Between the Shadow and the Soul - 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
House of Cards
I found it more than a little disturbing how right his long fingers felt wrapped around the top of my bare arm. As if he had never pressed flesh to flesh hard enough to stain a royal bruise on fearful white porcelain; as if he had only ever cradled and gently caressed and cherished and left his mark in breadcrumb trails of sweet, possessive kisses.
When he turned me around to face him, it was as if we were back on Avenue Henri Martin in scarves and fashionably upturned hats. When he ran his thumb across my lower lip, I did not shudder or protest as I should have-as I had every right to do; it was as if we were on our couch in Blair Waldorf's living room, or turning around and around in hot water inside the claw-foot tub in my private bathroom. When his eyes swept up and down my body, that is just how naked I felt; raw and unprotected and unable to feel ashamed, whether or not that was the appropriate emotion.
I just stared, somehow unsurprised that he had found his way across the sea to me. Had a little part of me been waiting for him to be around every corner? Had it started before his calls or after? Would a little part of me always feel like it could forgive him, could still want him, could still try to live up to everything he said he wanted?
“Tristan?” It was scarcely more than a dreamy whisper.
The smirk on Saffron's face told me that, somehow, she was instrumental in his presence. I had not paid attention to her presentation, but perhaps I should have-perhaps then I would have seen him looking dashing in white tie, the tails of his jacket sweeping the backs of his barely ticklish knees.
Perhaps I would have been better prepared for the dent his being there put in my plan.
His lips parted wolfishly over sharp, pearly white teeth, and his fingers suddenly stiffened and tried to puncture my skin.
“Bonjour, ma petite.” His breath spread hot over my face and stirred the little hairs on the back of my neck. “I've come to collect.”
Several hours earlier...
Everything was more or less in place: my hair had been pinned into a tricky but elegant up-do that allowed my strapless dress to show off the slim curve of my shoulders, my delicately-applied makeup was dry and as immaculate as it was going to get without a magic wand, my shoes added a good four inches to my diminutive height and would make dancing with my 6' escort less of a nightmare, and said escort was due to pick me up from the Archibald townhouse at any minute.
Lux had come into my room about thirty minutes earlier, wincing somewhat apologetically at the outraged shouts and accusations that flew back and forth beneath our feet, and had offered her unsolicited help in straightening the tight ruched bodice that fit against me like a second skin. The gown's sweetheart neckline created just the right stage for the pretty silver necklace I had chosen from a window display at Tiffany's, and without bothering to thank her for her assistance, I moved to my jewelry box to complete the ensemble with a pair of solitaire diamond earrings.
“You look nice,” she offered, hovering on the threshold and trying valiantly to ignore the words flying from her father's mouth.
I looked up at her in the mirror's reflection and nodded once. “Merci beaucoup.”
“I don't speak-” We both bit our bottom lips at the same time, only mine resulted in the smear of my artfully chosen shade of lipstick melting onto my teeth. “...De rien.”
We did not come to a silent agreement, or vow never to let another power-starved badly-dressed wannabe queen bee come between us ever again. There were no secretive shared smiles or flickering light of acceptance in either of our eyes, but I did quietly close the lid of my jewelry box and clear my throat.
“I have to finish getting ready.”
With another soft click, she was gone and I was alone. The muffled sounds of her parents' argument still reached my ears, seeped up through the fluffy carpet and permeated the good mood I had tried to foster for myself all day through indulgent aromatherapy candles, personal massage therapists, a fresh manicure and complimentary pedicure, soft music, happy thoughts... I had tried, but it was hard to ignore the tension that had sprung up around Lex's decision to forgo cotillion in favor of an intimate evening alone with Julian.
Nate had been enjoying a peaceful bliss that came from staunch denial of his son's sexuality; Jenny was trying to be supportive, but she too felt the strain from the unforeseen course their little boy's life had taken. They were both angry at each other for reasons unknown, reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with Lex or his steady boyfriend, nor with the way they had raised him, nor with anything that could not be traced back to the gaping wide trenches in their damaged relationship.
I got pregnant too soon...I wasn't ready to be married...I did my best to support you...I didn't need you to support me...My father was right about this entire situation, we never should have stayed together...Should have had an abortion...Babies don't make marriages...Why are we fighting about this now!?...I tried to tell you this years ago but you wouldn't listen!...All I do is listen to you, listen to you complain about how horrible your life is with me...If it's so horrible why don't we end it...Fine with me, I've wanted to end it for a long time...I want you out of this house...It's my house too, you can't force me to leave...I want you packed up and gone in the morning, and don't try to win any sympathy from any of us...Any of “us”, as if I'm not even part of this family...You're not, and you shouldn't be, and you never have been!
It got progressively worse the longer the three of us tiptoed around them and let them at each other's throats. I wanted to descend the stairs and poke my head in the living room to remind them that there were other people in this house, people who had lives to lead and self-esteem to keep in tact, and that they should probably keep their resentment to themselves if they wanted to have any children after this. But, one chastisement could not patch up years and years of issues.
Instead, I checked the time on my brand new, Tristan-free mobile phone, and went to look out the window for some sign of my date.
