Fortunately, Lady Abigail stuck to the design we discussed.
Or perhaps it was unfortunate.
When the day of the ball arrived, I found myself rather hesitant to step outside in Lady Abigail's creation.
The material we had agreed upon was a shimmery dark plum. The shape hugged every curve of my body all the way down until just below my knees where it flared out a little to allow for walking. It was strapless and backless with a deep v cut in the front, leaving very little of my torso to the imagination. The only thing I could attribute to holding it up was Lady Abigail's dress engineering expertise.
She'd assured me several times that the dress would stay perfectly in place all night, no matter how much I moved. But as I shuffled toward my waiting carriage, a black cloak clutched tightly around me, I was having a hard time believing her words.
"Lady Da Braose is far better suited for these things," I complained to myself as the carriage bounced toward the Graye Estate.
In my lap, I fiddled with a tiny notebook, trying to decide where the best place to hide it was. This ball was also an excellent opportunity to dig up some more leads on Count Graye. I was hoping to land some priceless first-hand visuals of the man's interactions with his poor mother. And maybe some whispers along the walls would prove useful as well.
But where on this scrap of a dress was I supposed to tuck my notebook away?!
Note to self: Make sure all future dresses have pockets.
I'd given up on my notebook-stashing dreams by the time the carriage pulled up to my destination. The only thing I really could do was keep it tucked in my cloak and scrawl down everything I could think of when I retrieved the cloak at the end of the night.
Another note to self: Remember to retrieve cloak before accepting any offer Lord Pendleton may extend.
Still feeling a bit self conscious, I kept the blessed cloak wrapped tightly around me up until the moment I approached the ballroom doors. I was one of the first to arrive—as planned, to minimize the amount of people who would observe my entrance. The footman extended his arm for my cloak while the doorman clarified my name.
The temperature in the manor was perfect, but I couldn't help but feel a chill when I removed my cloak as the air touched places on my body that were usually covered. Marissa had left part of my hair down, yet it did little to cover my bare shoulders.
But I couldn't let my awkwardness show. When wearing such a dress, a lady had to have the confidence to match.
Even if it was 100% completely and totally faked.
"I'm ready to go in now," I alerted the doorman, straightening my posture.
"Of course," the man bowed, and the grand doors to the Graye ballroom slowly opened. (Don't get the wrong idea; it wasn't magic or anything. Just some well-trained servants who knew to open the doors from the other side at the doorman's signal. After all, this is a historical novel, not a fantasy one.)
I took a deep breath and stepped into the room. My plan to arrive early was a great success. Maybe twenty or so people were already inside, and a quick scan told me that none of them were people I needed to worry about—mainly low ranked nobles and some servants.
"Wife of Baron Jeremy Bernt, Opaline Hayes Bernt," the doorman announced. It echoed awkwardly off the walls and floors with so few bodies to absorb the sound. Everyone turned to look, and then, naturally, gape at me. I could see a single thought lingering on each of their expressions.
'Who is she to wear a dress like that?'
To be fair, I felt the same way about myself at that moment. But none of those shocked faces were paying me so much as a single copper, so I hardly cared what they thought about me. It's not like any of them were high ranked enough to blab anyway. Everything was going perfectly.
"Ah, Madam Bernt."
Well, almost perfectly.
"... Good evening, Count," I curtseyed as the man approached me. He was wearing a slim-fitted blue suit with ornate detailing. I accentuated his muscular body perfectly and complimented his eyes wonderfully, making him even more handsome than usual.
But seriously, what kind of host shows up this early to their own party?
Plus, he's basically a celebrity, so that meant he should absolutely be fashionably late to these sorts of things. Just who allowed this character to go completely off script??
"I was overjoyed to learn that you could make it tonight," he continued, flashing that stupid smile that women seem to love. Then he extended his hand to me.
Count Graye, the most eligible bachelor/hottest man in the kingdom (probably the entire world) extended his bare hand to the wife of some no-name baron?!
Again, who gave this man the wrong script?
With twenty pairs of eyes and literally no excuses coming to mind, I was left with no choice but to politely plop my hand in his. Immediately, heat from his palm permeated into mine. Oh, how I wished I hadn't turned down Lady Abigail's suggestion of purple lace gloves to match the dress.
To my absolute horror, the Count bent down slowly, his eyes locked with mine, until his lips brushed against the back of my hand.
Then he stayed there. For nearly five entire seconds before straightening back up.
I did my best to smile, but I really couldn't tell what sort of expression I was making. (I know you're thinking that's amateurish of me, but let me remind you that you have not experienced the insane beauty of this man. It's blinding. I bet even Lady Da Braose would struggle to keep her perfect facade under such dire circumstances.)
Once Count Graye had stood up fully again, he slowly dropped my hand, flashing that smile again.
"I hope you enjoy the party, Madam."
And with that, he was off. There wasn't exactly a crowd to disappear into, but he managed to make a seamless exit into a conversation with a different group of people.
"What.. just happened?" As soon as I got my breath back, I whirled around and beelined (as naturally as possible) to the alcohol table.
There was nothing ordinary about the Count's actions. Not considering our wildly different standings in society and the fact that we weren't exactly acquainted with each other.
But he was an eccentric sort of man. And he did tend to leave a string of broken hearts behind him.
So, perhaps, the rather friendly greeting was nothing to worry about.
-or so I had deluded myself into thinking. But, alas, I was proven very wrong.
More on that later.
Coming back to the matter at hand, the ball was in full swing in a matter of minutes. And by then, I knew it was time to make my move.