Page 131 of Prince of Masks
That is why we stand the way we do, women on shelves.
My face is schooled as I flick my gaze around, scanning the faces for a familiar one.Anyfamiliar one. Strangers,acquaintances, unkind glares, eyes full of pity, of disdain, some of approval as I’m eyed over head to toe.
Aristos from all over the world fill the atrium.
Gentry will come later. They are invited, but not to stay at Versailles, and not to be a part of the Walk of the Debutantes. That is for aristos only.
And so I don’t expect to find Eric in the crowds lining the walls, or a friendly face like Teddy’s or Piper’s.
It takes me too long to find my family.
Oliver’s face is the one I first find.
Hands behind his back, he lifts his chin as our gazes connect—and the ghost of a smile tugs the corner of his mouth. He inclines his head, the slightest gesture of approval that he mimics after Father.
I keep my face smooth, schooled, and my chin high. But the urge to smile back is strong, and I clench my teeth to fight it off.
That flimsy moment of approval eases me.
I flick my glance behind Oliver.
There, my father stands with Mother, and he is looking at me already.
Like Oliver, he inclines his head, ever so slightly, and there is a kindness in the way he does it.
A tightness in my chest starts to loosen.
Mother clings to his arm, tears glistening her eyes into inky chandeliers—and her watery smile is highly improper.
In answer, my smile breaks free.
It is a small smile, quaint, and I have no choice but to look away from Mother before it splits into a grin.
I cut my gaze aside—and am snared by diamonds.
The Sinclairs stand with my family. No surprise there. But the intensity of Dray Sinclair’s stare almost knocks the breath right out of me.
It spears into me, a crystal sword, and it is utterly unwavering.
My breath shudders.
The quiver trembles my shoulders, my bodice, but I cannot tug my gaze from his.
He’s hooked me like a fish in the water.
And I just… stare back at him.
I hate to admit it, but his handsomeness is unmatched in the atrium. Even some of the debutantes pale in comparison.
If I didn’t loathe him so much, I might admit to the sudden twist in my gut at the sight of him.
It’s not that his sandy locks are combed to the side, just one or two strands starting to fall into his piercing eyes, or that his smooth complexion is as soft as the sculptures all around; it isn’t the soft pink of his mouth, the renewal of his sunkissed hue.
It is the sight of him in a modern, stylish tuxedo.
The gentry and the dull are easily picked out by their plain bowties and the waistcoats under their ill-fitted jackets, the sort of men who reuse the same tuxedo for every formal event, no understanding of the distinction between a black-tie fundraiser and a literal ball.
That’s not Dray.