Just as I unhooked the lock and swung the doors open to allow my room some fresh air, I heard it. A low rumbling and an acceleration as it drew nearer, a squeak of the back tire as it turned the corner, the chug-a-lug of the engine as it came to a stop right at the curb and Maverick, in his tails and white gloves, swung his left leg over the seat of his Harley-Davidson and brushed himself off.
He expected me to ride to cotillion in a custom made dress with my hair done just right on the back of his motorcycle.
And, instead of walking up to the front door and knocking politely like any self-respecting gentleman would have done, he blinked against the sun and caught sight of me watching him from my third-story window. He shaded his eyes with his right hand, to confirm it was me staring at him with an unabashedly horrified expression on my Vogue-ified face, then grinned slightly and held up a white helmet.
“Are you coming or not?”
I blinked down at him, my elbows resting on the windowsill the only things keeping me at all upright, and looked from the parked motorcycle to the small helmet in his hands-it wasn't the helmet he had let me borrow for the ride he had charitably given me upon the destruction of my six-speed, but a new one entirely. It looked as if it would fit snugly over my ears.
If my hair was not in an immaculate, picture-perfect up-do.
“Are you kidding or not?”
His arm dropped to his side and took up residence in the pocket of his tailored trousers. “What's funny?”
“The fact that you expect me to ride all the way to The Palace on the back of your motorbike!”
An amused grin flourished across his long face and widened his strong, square jaw. “Just get down here, princess.”
In a fit of outraged shock, I grabbed my clutch off the end of my bed and ran down the stairs so quickly I almost did not catch the tail-end of the quarrel from the other side of the wall. My thoughts were too wild to comprehend anything but the pounding of my heart and the thud thud thud of my high-heeled feet on the carpeted stairs. Was he insane? Was he trying to drive me insane? If so, his plan was working spectacularly.
I thought of the tens of thousands of ways I would verbally assault him and inform him, in no uncertain terms, that the honor of escorting me to the debutante ball was irrevocably and very definitely revoked; I would sweet talk Nate's driver into giving me a lift in the town car, because its pristine leather seats would be much easier on my pale blue skirt than would the smelly and stained taxicabs I had come to loathe.
He probably wouldn't care-would probably go home and change into that stupid leather jacket he always wore and go find a group of people to chain smoke with him outside a convenience store while he waited for his lovely friend Scarlett to finish her business with Teddy. Well, I hoped they enjoyed their midnight trip to Gem Spa, and they could very well laugh over the frivolity of my anger as long as my ensemble was in one piece by the time I managed to get my godmother Serena alone for question-and-answer time.
When I tore out of the front door, I expected to have a helmet thrust over my ears, or to see Maverick astride the Harley-Davidson with an impatiently smug look at my cumbersome gown. What I did not expect to see was a pristine white limo sitting where not one minute ago his beloved motorbike had been parked, nor did I expect to see the respectable chauffeur holding the back door open for me while Maverick smirked with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Surprised?”
He eyed me up and down in that languidly slow way of his, and I found myself pausing just long enough for him to appreciate the way the light struck my face and threw dark gold highlights across the crown of my head. Before he could make a lewd remark and shatter the sliver of forgiveness I was thinking of granting him, I crossed the sidewalk to the open door and slid across the cool backseat.
The weight shifted when he joined me, and then we were in gray darkness when the door slammed shut behind him.
I didn't tell him that I had imagined us walking to The Palace, him complaining about the fact that he had to parade himself in front of a scrutinizing audience of old women for several hours, me hiking up my skirts and walking carefully around grates to avoid ruining hem or heel; or that I had also considered him pulling up to the front door in one of those tacky city buses and making me pay a fare before we could jaunt to Midtown in all our finery amidst the squalor. The motorcycle had never entered my equation, and a pretty white limo had certainly not even been in the realm of my thoughts.
I wasn't surprised, though. More like impressed.
But I made sure not to tell him that. It was better, in the long run, to keep his inflated ego under control.
The limo driver turned onto Madison Avenue and weaved as best he could in and out of delivery vans, charter buses full of tourists who pressed their faces to the glass to try and peer fruitlessly into our tinted windows, renegade yellow taxicabs, and New Yorkers (both drivers and pedestrians) who observed traffic laws as more inconvenient suggestions than actual rules.
When we hit 60th Street and more and more tall buildings sprang up around us, I gazed at the flickering reflection of the limo passing through store windows and thought about how different this cotillion was from my first one. Blair had been there to help me get ready, for one, with Dorota on standby and a glass of champagne cooling in an ice bucket in front of my bed. Before I slipped into my heavenly white dress, we danced around to silly American music and debated over which perfume I should dab on, what earrings would go with the shimmering embroidery at the bottom of my gown's skirt, whether or not the shoes I had selected really completed the ensemble or whether we should just say to hell with it and go buy a new pair.
She had disappeared for over thirty minutes after Dorota buttoned me into the bodice and performed a few finishing touches on my hair. When she returned, it was with a deep blue box that I immediately recognized to contain the mysterious necklace she hid away in her bedroom. And when she opened it and showed it to me, my eyes practically leaped out of my head at the sheer sparkling opulence of it: little flowers dangled from the chain and in the center, a heart to rest between the clavicles.
