Page 92 of The Dragoneers of Longbourn and Pemberley
Selaide tensed and stilled in her needlework, waiting for the explosion, for the fight to start.
Valeraine put an arm around her sister’s shoulders, and held her. “If you steal my gown again, I will flay you alive. Thank you for returning it.” She could wear it to a ball, now that everyone would know where her scar was from, anyway. If she ever got invited to another ball, that is.
Selaide was stiff in the little hug, wary and alert. “You aren’t mad? About your derby costume?”
Valeraine squeezed Selaide closer, perhaps a little too forcefully. “I was furious. But I love you, and that is what stays in my heart day after day.” She looked into her hopeful eyes. “I am finished holding grudges against you.”
Valeraine stood up and started walking away, then spun and pointed at Selaide again, pinning her in place. “Just don’t push your luck, girl.” But she smiled as she delivered the warning.
“Thank you,” Selaide said, and it was possibly the most sincere words Valeraine had ever heard from her.
Chapter sixty-two
The next morning, Valeraine felt lighter. Her reputation had come crumbling down, but she had let go of that. Longbourn house would die, withering as Lelantos grew older and their lands passed to Netherfield, shriveling as people stopped considering them to be dragoneers. All would be well. She had her sisters to cherish, a dragon to share lovely rides with, and Alyce’s wedding would be magnificent.
Valeraine did not let herself hope for a person to share this life with. She would have her parents, and likely Merna, and they would subsist on charity from Mr. Nethenabbi (and the new Mrs. Nethenabbi), and they would be content.
She would find things to occupy herself. Perhaps she would set up a column inThe Dragoneer’s Journalto rival Scaleheart. She had no particular fondness for writing, but it might still be amusing. Her notoriety might even be an asset there, even as it closed the doors of romance and dignity to her.
Valeraine sat down for breakfast with her cheery family. Kesley, who had been a part of their family meals for years, was absent. Mamma was dominating the conversation with wedding planning, Alyce nodding, content to let their mother’s storm pass over her. Selaide would interrupt with her own ideas (a bigger ball, more expensive gowns), which Mamma would seize on happily. Merna was reading a book, tucked under the table so as to not draw attention, but they all knew her well enough that the subterfuge was useless. Papa had the post deposited in front of him (a smaller stack of letters than usual, but it did include a large parcel as well) and was opening the envelopes with flair with his table knife.
“Val,” he said, pulling a letter that had been affixed to the parcel, “this one is for you.”
Valeraine took the letter, wary. Who would be writing her? An angry competitor from the derby, upset she had stolen his win? A smug Nedine Nethenabbi, wanting to emphasize the poor state of Longbourn?
She recognized the handwriting on the envelope. This was a hand that she had studied, that she had obsessed over. Pemberley’s. What could he have to say to her? Perhaps it was a plea to stop the wedding between Nethenabbi and Alyce, as Longbourn house was even less suitable for his friend now.
Valeraine opened the letter with panache, already firm in her inclination to dislike the contents.
Dear Miss Valeraine Longbourn,
I know you will not wish to hear from me, that you have previously made your feelings plain. Writing to you feels only the more improper after the Royal derby.
However, I must write to you. I look at the money and the dragon egg that I won with dread. Because every time I look at them, I think of you. Therefore, I must be rid of them.
Cordially yours,
Mr. Bennington Pemberley
Master of Pemberley Nest
Valeraine stood up from her seat. The conversation around her stopped, puzzling looks thrown her way. She prowled around the table to the parcel sitting innocently in front of Papa. What a farce it was playing, pretending to be some harmless box. Wordlessly, she grabbed a knife from the table and cut the strings holding the wrapping securely. She unraveled the paper coverings, and opened the package.
Inside was a dragon egg, padded in blankets. It was, unmistakably, the black egg with teal marbling she had last seen in Pemberley’s hands. Tucked to the side of the egg were banknotes. Valeraine grabbed them out and began counting.
At this, Selaide could not hold her tongue any longer, and broke the table’s rapt silence. “Where did you get that money?” Selaide stood from her chair and came to peer into the box. “It’s a dragon egg!” she exclaimed.
The rest of the table exploded into a storm of questions.
Chapter sixty-three
Mr. Pemberley was absolutely the most horrid man in the world.
He had insulted Valeraine and her family, and told her father of her racing. He stole the glory of the Royal derby from her, and now this.
Now this.
Did he really think a dragon egg was of such little value that he might give it away on a whim? It was life changing.
