, and yet still warm. Emily and I are wearing velvet fur-lined capes over our gowns. Mine is a pretty pink color, the same shade as the ribbon under my chest.

I try to think of something smart and witty to say to prove I'm brilliant, but nothing comes to mind. By the time we've pulled out of the big iron Harksbury gates, no one has spoken a word.

Emily breaks the silence. "The sky was such a pleasing shade of blue today. Don't you think?"

I smile and nod. "Yes, it certainly was."

"Why do you suppose the sky is blue? Why not green or red?"

I shrug and follow her gaze. The sun has almost set, the pale blue of day transforming into dark velvet. "It has to do with the light waves. Blue scatters differently than red does."

Emily looks at me quizzically. "You say such odd things at times, Rebecca."

I smile, a little embarrassed. I probably shouldn't show my nerdy side unless under duress. I'm pretty sure there's a rule about that in the
Social Climber's Guide to Regency
England.

"What is this you speak of?" Alex's voice is so deep and unexpected I jerk my eyes from the stars and look at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"The light waves. What do you mean by them?"

Oh. Right. "Um, well, light comes from the sun in waves. Of color. And then they reflect on different things in the atmosphere and
...
Oh never mind."

It's sort of stupid to explain the whole thing, given how complicated it is.

Alex looks straight at me for a long moment, and then turns back to stare at the sky.
"And who told you such a thing?"

I snort. "People
much
smarter than you."

"I'm smarter than you think," he says, avoiding my eyes. It's almost dark out. What is he even looking at?

"And I'm not as ignorant as
you
think," I say.

He turns so abruptly I'm surprised he doesn't strain his neck. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything.

I dare him to disagree. I wait for it. But then he just turns away.

Emily breaks the tension. "Do you suppose Denworth will be at the dance?"

Her voice is hardly a whisper, but I hear the hope behind her words anyway. The hope that her future husband is miles and miles away.

"Does he live near here?" I ask.

"Perhaps an hour's ride beyond Harskbury. I do hope he is not in attendance."

Alex stops staring at the passing greenery long enough to look at Emily. "It would do you well to accept the engagement," he says in a scolding voice. Who does he think he is, Emily's father? They're
cousins.
That doesn't give him any authority over her.

"Yes, Your Grace," she says, in a meek voice.

"Why?" I blurt out, before I can stop.

He looks up at me. "Because it is her duty to do her father's bidding."

"And her husband's after that, I suppose?"

"Of course," he says.

"And when is she to do
her own
bidding?"

Alex appears at a loss for words. He blinks those thick lashes a couple of times, but says nothing.

Fortunately, I have enough to say for both of us. Why is it that I can't defend myself to three pretty girls from my class, but when it comes to Emily, I'm as fierce as a lioness with cubs? Or is it Alex who brings this side out? "Emily deserves the same rights as you do. She should be able to choose for herself."

He crosses his arms, looking all the more pompous by the second. "You believe a woman should have the same rights as a man? Is that truly how it is in America?"

"Yes! And if you cared even the tiniest bit about your own blood relation, you'd do something!" Even as I say the words, I don't know who I'm talking about anymore: Emily or Alex's daughter.

He stares me down, his eyes turning even darker. It stops me cold and the anger ebbs, replaced by the realization I've been much too bold. The piercing look freaks me out.
Does he know that I know about the letters? "Everyone has a place in society. It would do you good to observe yours."

And then, as if to say the conversation is over, he turns to look toward the passing forest.

It's going to be a long night.

Chapter 16

The carriage rolls up to the front steps of a mansion almost as big as Alex's. It doesn't have the same round window bays, or quite the same elegant flair, but it's still made of stone, and it's bigger than the biggest mansions I've ever seen back home. The long drive is lined on both sides with hundreds of glowing lanterns. Our driver circles the horses near the front. Before we can stop, there are three more carriages behind us.

Is it insane if I'm proud of how much fancier our carriage looks than the others? Many of them are only pulled by one or two horses
--
ours has four. I think that means something.

And I think I'm getting this whole elitist-society thing. I'm betting a duke is the equivalent of a star quarterback. So that makes Alex rich, hot,
and
powerful. And he's like my date. Well okay, not really, but if this were a high school prom, I'd so pretend he was.

Plus, in my fantasies, he doesn't have a stick up his butt.

There must be a hundred horses and just as many people decked out in what I'm guessing are the latest fashions: empire waistlines, fur collars, flashy colors, shiny satin
--
the whole nine. All the men are in suits with shiny polished shoes and even shinier buttons. The colors and styles look more like a Bollywood movie than the subdued shades of Alex's apparel. He looks like he's going to a funeral; they look like they're ready to party.

The tiny bit of relaxed posture Alex sported in the carriage disappears into a rigid spine and an upturned nose. It really
is
possible for him to look even more uptight. Emily takes one of his arms and I realize I'm supposed to take the other. I sigh and wrap my fingers around his elbow. His arm stiffens under my touch, and I wonder if that means escorting me up the steps is a total chore.

Why does that bother me? The guy is a jerk, even if all this gentlemanly pomp is sort of... well... charming.

The second I remember the letters, though, any sense of charm evaporates. I know what it's like to grow up without a dad around. Whoever that kid is doesn't deserve that.

And Alex is here, at a dance, instead of helping his family out. There's nothing charming about blowing off your responsibilities.

As soon as we're inside the doors, I see a dozen servants in powdered wigs lined up, accepting jackets. I untie my cape and turn around, and one of them slips it over my shoulders, then does the same for Emily. We follow a steady flow of people down a long, wide corridor. Both sides are lit up with so many candles that the entire corridor glows in a wash of yellow, the light dancing as we pass. The hum of conversation is like electric energy, and I'm suddenly buzzing with adrenaline. At the end of the hallway there are two doors propped open, and when I step inside, I'm so awed by the scene that I drop my hand from its place at the crook of Alex's elbow. He is quickly pulled into conversation with a man and woman to my left, but I'm frozen in place.

I'm in a ballroom. It must be as big as the gym in my high school, and
way
fancier, with white columns supporting a high ceiling with dozens of coffered squares. There are powder-blue curtains everywhere along the walls, gathered and draped with gold-tasseled sashes. A veranda in one corner holds a band; their lively music drifts over the guests.