“I wore this to my debutante ball,” she had told me, gently removing it from its perch and wrapping it around my neck. It was not heavy at all for something so adorned with diamonds and brilliant platinum, but practically weightless where it sat against my lightly browned skin. “I thought you might want to as well.”
I had examined my reflection in the vanity mirror, straightened all the little charms so they laid perfectly straight, and admired the way it complimented my throat and shoulders. Since I knew it would do no good to ask who she went to cotillion with, who she danced with, who she wowed with this lovely piece of craftsmanship, I had instead inquired as to who had made it.
“Erickson Beamon,” she answered, while adjusting the clasp so it also sat just right between my shoulders.
Tristan had picked me up in a rented Aston-Martin and we had joked about my dress expanding and devouring the car before we even made it to the ballroom. I had impressed the board members of the ball's prestigious charity, amazed them with my flawless dance skills, and smiled politely at Sophie from where she danced nearby with her vastly inferior escort. It had been a charmed evening, all fairy lights and fine wine, my mother's smiling face beaming at me like a lighthouse beacon from the haze of a foggy crowd.
At this cotillion, I was not going to be the belle of the ball, nor was there anyone to see me off and promise to take plenty of pictures from her perch at the proud parents' table. My escort was a rather frivolous trophy, the evidence of my one real victory over Constance Billard's chosen queen bee; my dress was not feather white but periwinkle blue, and though it worked as a nice winter contrast against my now ivory skin, and my hair extensions served to give beautiful body to my Audrey Hepburn inspired up-do, I felt like a little girl digging through her mother's closet and playing dress up in too-big shoes.
We didn't speak to each other the entire ride, but it was an odd sort of amiable silence. Maverick leaned his head back against his headrest and closed his eyes to think-of what, I had no idea. Perhaps he was contemplating the many things he would rather be doing than taking me to an uppity society ball, or maybe he was simply letting his thoughts idly wander to less pressing matters. I wished I had the ability to do that, to forget the pounding of my heart as the hotel came into sight, to put aside the adrenaline that rushed like a flood through my veins when I realized my godmother was either inside or soon to be inside.
And when I asked her about Chuck Bass, she would not shake her head with sad eyes and tell me to 'ask your mother'. She would pull me aside, to some dim, quiet room away from the festivities, and ask what I wanted to know. Then, she would tell me everything honestly, with that open and sincere face of hers, and my now sepia-toned world would bloom into technicolor.
I felt a fluttering of happiness when Maverick failed to hold the front door open for me-something in me was starting to like that about him, in some warped and very unfeminine way; at least he had a conviction that he stuck to steadfastly, no matter how rude and insensitive it was. Then again, I had two hands and was perfectly capable of touching a door handle now and then. My arms were not broken, nor was I a swooning invalid, plus it allowed me to move between the two fairy-lit trees and into the hotel's lobby at my own pace.
We followed a steady stream of debutantes back to the ballroom entrance, through which I could clearly see an explosion of pure white and crisp champagne. The committee members were overseeing last second details and standing in clumps along the grand staircase where we would be presented to society. I spotted Cedric at the foot of the stairs in a nice, custom-made tuxedo, with his camera secured around his neck by a fine silky strap, and rolled my eyes good-naturedly when he snapped several candid photographs of Maverick and me.
“I can't believe they let you in here,” I teased, adjusting my hair so that my bangs fell correctly over my eyebrows.
“I never miss a party!” All I saw of his face was the broad, white-toothed smile beneath his camera as another flash went off.
Scarlett, who stood near the middle of the stairs with her long red hair falling in waves down the back of her figure-skimming emerald green dress, caught sight of me and my escort immediately hurried down the stairs in her stiletto heels to greet us.
“Maverick!” Rather than embracing him or giving him a kiss on the cheek like I had often seen her do, she eyed him up and down with a peculiar look on her face. “I can't believe you actually dressed up. You actually came in tails. Cedric, please, hurry and take a picture before Maverick Sparks re-inhabits his body!”
Maverick stared evenly at her and put his hands in his pockets. “Ha ha, Scar. As if Cedric would -”
But, before he could protest, our resident paparazzo snapped a rapid succession of full body shots that I dearly hoped he would make copies of. Not because Maverick looked particularly striking in his clean-cut black suit and midnight blue tie and matching cummerbund, or because I found it absolutely charming how cavalier he was about the state of his perfectly messy hair, or even because I found the slightly superior grin on his face highly attractive-he thought he was above all the pomp and circumstance, yet he had been cajoled into indulging in it by some very mild flirting. I could identify with a good, healthy superiority complex.
When Teddy joined us at the foot of the staircase, I immediately tried to mentally inquire as to our shared godmother's presence, but he seemed to be too focused on his date to pay much mind to me. I couldn't feel annoyed with him, however, considering he had already technically upheld the end of his bargain and I had officially upheld the end of mine, and therefore we owed nothing to each other anymore. Not as far as he knew, anyway.
“Teddy?” I bit my lip when he tore his eyes away from Scarlett and raised his eyebrows at me. “Can we talk? Just for a second.”
He frowned and looked around at the last streams of people taking their places in the lineup. “Right now?”
I nodded and gestured towards a little alcove beneath the stairs. He cast an apologetic look at Scarlett, who merely shrugged and smiled sweetly at him, which made him freeze in his tracks and sent his jaw scraping the glistening marble floor, which forced me to grab him by the crook of his elbow and forcibly drag him into the shadows.
