The stylist steps back and Daniel motions me to stand in front of a full-length mirror. I go nervously to take a look.
“Oh… wow.” A brand shiny new and improved Frankie Beaumonde looks back. My hair is still long, but cut expertly so layers fall below my shoulders. A few subtle highlights brighten my face, making me look younger and more sophisticated at the same time. My thick eyebrows have been bushwhacked into respectable arches, and my nails are neat and shiny, polished in a nude color that matches my skin tone. The effect is natural, but glamorous.
The woman looking back at me belongs in the halls of the rich and royal. At a thousand dollars a night resort.
“Classy and understated,” Daniel says with satisfaction. “Next is wardrobe. Come.”
Chapter 5
Benedict
“And final fiduciary considerations include…” the finance minister’s voice drones into nothing, and I force myself not to look at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner. My morning’s meetings seem to take forever. I even found myself tapping a pen halfway through the quarterly budget review. I was fidgeting, and I never fidget.
“And therefore, we have determined Cawthorne holdings proposal will benefit our nation for decades to come. And therefore--”
If you say ‘therefore’ one more time…
At last the meeting comes to an end. My jaw aches from clenching it against yawns. Duty done, I rise and leave without more than a nod to any officials. I never was one for small talk, and Daniel gave me strict instructions not to talk to anyone until I’ve made a formal statement to the press about the leaked photos.
“Home, McKinney,” I tell my driver, and bite my tongue several times to keep from urging him to drive faster.
“How goes it?” I ask Daniel as soon as he greets me at the door.
“It’s going well. Better than I expected. At this rate, we’ll meet your twelve hour deadline.”
“Very good.” I smooth my tie. “Of course, of you I had no doubt. And where is our Cinderella?”
“Back this way.” Daniel waves for me to follow. “She’s with the dance master now. You remember Monsieur Villiers?”
“Fondly,” I say in a tone that indicates otherwise.
Daniel chuckles. “He’s quite taken with our Frankie.”
“Is he?” I dog Daniel’s steps through the maze of antiques to a back parlor where his staff have moved the furniture aside to create a dance floor.
I hear her before I see her—a loud, lilting laugh, unfurling like a banner. Unraveling my poise. I brace myself for the sight of her.
And when I do, my feet stall. My body tightens, blood pounding downwards, leaving me light headed. They’ve put makeup on her, done her hair, but it’s still Frankie. Her mouth is very, very red, her lips are wide, and she’s laughing.
My brunette Venus spins this way and that, admiring the way the full skirt of her gown swishes over the floor. The lean dance master in his tuxedo gestures for her to complete a proper step, but she’s ignoring him, dancing to the beat of her own DJ.
How is it possible for a woman to affect me like this? Last night, after she left, I took a cold shower that didn’t help one bit. I finally gave in and took care of myself, picturing Frankie the whole time, and when I was done, I may as well have not done anything at all. I told myself it was a simple physical reaction, a byproduct of not having had sex in a long time. But Winnie Bennett, naked, literally throwing herself at me, didn't elicit the same amount of ardor as Frankie Beaumonde in my suit jacket, stumbling around my home and telling me to go to hell.
“Your Grace?” Daniel is waiting for me to catch up to him. I need to get hold of myself. “What do you think?”
I take another long look. “Is that her?” I swallow to hide a thickening in my voice and… other parts.
“It is indeed. Our ugly duckling turned into a swan.”
“Better than a parrot.” I can’t tear my eyes away from Frankie as she glides across the makeshift dance floor, so I don’t bother trying.
Daniel barks a laugh. “Why, Your Grace, you made a joke.”
“Yes, well. I’m allowed one a quarter.”
“And another. Fulfilling your yearly quota early.”
“I’m an overachiever. Is she ready?”
“What’s the rush?”
“Brunch with Lady Ursaline tomorrow.”
“That old dragon? Does she know the truth?”
“No. She’s the first test. If Frankie passes, this might have a shot at working.”
On the dance floor, Frankie has finally allowed the dance master to lead her in a series of proper steps. Halfway through, she throws her head back and laughs in sheer delight at something the dance master says. He leads her into a series of tight turns, and Frankie follows beautifully, her dark hair flying.
“It doesn’t have to be her,” Daniel murmurs.
“What do you mean?”
“We could cut her loose, find another. Someone from New Arcadia; better pedigree.”
“No.” I try to imagine another taking Frankie’s place, and can’t. Frankie’s face is all I see—laughing, tipsy on the couch, telling me I have a rod up my ass. Protecting that godforsaken parrot. “I want her.”
Daniel’s perfect eyebrows shoot up so high, they’d reach his hairline if he had one.
“I want her to do it,” I amend, though that’s not much better. “I don’t care about pedigree. She’s smart. She can play the part. That’s what matters.”
“All right, Your Grace,” Daniel says. “If you insist.”
Frankie’s laughter washes over me again. Now the dance master looks bemused, as if surprised to find he’s having fun. Whenever Frankie tosses her head back to laugh, his gaze flicks to her breasts.
“Enough of this,” I mutter, and stride forward. Monsieur Villiers jumps when I tap him on the shoulder. “I’m cutting in.”
“Your Grace.” Frankie steps back, dark eyes flashing. “What a surprise. And an honor.” The way she says ‘honor’ indicates she means otherwise.
I extend a hand. “Dance with me.”
“Please,” she corrects. “Dance with me, please. It’s a request, not a command. Or do dukes not say ‘please’?”
“Dukes don’t make requests.”
Frankie rolls her eyes.
“Fine,” she snaps and then turns to curtsey gracefully to Monsieur Villiers. “Thank you, sir.”
“Pleasure is all mine, Miss Beaumonde.” The dance master is all smiles now. “And if I might add, whoever taught you to dance gave you a good foundation—”
“Enough,” I cut in, gathering Frankie in my arms. “Let’s dance.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Monsieur Villiers says.
“Rude,” Frankie mutters.
“I beg your pardon?” I place a hand on her back and pull her in tighter. “Do you have something to say, Miss Beaumonde?”
“Oh come off it,” she pushes at my shoulder, “I don't see why I have to pretend you’re the paragon of good behavior when you act like an arrogant ass.”