The Tomcat (3)

Louis' eyes widened as Annie made her entrance.

She was a vision in golden silk, her gown a rich, sun-drenched dandelion yellow that seemed to capture the very last light of the afternoon. Layers of delicate fabric cascaded in elegant, opulent folds, transforming her into a living storybook illustration. The fitted bodice hugged her petite frame, cinching her waist to an almost impossible slenderness before exploding into a magnificent, sweeping skirt. Her usual loose waves had been gathered into an intricate updo, with soft, artful tendrils framing her youthful, blushing features. Delicate pink roses were woven into her chestnut hair, as if a crown had bloomed directly from her head. The overall effect was one of breathtaking, innocent grandeur.

Annie let out an exaggerated, suffering sigh, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of her attire. "It's so dreadfully heavy," she whined, giving her skirt a petty tug. "And this corset... I feel like a trussed-up pheasant. How does anyone breathe in this? The things we do for fashion are so troublesome." She fanned herself dramatically, the evening air doing little to cool her down.

Louis let out a low, appreciative whistle, a genuine smirk spreading across his face. "Well, Annie, I'll be damned. You clean up like a proper lady. You look like you just stepped out of a painting. Duke Ravencourt won't know what hit him."

"Oh, stop it, Louis." Annie blushed, preening under the attention. "I'm sure there will be a dozen girls there who are far prettier than me."

Sirius, meticulously adjusting the cuff of his finely tailored coat, gave her a curt, approving nod. "Edith has outdone herself. You represent the house well. Remember to maintain that composure."

Annie beamed, twirling slightly so her magnificent skirts flared out around her. "Thank you, Father! Thank you, Louis! I only hope I don't trip over my own feet and embarrass everyone."

Sirius's gaze shifted past her, his eyes scanning the hallway. "Where is your sister?"

Almost on cue, Elise emerged, with Daisy a half-step behind her. The cool air stirred the hem of her gown, which now fell in sleek, unadorned lines, freed from the structural grandeur of the cage crinoline. Subconsciously, her gloved hand lifted to ensure the high lace choker was perfectly seated, a seamless disguise for the mark beneath.

With her short hair left unpinned and only the faintest touch of color on her lips and cheeks, the effect was striking in its restraint. The midnight blue silk seemed to absorb the light, making her pale skin and icy eyes all the more pronounced. She was beautiful, but in a severe, enigmatic way—a honed blade next to Annie's decorative one. Her presence was commanding precisely even when purposely subdued.

Louis, already by the carriage, gave her a dismissive once-over before scoffing. "You look like you're heading to a funeral," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Or a board meeting. It's a ball, Elise. The Duke of Vaelmont will be there. Could you not even try to look like you belong?"

Daisy bit her tongue so hard she tasted copper, her fists clenching at her sides.

Sirius turned to his eldest daughter, his expression expectant and unreadable.

Without a moment's hesitation, Elise met his gaze and said with a level voice, "I did not want to impede my mobility. One can never predict if our journey will be interrupted. Preparedness is preferable to pageantry."

Sirius held her gaze for a second longer, then gave a single, slight nod of understanding before turning and allowing Elias to help him into the foremost carriage.

Annie's eyes flickered between them before she sighed and tugged on Louis' sleeve. "Come now, Louis. You're with me. Father will want Elise in his carriage, of course."

Elise said nothing, her face a mask of cool indifference as she moved past her siblings. She followed her father into the lead carriage, the dark silk of her gown whispering against the steps like smoke. Louis and Annie climbed into the second carriage, with Louis and a footman carefully bundling the massive train of Annie's gown in after her. Their attendants and luggage filled the carriages behind.

—{}—

When the Whitefields' carriage arrived at Ashford Manor, the estate blazed against the night sky. Warm, buttery light spilled from every towering window, and the cacophony of a dozen overlapping conversations and the swell of an orchestra spilled out into the crisp evening air. The sheer opulence of the event was evident in the procession of lacquered carriages and the teams of footmen in matching livery assisting a glittering stream of guests onto the gravel drive.