“Teddy,” I started more than a little hesitantly, feeling a nervous sting pricking the back of my neck. It warned me not to continue, as I had not planned to utter my theory aloud or even think about it too hard until I saw Serena and could beg her to assure me that I was not going crazy, but if it was true then Teddy had the right to be forewarned. “I...I re-read Blair's diary, and I think I know who my mother is.”
“You do?” I saw in his expression the part of him that reminded me of me, the little flame in the back of his eyes that craved intrigue and excitement. He thought he had an inkling as to what I was about to tell him, but I knew as soon as it came out of my mouth that he had not been prepared to hear it. “She's your mother.”
“That's impossible,” he shivered as if we were caught in a strong, frigid wind. “My mother died when she gave birth to me. She was -”
“Misty Bass was a lovely woman,” I interjected, keen that he didn't think I was dishonoring her name. “But she is not your mother.”
He kept his eyes on me, but something died behind them as he choked for a breath. “Shut up, Elle, I mean it. Don't say another w -”
“No, s'il te plait, listen to me.” I grabbed his arms to keep him in place, but it was unnecessary. He was rooted to the spot. “I re-read the diary and I thought about it all night, and it all makes sense if you just step back and think objectively. Chuck Bass married Blair Waldorf on December 27th, 2010, and we were both born on June 15th, 2011. I know from Gossip Girl's website that they were dating in September of 2009, which has to be around the time we were both conceived, and -”
“Stop.”
He did not yell or lash out or insult me or even shove me off of him. Teddy just sighed and looked caught under a terrible weight. Naturally, I ignored his request and took the contemplative silence as a cue to continue blathering on, despite the wrinkle it put between his eyebrows and the tense way his lips curled up at the edges and twitched uncontrollably along with the tic in his jaw. I had to give him the information, and damn the consequences.
“And it all adds up. I did a little digging, and those newspaper articles you found never said that Misty Bass married Charles Bass. Just the CEO of Bass Industries, which could mean she married your grandfather Bart and that the woman you've been thinking gave birth to you is really your grandmother!”
Teddy grit his teeth together and shook his head. “My dad told me that she died in childbirth.”
“Did he tell you your mother died in childbirth?” I clenched my fingers tighter around his arms. “Or that Misty Bass died in childbirth?”
“I -” His voice caught over the following word, and only then did he look away. “The letter she wrote me -”
It was my turn to shake my head in contradiction.
“The letter she wrote to 'Charlie'? Teddy...” I reached into my clutch and removed the pages I had chosen to rip out of Blair's diary the night he had shown me that very letter. They each described her days recovering in the hospital after 'Charlie' was born, all of them were signed Blair Bass, and the majority of them showcased quite clearly her love of and reliance on Chuck Bass. “Read these, when you get a chance. Just do not say you will not believe me until you read these, all right?”
I pressed them into his hands as a string quartet began to play soft music to accompany the presentations. When he refused to open his palms and receive the papers, I stuffed them into his pockets, shot him one last imploring look, and dashed to the stairs to get in line across from Maverick, who was looking quite bored and above it all on a lower step.
Lily smiled at the assemblage from her perch on the landing and moved to stand in its center behind the podium, but I could not see the entire board around her due to my hampered height and the distressing number of tall Amazon women on the steps above me.
Part of me didn't know what I would do if I saw Serena there-would I break apart from the line and rush up to her to beg her to come somewhere private with me for a chat? Would I smile congenially and act like nothing was amiss? Or would my brain dry up and forget everything I had obsessed over and wanted to ask her?
“Welcome, everyone, to this year's Annual Dispensary Cotillion and Debutante Ball.”
A smattering of polite applause rose from the floor behind us and from the upper galleries. I scanned that crowd to see if perhaps my godmother was simply watching the festivities out of the spotlight, but all I managed to do was spot a lithe, dark-haired girl in cream silk waving emphatically at Maverick, who winked roguishly back at her and grinned an honest smile I had not seen on his face before then.
I vaguely heard Saffron's name called along with that of her escort, but I refused to acknowledge her existence. The fact that Lily seemed to 'accidentally' break into a rather loud coughing fit when she read out the Queen Bee's shallow future plans made me feel a whole lot better about my social disgrace, and my mood soared even higher when the applause at her pronouncement was lukewarm at best.
Her half-sister received a much warmer reception, but it was the reading of her escort's name that shot a thrill up my spine.
“...escorted by Theodore Harold Bass...”
I almost forgot how to move my feet to alight the next step.
Before I could reflect too much on that revelation, which served to further confirm my shoddily-compiled evidence, it seemed like some higher being pressed a fast-forward button on the rest of the presentations, and I found myself standing at the top of the heap, my jewelry glittering perfectly on my throat, my dress fitting perfectly over my figure, as Lily van der Woodsen...Humphrey introduced me to Manhattan society. Many of the older families there had never seen or heard of me, so my list of achievements abroad immediately set their seasoned tongues wagging; the fact that I bore the surname Waldorf was no small matter either, and for the first time in a long time, I remembered to smile and carry myself like someone deserving that title.
