I recognize the quote from Much Ado About Nothing. “A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours,” I deliver the next line with a grin.
“I would my horse had the speed of your tongue,” he says, and then adds, “My naughty lady Beatrice.”
The quartet plays the final measures of the waltz and we break apart. He bows and I curtsey. When I rise, I tell him, “That's not the next line, you know.”
“Oh?” He offers his arm. “Perhaps you should tutor me later. In private.”
“Perhaps, Your Grace. If I’m not teaching my parrot.” Pretending not to see his proffered arm, I drift away.
Daniel swoops in before I get very far across the room. “Champagne, Miss Beaumonde?” he asks loudly, and escorts me to the bar. “What is going on between you two?” he hisses in my ear.
“Nothing.” I accept a champagne flute.
“It’s not nothing. The tension is palpable.” He fans his face with a hand. “But you’ve led him on a merry chase all night.”
Across the room, Benedict takes his place in a circle of people surrounding his aunt. But his gaze is fixed on me.
“I’m not the sort of woman to hang all over a man,” I say, slipping back into a Katherine Hepburn accent. “I find it gauche.”
“Frankie,” Daniel casts a worried look at the duke, “I don’t know what game you two are playing…”
“It’s not a game.” I sip my champagne.
“Friday’s your first ball. It needs to go perfectly.”
“And it will. It’s fine, Daniel.” I raise my glass to Benedict in a silent toast before turning my back on him. “Just a bit of theater.”
And may the best actress win.
Benedict
My fiancée is trying to drive me mad. It’s the only explanation for her behavior. In public, we flirt and cling to each other like the lovers we’re pretending to be. In private, she keeps me coolly at arm’s length. No more trysts in the limo. No more sparring while we waltz. She’s entirely buttoned up, playing the role of my fiancée with not a hint of the clever, clumsy Frankie.
Daniel is in raptures over how well things are going. The officials we’ve met are charmed by Frankie, or won over by Lady Ursaline’s opinion. Even the press are coming around.
I hate it. I want the old Frankie back. And I will do anything to get her.
The night of our first ball, I find myself back in Lady Drey’s home. Frankie is upstairs dressing while I wait at the bottom of the stairs.
Daniel finds me there, pacing. “Trouble in paradise?”
“No. No trouble. Are they almost done?”
“Can’t rush perfection,” Daniel says lightly.
“I beg your pardon.” I brush at my forehead. “It’s been a long week.”
“You and Frankie have done well. The press is satisfied. The public loves her.”
I snort. “They adore her. She’s way more popular than I am.”
“Your tendency to speak only about fiscal policy is off putting. Frankie is charming. And her idea about summertime movies and concerts in the park would be very popular with the people.”
“As long as it’s not Shakespeare,” I mutter, and check the time. “Should we fetch her? The ball is starting.”
“A lady is never late,” Daniel says. “But neither is she early, if she wishes to be fashionable.”
My lip curls. “And I care so much for fashion.”
“You should.” Daniel jerks his chin upwards. “When that is the result.”
Frankie’s standing at the top of the stairs. Her hair is down and her shoulders are bare, but her arms are covered by long white gloves. Pure sin, those gloves. I’d get her in private, remove everything but the gloves, and have her stroke me…
I clench my fists, willing my body back under control. “Purple,” I murmur.
“The color of royalty,” Daniel murmurs back.
Frankie descends with regal slowness and glides across the floor, wearing a little Mona Lisa smile.
When she reaches us, she spreads her skirts in a slow curtsey. Automatically, Daniel and I bow.
“Your Grace.” She sways towards me. Even her voice is throaty, dreamy.
“Miss Beaumonde.” I offer my arm. “Shall we?”
I can’t take my eyes off her. Not in the car, not when we arrive. And Frankie pretends to ignore me the whole time.
“Nervous?” I ask as we walk the press gauntlet together, and join the line to enter the residence.
“Not at all. Should I be?”
“I suppose you’re old hat at these sorts of events. Especially after the Carrot Competition.”
“Pageant. And that’s fighting dirty, darling.” She looks impressed. “You’ve been studying Daniel’s notes about me.”
“I need all the ammunition I can get.”
“Are we fighting, Your Grace?”
“It feels like it.” A few reporters are shouting at both of us. I put my arm around Frankie, shielding her from the fray.
“All couples have their spats, I suppose. All part of the drama.” She leans past me and blows a kiss to the crowd. When they cheer, calling her name, she waves like a queen.
“You’re becoming quite the method actress, Miss Beaumonde.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She lets me steer her inside. “Not all of it is an act.”
But a slight tremor runs through her when we enter the ballroom. Frankie gauges the landscape like a mountaineer her ascent. Or descent, as it were. Our first hurdle is a grand staircase. Frankie pauses at the top for barely a second before trying to plunge forward.
“Wait.” I hold her back with slight pressure on her glove-clad arm. “We wait for them to announce us.” I nod to the herald standing in full regalia on the top step. He nods back, and takes a deep breath.
“HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEW ARCADIA, BENEDICT FREDERICK LEOPOLD ALBERT OTTO REUPPRECHT MONTEBATTEN—” the herald shouts in one breath.
“My goodness,” Frankie says. “That’s a lot of names.” She starts to step forward and I hold her back, clamping her arm tighter.
“He’s not done,” I murmur.
“FERDINAND CHRISTIAN-LUDWIG VON CLEMENS-BILGESIRE—” The herald pauses to draw breath. Frankie looks to me, wide-eyed. I shake my head.
“—EARL OF CHIPPOWENTH, BARON REGIN, ROYAL KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, EXTRA KNIGHT OF THE MOST ANCIENT AND MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE POPPYSEED, MEMBER OF THE ORDER OF THE MERITORIOUS PRETZEL, ROYAL CHIEF OF THE ORDER OF BUGABOO, EXTRAORDINARY COMPANION OF THE ORDER OF THE HONEY BADGER…”
“These can’t all be real. He’s making stuff up,” Frankie whispers.
“Hush,” I whisper back and fight a smile.
“EXTRAORDINARY COMMANDER OF THE ORDER OF MILITARY MERIT, LORD OF HER MAJESTY’S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, PRIVY COUNCILLOR OF THE QUEEN’S PRIVY COUNCIL FOR LYONNESSE—”
“I thought a privy was a toilet,” Frankie mutters.
“LORD HIGH ADMIRAL—”
“Admiral?” Frankie asks. “Isn’t New Arcadia landlocked?”