As the Whitefields crossed the threshold into the roaring heat and light of the entrance hall, they were immediately intercepted by their host.

Count Reginald Ashford waddled over with an affability so broad it felt like a performance. He was a short, portly man whose impeccably tailored waistcoat strained over his belly, his most prominent feature a magnificent, waxed mustache that seemed to take up half his face.

"Ah, Count Whitefield!" he boomed, his voice cutting through the din. He placed a hand over his heart and offered a bow that was just a little too deep to be sincere. "A genuine pleasure to finally have you grace my humble home."

The words humble home were delivered with a sweeping gesture that encompassed the overwhelming gilding, marble, and crystal surrounding them.

Sirius returned the gesture with a minimal, icy civility. "Count Ashford," he said evenly. His tone was perfectly polite but carried the warmth of a midwinter frost. There was no mistaking the disdain in his eyes.

Ashford's gaze, sharp and assessing, flickered over the rest of the family before landing on Annie. His eyes lit up with theatrical delight. "Ah! And this must be the budding young rose of the Whitefield garden. Lady Annabelle, if I am not mistaken?"

Annie giggled, executing a perfect, fluttering curtsy. "You are not mistaken, my lord!"

Ashford beamed, his mustache twitching. "Stunning, absolutely stunning. I simply must introduce you to my son—he's always held such... admiration for Lady Elise, but I imagine even he will be utterly charmed by such a fresh, vibrant bloom."

Unnoticed by him, Sirius's eyes narrowed a fraction, a silent testament to his profound lack of amusement.

The Count's gaze then slid to Elise, who stood with her hands clasped, a statue of composed observation. He was momentarily taken aback by her severe, unadorned elegance, but quickly masked it with a oily chuckle. "And Lady Elise... I must confess, I expected something more... spectacular. But I see now—you possess the confidence of a woman who knows she requires no embellishment." He gave a short, self-satisfied laugh, stroking his mustache as if he'd delivered a great compliment. "Yes, yes. Duskmoore is known for breeding such... dangerously elegant beauties."

Elise inclined her head a precise quarter of an inch, utterly unmoved by his clumsy attempt at flattery. "You are too kind, my lord."

Inside the ballroom, the air was thick with perfume, candle smoke, and the soft rustle of priceless fabrics against polished marble. The guests moved in a shimmering, murmuring kaleidoscope of color and wealth.

Annie's wide hazel eyes sparkled, drinking it all in. "Wow, look at everyone! Which one do you think is the Duke?"

Louis discretely tapped her arm, hissing through his teeth. "Compose yourself. Don't gawk like such a country bumpkin."

Annie shot him a venomous glare but held her tongue.

It didn't take long before a familiar, overly eager voice cut through the crowd. "Elise!"

The Whitefields turned in near-unison. Vincent Ashford, the sole heir of Count Ashford, was weaving through the guests toward them, his expression one of unbridled delight. He was dressed in a suit of claret velvet that was a touch too fashionable, his eyes fixed on Elise with naked admiration.

"You look... breathtaking," he said, his voice dropping into an intimate tone.

Elise merely tilted her head in the barest acknowledgment. "Viscount Ashford."

"Oh, come now, must we be so formal? We're old friends!" He reached for her hand, likely intending to kiss it, but Elise shifted her weight with a hunter's grace, turning slightly to survey the room and making his grasp close on empty air.

Vincent hesitated for only a heartbeat before recovering with a forced, bright chuckle. "Still the same, huh?"

Turning to the rest of her family, Vincent's charm never faltered, his greetings polished and effortless. But when his eyes landed on Annie, they snagged. He froze for a fraction of a second longer than propriety allowed.

"And you must be the illustrious Lady Annabelle." His voice dipped into a more intimate register, his gaze performing a slow, deliberate appraisal from the crown of her rose-adorned hair down to the tips of her slippers, lingering pointedly on the delicate neckline of her gown before finally settling on her wide, expectant eyes. A pleased smirk curled at the corners of his lips. "What an absolute pleasure. You are even lovelier than the rumors promised, darling."