I slid my arm through Maverick's and we joined the others in the ballroom, which was a beautiful wonderland of expensive imported flowers, one-of-a-kind silky Egyptian cotton linens, and soft romantic lighting. I could not see anyone in the style of dress I expected from Serena, nor could I make out her signature long waves of blonde hair in the thick of the uptight crowd; I did see Aunt Jenny's blonde curls at a table near the center of the onlookers, and though she was resplendent in pale pink and ivory, I saw the red rims around her carefully made up eyes.
Nate was across the room with a group of men I assumed were business colleagues or college friends. Lex was nowhere to be seem-I assumed he was out painting the town blue with Julian-and Lux was holding court with a few other freshmen minions in the back of the room. Maverick and I moved to a table near where Aunt Jenny sat making small talk over sparkling champagne, and were joined before long by Scarlett, Teddy, and a few other people who did not prescribe to The Saffron Kennedy Show.
The point of the four-course meal was to showcase the deportment and gentility the debutantes had learned from weeks of etiquette classes. I sat up straight in my chair and took tiny bites, not because I was aiming to impress any of the hawk-eyed committee members, but because I was not hungry and the high position gave me a better view of our fellow diners. Either Serena had not yet arrived, or she was hiding very well among her peers.
When the music changed to a stirring waltz and we gathered on the dance floor to entertain the parents and other guests, I concentrated more on glancing periodically over Maverick's broad shoulders to search for a pair of navy blue eyes or a sunny smile twinkling at me from amidst a haze of strangers. Where was she? I saw Eric near his mother, sharing a cup of wine with Colin, and chuckling over something or other, but where was his sister? He had promised me she would be at the debutante ball...
As we turned in endless circles for the Viennese waltz, I did my best to keep an eye out. That is when it happened.
A dark figure in the middle of the room, his chocolate brown hair falling over his narrowed brow and dark shadowed eyes. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, and his eyes bore into mine like they could see through tissue, flesh, and bone, and into the core of my very soul. I gasped all at once and accidentally dug my spiked heel into Maverick's foot.
We broke the formation rather spectacularly, while he drew his mouth into a straight, thin line to pretend like he wasn't in excruciating pain, and I whirled around with his arms still around me to inspect the place where I had seen that familiar face staring so intensely at me. But, when I stood still and had time to gaze unhindered, there was no on there. Just an old married couple watching the two of us with slightly concerned looks on their lined, weathered faces.
Maverick let out an annoyed grunt, turned me back around, and tried to get us back in the rhythm with everyone else. I heard Saffron's chirpy laugh somewhere behind us, but tried to ignore it as I had studiously refused to notice her silly dress, ugly hairdo, and completely ill-coordinated Jimmy Choos.
Serena. I tried to remind myself to focus on the task at hand. You have to find Serena.
But that dark face would not leave me alone. When the music drew to a close and Maverick was able to take a step back and massage his foot with an undignified look of annoyance on his altogether quite naturally and unrepentantly handsome face, I caught my breath and wondered if perhaps I had imagined him-he couldn't possibly be in the same room as me? It was just out of the question. He was a world away, far away, far away from me and my world and entirely removed from everything I knew and was. To have him so close and staring at me like that as if he knew precisely who I was made me uncomfortable. I realized that perhaps I was playing the part of a pawn in a very complicated chess game when all along I had been pretending to be the queen.
“I suppose you'll want to keep dancing.”
Now that the rehearsed waltzes were over with, we were free to enjoy the company of other partners, or retire to dinner tables to socialize with other guests, but all I was concerned about was a foggy memory and an all-consuming quest that I was starting to imagine might actually consume me until it burned the charred remains and there was nothing left.
“No, thank you.” I leaned up, putting my hands on his shoulders to support myself, and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Then I excused myself into another room, where I hoped my godmother might be relaxing amidst less stuffy companions.
As I crossed the threshold, I felt someone right behind me. Diesel Fuel For Life invaded my nostrils, pricking the invisible hairs on my forearms, and tensing my muscles underneath my increasingly clammy skin. How much more could I be expected to take on a night that was meant for frivolity and mindless dancing?
“Here she is,” I heard that horrifying high-pitched faux baby voice and looked around to see Saffron smirking at me with improved vindictiveness. “Though I can't imagine what you want with her.”
And there he was, all at once. The figure that haunted fevered nightmares, who intruded on my self-imposed exile with unwelcome phone calls and invaded my memories with his soft touches, his gentle caresses, his firm insistence that he held me in the utmost regard. I was not ready to see him, not ready to hate him as vehemently as I so dearly wanted to for all the sins he had committed against me; nor was I ready to fully face up to the fact that I had not been entirely innocent and probably deserved much worse than the punishment I had earned.
I found it more than a little disturbing how right his long fingers felt wrapped around the top of my bare arm. As if he had never pressed flesh to flesh hard enough to stain a royal bruise on fearful white porcelain; as if he had only ever cradled and gently caressed and cherished and left his mark in breadcrumb trails of sweet, possessive kisses.
