Camilla hurried from her bedchamber, hoping that haunting laugh wasn’t a sign of worse things to come.
SEVENTEEN
HEMLOCK HALL WAS no House of Envy, but the prince of that circle was pleased enough with the restoration. And the turnout. Regardless of the ache growing in the pit of his stomach, or the way his attention kept turning to the clock. Much would be decided by the end of the night. He’d either be one step closer to victory, or he’d damn his people forever.
The fate of Envy’s court depended on one stubborn mortal.
The irony was poetic, he supposed. Lennox had had decades to plan this game, and had probably chosen Camilla because of that very trait, knowing she’d not make it easy for any of them.
Still, Envy hadn’t expected to come this close to losing so soon.
He focused on his breathing, on the role he needed to play of enigmatic lord. Inside, he churned like a violent sea. He wanted to pace the upper balcony, strum his fingers along the banister, release some of his pent-up energy.
Maybe he just needed to find a willing partner and fuck his way to serenity. Or better, restore some power by stoking someone’s envy.
That shouldn’t be too hard. He looked out at the first guests, arriving with great excitement at his glittering estate. He’d restored the circular drive, adding a fountain that boasted a statue of a winged beast, the water colored a sparkling pale green.
Every chamber, every inch of the grounds, had been designed to dazzle and to provoke his sin.
Nearly everyone in Waverly Green’s mortal high society had accepted his invitation, well over a hundred nobles drawn to the manor house and its mysterious allure, if only to boast about it later. Envy had also made sure to withhold certain invitations. There was nothing to be envied about an event that everyone could attend.
He watched as a dozen or so couples swarmed into the ballroom, dressed in gowns and suits of the finest materials, their masks gleaming in the candlelight. Women circled the room, talking excitedly, while the men swiped drinks from passing trays.
Envy moved along the balcony overlooking the grand hall, listening in. Even wearing deep gold masks, he recognized the Lords Walters and Harrington from Vexley’s party, and the man—Lord Garrey—who’d snuck off with Widow Janelle.
Lord Garrey was interesting. Apparently, he’d had a string of bad luck over the last few years, despite his family’s impeccable standing. His youngest sister and then a woman he’d courted had gone missing, never to be seen again. Envy’s spies had also uncovered his connection to Lord Edwards, a boyhood friend. Lord Garrey, too, had been seen frequenting Silverthorne Lane.
Knowing all this, Envy suspected that Lord Garrey was another player. Fae liked to take mortal women, lure them into Faerie. It would be something worth playing for—a chance to win one back.
Envy’s hunch grew as the man excused himself to slowly wander around the edge of the ballroom, his attention sliding over each painting and sculpture. Envy had purposefully included art depicting Unseelie. He’d wanted to see who would notice. And like clockwork, that was where Lord Garrey paused now. The Wild Court.
Envy signaled to Alexei, who’d been waiting on the main floor, indicating that he should watch the mortal in question. His second nodded, then disappeared into the shadows.
Envy returned his attention to Walters and Harrington. Two buffoons, from what he’d observed, not likely players, unless Lennox was simply toying with Envy.
Whispers from that group of lords reached his ears, their voices tinged with jealousy. Apparently, Envy’s invitations had done what he’d hoped they would. He’d stamped them with a two-headed wolf, the symbol of his House of Sin. And they had been printed on the finest card stock, the green so deep it was almost black, with silver ink that glimmered.
Gifts had also been sent, each tailored to the guests. Brandy, cigars, rare books—Envy’s spies had been gathering careful intelligence for him. He’d made it nearly impossible for those invited to refuse. Harrington and Walters practically seethed from the audacity, the insult of the packaging being so wretchedly, wonderfully unique.
Camilla’s gift, however, had been different. Envy had shopped for everything himself. And he’d given her far more than a simple party favor. Camilla might not be royalty, but he’d wanted to see her look like a princess tonight, unmatched in dignity, in grace. In part because her beauty called for it, and in part to show Vexley he’d never stood a chance.
Sparks of envy already flitted through the ballroom air, feeding his sin, and magnified by the seductive oils he’d placed throughout to stoke every human sense. Vanilla, ginger, jasmine, musk—each scent evoked a different feeling, promised a new delight.
Knowing he had to store up as much power as possible for the game, Envy had played into the darkness of sin through his chosen décor, too. Dark wooden tables and chairs, a black crystal chandelier. Sconces and candelabras made of iron, fitted with ebony beeswax tapers.
Below him, the ballroom floor gleamed like a meadow at night, the blackish-green marble buffed to clearly reflect the masked faces of the dancers gliding across it.
At his nod, his hired quartet began to play, and gowns in every hue unfurled like flower petals as they twirled across the large expanse of floor, each reflecting its own beautiful midnight blossom within the marble.
Envy’s vision had come together exquisitely.
The mortals sensed the true grandeur, sipping their drinks, talking in little groups, growing bolder as the night grew later because of the masks they wore. Envy had guessed they’d allow themselves to indulge in sin a bit more if they had a sense of anonymity.
Although, thus far, the most scandalous thing he’d witnessed was men stealing more dances than society normally permitted.
He wondered what Camilla would be like, whether her mask would make her bold. Envy waited for a splash of silver to cut through the rainbow of colors swirling below, thinking of her desire in the tunnel several nights before. It had been so intense, so heady, it had nearly made Envy lose sight of his goal.
Envy pictured her silver hair, then thought about winding it slowly around his fist, angling her face up to his. Would she fight such a leash, or welcome it? In either case, he’d cover her mouth with his until she forgot her anger, forgot she’d ever wished to deny him what he wanted most. He could imagine her moans as he pushed his tongue into her mouth, possessing her as she’d wanted, up against that wall.
He’d been tempted by her then and was frustrated to realize he still was. Maybe Envy needed to get her into his bed, bargain aside, so she could remove herself from his head shortly after.
One night and then he’d finally be satisfied.
“Careful, brother.”
Lust sidled up beside him, a tumbler of Dark and Sinful dangling from his fingertips.
“Some might confuse that expression for longing.”
Envy remembered the role he needed to play. He was a Prince of Hell, debauched, insolent. Looking for the sort of fun to inspire his sin.
He wasn’t a desperate male on the verge of losing everything.
“They would be correct,” Envy said. “I long for the next clue.”
Lust snorted.
“Stubborn prick.”
“You sound like Pride now. Perhaps you ought to do as Sloth has suggested—branch out and be more creative.”