Annie felt her breath hitch. She'd heard the stories, of course—Vincent Ashford, the roguish Viscount, the ne'er-do-well son of the Count her father despised. But the rumors had failed to capture the reality of him up close. He was handsome.

He stood tall with the broad shoulders of a man who spent his time fencing for sport, not duty, carrying himself with the unshakable self-assurance of someone who had been adored his entire life. His hair was a rich shade of caramel-gold, artfully tousled as if he'd just run his hands through it, suggesting a charming carelessness that was undoubtedly practiced. But it was his eyes that were his most effective weapon—a striking, vivid cobalt blue, full of easy warmth and a playful, mischievous glint. They projected a trustworthy, good-natured spirit, the kind of man always ready with a disarming grin or a teasing remark.

Her father's stern warnings about the Ashfords' lack of substance echoed faintly in the back of her mind, but they were utterly drowned out by the smooth, melodic timber of his voice. She tried not to stare, but her gaze kept snagging on the sharp line of his jaw, the teasing, confident curve of his smile.

Realizing she had been silent for too long, Annie quickly dipped into a curtsy, the golden silk of her gown pooling around her. "You are too kind, my lord! And please, call me Annie!" The delight in her voice was artless and utterly genuine.

Vincent's smirk deepened, his interest now unmistakable, though still carefully veiled behind a mask of noble courtesy. "Annie," he repeated, as if tasting the word. "Noted."

Elise remained a silent statue of ice, her cold gaze fixed on the exchange, her own expression utterly unreadable.

Seeing the conversation slipping into overly familiar territory, Sirius cleared his throat sharply. The sound was like a gunshot in the polite chatter. Vincent and Annie blinked, the spell momentarily broken. Sirius then reached out, placing a firm hand on Annie's arm and pulling her a half-step behind him, a clear, physical barrier.

Vincent gave a short, smooth laugh to cover the awkwardness. "My apologies, Count Whitefield." Then, his attention pivoted back to Elise as if drawn by a magnet. He took a step closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Care to steal away with me, dear Elise? The balcony is far less stifling, and I'd love to—"

"Vincent, my boy!" Reginald's booming voice cut across the ballroom, absurdly loud for the distance. "Stop monopolizing the Whitefields and come greet the delegation from Aurelea before they think us uncultured swine!"

Vincent flinched—a tiny, almost imperceptible jerk of irritation—but quickly smoothed his features into an easy, accommodating smile. He shot Elise a look of genuine reluctance. "Duty calls, it seems," he murmured with a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Hold that thought for me. I'll be right back~"

With a final, lingering wink, he turned and sauntered off toward his father, the alabaster silk of his cape flaring dramatically behind him.

Sirius watched the Viscount's retreating figure with barely veiled contempt.

Louis, who had been observing the entire exchange with detached amusement, arched a brow. "...Subtle," he muttered dryly.

A burst of laughter echoed from a group of young men clustered around the refreshment table.

"Louis!" one of them called out, waving a champagne flute. "Get over here, you recluse! It's been an age!"

Louis' expression brightened with relief. "Perfect timing." He reached for Annie's hand. "Come on. They've been pestering me for an introduction to the newly-debuted Whitefield for weeks."

Annie's face lit up, Vincent momentarily forgotten. "Really? Well, we mustn't keep your friends waiting~" She let herself be pulled away, her magnificent skirts rustling like a field of golden wheat behind her.

Almost simultaneously, Sirius was beckoned by a cluster of older nobles discussing matters of state in a shadowed corner.

Left entirely alone, Elise remained where she stood, her hands folded neatly in front of her. For a long moment, she simply observed—the way the candlelight fractured in the thousand crystal teardrops of the chandeliers, the way the musicians in the gallery played on without a single glance at the crowd they served, the way the laughter and chatter wove into a single, meaningless hum of cultivated enjoyment.

She exhaled a quiet, soundless breath.

Then, she turned and melted into the shifting tapestry of the ballroom crowd, a shadow dissolving into the dusk.