When he turned me around to face him, it was as if we were back on Avenue Henri Martin in scarves and fashionably upturned hats. When he ran his thumb across my lower lip, I did not shudder or protest as I should have-as I had every right to do; it was as if we were on our couch in Blair Waldorf's living room, or turning around and around in hot water inside the claw-foot tub in my private bathroom. When his eyes swept up and down my body, that is just how naked I felt; raw and unprotected and unable to feel ashamed, whether or not that was the appropriate emotion.
I just stared, somehow unsurprised that he had found his way across the sea to me. Had a little part of me been waiting for him to be around every corner? Had it started before his calls or after? Would a little part of me always feel like it could forgive him, could still want him, could still try to live up to everything he said he wanted?
“Tristan?” It was scarcely more than a dreamy whisper.
The smirk on Saffron's face told me that, somehow, she was instrumental in his presence. I had not paid attention to her presentation, but perhaps I should have-perhaps then I would have seen him looking dashing in white tie, the tails of his jacket sweeping the backs of his barely ticklish knees.
Perhaps I would have been better prepared for the dent his being there put in my plan.
His lips parted wolfishly over sharp, pearly white teeth, and his fingers suddenly stiffened and tried to puncture my skin.
“Bonjour, ma petite.” His breath spread hot over my face and stirred the little hairs on the back of my neck. “I've come to collect.”
Sophie, the rightful winner of our disastrous bet, had chosen the boy I was to lose my virginity to. Not a lowlife member of some unimportant school club, or her lecherous father or one of her unappealing brothers, or a stranger from a club, not even an older sort of clueless man I would need to seduce and maneuver into my bed. She had selected the one person it would demolish me to sleep with, the one person who had the power to send me melting to my knees at a single word, the same person she had won fair and square and was graciously 'letting me' borrow for an evening.
She was the munificent and benevolent ruler, and I was the petty pauper at her feet.
“How did you find me here?” It was all I could manage to choke out, other than heavy, fearful breaths, or shocked little gasps.
Tristan Marchand was my every dream realized in one tall, dark, handsome, suave, worldly, filthy rich, tortured artist soul with the chiseled face of every prince charming I had ever read about as a child. He was also a predator, with glinting eyes and sharp, wolfish teeth, which he showed me with his dark and daunting scowl and the way he suddenly shoved me hard against the wall the way he had done in the music room that fateful day.
“It's not nice to promise something and then back out on the deal,” he whispered against my cheek, his hot breath a scorching piece of metal on my flesh. “You owe her your virginity, and I'm here to take it.” When I tried to dig my heel into the middle of his foot, as I had unintentionally done to Maverick during our Viennese waltz, he shook me hard enough to make me dizzy, but not enough to draw any unwanted attention to our squabble. “By force, if necessary.”
Did no one see us? I knew Saffron was standing nearby with a self-satisfied smile on her smug whoreish face, but did no one else see that I could not possibly escape from the much larger person bruising me with his touch and his eyes and his words and his lips when they descended on mine with all the force of a bullet train. I cried out into his mouth for someone to get him off of me, but for the second time in my life, it only added fuel to his fire. His tongue clashed against my resisting one and though I tried to bite it, he darted it back behind his own teeth so that my jaw ached from the internal collision.
“Get off of me, Tristan!” I shouted, pushing against his stone firm chest.
He merely pressed closer and taunted me with his lovely eyes. “In ten minutes you'll be screaming 'get me off, Tristan!' instead.”
Just as I started to lose all faith that anyone would come to my aid, I heard Teddy's voice shout “Hey!” somewhere from my left, and then there were heavy footsteps, and then someone (a distinguished knight come to rescue the helpless princess from the evil dragon) heaved him away from me by the collar of his shirt. I was able to slap at Tristan's wandering hands as hard as I could before he was yanked out of reach and I stumbled back into the paneled wall, my hair in shambles around my face and my lipstick smeared horribly across my mouth.
The dark figure I had seen in the crowd earlier had my attacker pinned against the opposite wall and he growled from the pits of his chest.
“Stay the hell away from my daughter.”
House of Cards
I found it more than a little disturbing how right his long fingers felt wrapped around the top of my bare arm. As if he had never pressed flesh to flesh hard enough to stain a royal bruise on fearful white porcelain; as if he had only ever cradled and gently caressed and cherished and left his mark in breadcrumb trails of sweet, possessive kisses.
When he turned me around to face him, it was as if we were back on Avenue Henri Martin in scarves and fashionably upturned hats. When he ran his thumb across my lower lip, I did not shudder or protest as I should have-as I had every right to do; it was as if we were on our couch in Blair Waldorf's living room, or turning around and around in hot water inside the claw-foot tub in my private bathroom. When his eyes swept up and down my body, that is just how naked I felt; raw and unprotected and unable to feel ashamed, whether or not that was the appropriate emotion.
I just stared, somehow unsurprised that he had found his way across the sea to me. Had a little part of me been waiting for him to be around every corner? Had it started before his calls or after? Would a little part of me always feel like it could forgive him, could still want him, could still try to live up to everything he said he wanted?
“Tristan?” It was scarcely more than a dreamy whisper.
The smirk on Saffron's face told me that, somehow, she was instrumental in his presence. I had not paid attention to her presentation, but perhaps I should have-perhaps then I would have seen him looking dashing in white tie, the tails of his jacket sweeping the backs of his barely ticklish knees.
Perhaps I would have been better prepared for the dent his being there put in my plan.
His lips parted wolfishly over sharp, pearly white teeth, and his fingers suddenly stiffened and tried to puncture my skin.
“Bonjour, ma petite.” His breath spread hot over my face and stirred the little hairs on the back of my neck. “I've come to collect.”
Several hours earlier...
Everything was more or less in place: my hair had been pinned into a tricky but elegant up-do that allowed my strapless dress to show off the slim curve of my shoulders, my delicately-applied makeup was dry and as immaculate as it was going to get without a magic wand, my shoes added a good four inches to my diminutive height and would make dancing with my 6' escort less of a nightmare, and said escort was due to pick me up from the Archibald townhouse at any minute.
Lux had come into my room about thirty minutes earlier, wincing somewhat apologetically at the outraged shouts and accusations that flew back and forth beneath our feet, and had offered her unsolicited help in straightening the tight ruched bodice that fit against me like a second skin. The gown's sweetheart neckline created just the right stage for the pretty silver necklace I had chosen from a window display at Tiffany's, and without bothering to thank her for her assistance, I moved to my jewelry box to complete the ensemble with a pair of solitaire diamond earrings.
“You look nice,” she offered, hovering on the threshold and trying valiantly to ignore the words flying from her father's mouth.
I looked up at her in the mirror's reflection and nodded once. “Merci beaucoup.”
“I don't speak-” We both bit our bottom lips at the same time, only mine resulted in the smear of my artfully chosen shade of lipstick melting onto my teeth. “...De rien.”
We did not come to a silent agreement, or vow never to let another power-starved badly-dressed wannabe queen bee come between us ever again. There were no secretive shared smiles or flickering light of acceptance in either of our eyes, but I did quietly close the lid of my jewelry box and clear my throat.
“I have to finish getting ready.”
With another soft click, she was gone and I was alone. The muffled sounds of her parents' argument still reached my ears, seeped up through the fluffy carpet and permeated the good mood I had tried to foster for myself all day through indulgent aromatherapy candles, personal massage therapists, a fresh manicure and complimentary pedicure, soft music, happy thoughts... I had tried, but it was hard to ignore the tension that had sprung up around Lex's decision to forgo cotillion in favor of an intimate evening alone with Julian.
Nate had been enjoying a peaceful bliss that came from staunch denial of his son's sexuality; Jenny was trying to be supportive, but she too felt the strain from the unforeseen course their little boy's life had taken. They were both angry at each other for reasons unknown, reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with Lex or his steady boyfriend, nor with the way they had raised him, nor with anything that could not be traced back to the gaping wide trenches in their damaged relationship.
I got pregnant too soon...I wasn't ready to be married...I did my best to support you...I didn't need you to support me...My father was right about this entire situation, we never should have stayed together...Should have had an abortion...Babies don't make marriages...Why are we fighting about this now!?...I tried to tell you this years ago but you wouldn't listen!...All I do is listen to you, listen to you complain about how horrible your life is with me...If it's so horrible why don't we end it...Fine with me, I've wanted to end it for a long time...I want you out of this house...It's my house too, you can't force me to leave...I want you packed up and gone in the morning, and don't try to win any sympathy from any of us...Any of “us”, as if I'm not even part of this family...You're not, and you shouldn't be, and you never have been!
It got progressively worse the longer the three of us tiptoed around them and let them at each other's throats. I wanted to descend the stairs and poke my head in the living room to remind them that there were other people in this house, people who had lives to lead and self-esteem to keep in tact, and that they should probably keep their resentment to themselves if they wanted to have any children after this. But, one chastisement could not patch up years and years of issues.
Instead, I checked the time on my brand new, Tristan-free mobile phone, and went to look out the window for some sign of my date.
Just as I unhooked the lock and swung the doors open to allow my room some fresh air, I heard it. A low rumbling and an acceleration as it drew nearer, a squeak of the back tire as it turned the corner, the chug-a-lug of the engine as it came to a stop right at the curb and Maverick, in his tails and white gloves, swung his left leg over the seat of his Harley-Davidson and brushed himself off.
He expected me to ride to cotillion in a custom made dress with my hair done just right on the back of his motorcycle.
And, instead of walking up to the front door and knocking politely like any self-respecting gentleman would have done, he blinked against the sun and caught sight of me watching him from my third-story window. He shaded his eyes with his right hand, to confirm it was me staring at him with an unabashedly horrified expression on my Vogue-ified face, then grinned slightly and held up a white helmet.
“Are you coming or not?”
I blinked down at him, my elbows resting on the windowsill the only things keeping me at all upright, and looked from the parked motorcycle to the small helmet in his hands-it wasn't the helmet he had let me borrow for the ride he had charitably given me upon the destruction of my six-speed, but a new one entirely. It looked as if it would fit snugly over my ears.
If my hair was not in an immaculate, picture-perfect up-do.
“Are you kidding or not?”
His arm dropped to his side and took up residence in the pocket of his tailored trousers. “What's funny?”
“The fact that you expect me to ride all the way to The Palace on the back of your motorbike!”
An amused grin flourished across his long face and widened his strong, square jaw. “Just get down here, princess.”
In a fit of outraged shock, I grabbed my clutch off the end of my bed and ran down the stairs so quickly I almost did not catch the tail-end of the quarrel from the other side of the wall. My thoughts were too wild to comprehend anything but the pounding of my heart and the thud thud thud of my high-heeled feet on the carpeted stairs. Was he insane? Was he trying to drive me insane? If so, his plan was working spectacularly.
I thought of the tens of thousands of ways I would verbally assault him and inform him, in no uncertain terms, that the honor of escorting me to the debutante ball was irrevocably and very definitely revoked; I would sweet talk Nate's driver into giving me a lift in the town car, because its pristine leather seats would be much easier on my pale blue skirt than would the smelly and stained taxicabs I had come to loathe.
He probably wouldn't care-would probably go home and change into that stupid leather jacket he always wore and go find a group of people to chain smoke with him outside a convenience store while he waited for his lovely friend Scarlett to finish her business with Teddy. Well, I hoped they enjoyed their midnight trip to Gem Spa, and they could very well laugh over the frivolity of my anger as long as my ensemble was in one piece by the time I managed to get my godmother Serena alone for question-and-answer time.
When I tore out of the front door, I expected to have a helmet thrust over my ears, or to see Maverick astride the Harley-Davidson with an impatiently smug look at my cumbersome gown. What I did not expect to see was a pristine white limo sitting where not one minute ago his beloved motorbike had been parked, nor did I expect to see the respectable chauffeur holding the back door open for me while Maverick smirked with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Surprised?”
He eyed me up and down in that languidly slow way of his, and I found myself pausing just long enough for him to appreciate the way the light struck my face and threw dark gold highlights across the crown of my head. Before he could make a lewd remark and shatter the sliver of forgiveness I was thinking of granting him, I crossed the sidewalk to the open door and slid across the cool backseat.
The weight shifted when he joined me, and then we were in gray darkness when the door slammed shut behind him.
I didn't tell him that I had imagined us walking to The Palace, him complaining about the fact that he had to parade himself in front of a scrutinizing audience of old women for several hours, me hiking up my skirts and walking carefully around grates to avoid ruining hem or heel; or that I had also considered him pulling up to the front door in one of those tacky city buses and making me pay a fare before we could jaunt to Midtown in all our finery amidst the squalor. The motorcycle had never entered my equation, and a pretty white limo had certainly not even been in the realm of my thoughts.
I wasn't surprised, though. More like impressed.
But I made sure not to tell him that. It was better, in the long run, to keep his inflated ego under control.
The limo driver turned onto Madison Avenue and weaved as best he could in and out of delivery vans, charter buses full of tourists who pressed their faces to the glass to try and peer fruitlessly into our tinted windows, renegade yellow taxicabs, and New Yorkers (both drivers and pedestrians) who observed traffic laws as more inconvenient suggestions than actual rules.
When we hit 60th Street and more and more tall buildings sprang up around us, I gazed at the flickering reflection of the limo passing through store windows and thought about how different this cotillion was from my first one. Blair had been there to help me get ready, for one, with Dorota on standby and a glass of champagne cooling in an ice bucket in front of my bed. Before I slipped into my heavenly white dress, we danced around to silly American music and debated over which perfume I should dab on, what earrings would go with the shimmering embroidery at the bottom of my gown's skirt, whether or not the shoes I had selected really completed the ensemble or whether we should just say to hell with it and go buy a new pair.
She had disappeared for over thirty minutes after Dorota buttoned me into the bodice and performed a few finishing touches on my hair. When she returned, it was with a deep blue box that I immediately recognized to contain the mysterious necklace she hid away in her bedroom. And when she opened it and showed it to me, my eyes practically leaped out of my head at the sheer sparkling opulence of it: little flowers dangled from the chain and in the center, a heart to rest between the clavicles.
“I wore this to my debutante ball,” she had told me, gently removing it from its perch and wrapping it around my neck. It was not heavy at all for something so adorned with diamonds and brilliant platinum, but practically weightless where it sat against my lightly browned skin. “I thought you might want to as well.”
I had examined my reflection in the vanity mirror, straightened all the little charms so they laid perfectly straight, and admired the way it complimented my throat and shoulders. Since I knew it would do no good to ask who she went to cotillion with, who she danced with, who she wowed with this lovely piece of craftsmanship, I had instead inquired as to who had made it.
“Erickson Beamon,” she answered, while adjusting the clasp so it also sat just right between my shoulders.
Tristan had picked me up in a rented Aston-Martin and we had joked about my dress expanding and devouring the car before we even made it to the ballroom. I had impressed the board members of the ball's prestigious charity, amazed them with my flawless dance skills, and smiled politely at Sophie from where she danced nearby with her vastly inferior escort. It had been a charmed evening, all fairy lights and fine wine, my mother's smiling face beaming at me like a lighthouse beacon from the haze of a foggy crowd.
At this cotillion, I was not going to be the belle of the ball, nor was there anyone to see me off and promise to take plenty of pictures from her perch at the proud parents' table. My escort was a rather frivolous trophy, the evidence of my one real victory over Constance Billard's chosen queen bee; my dress was not feather white but periwinkle blue, and though it worked as a nice winter contrast against my now ivory skin, and my hair extensions served to give beautiful body to my Audrey Hepburn inspired up-do, I felt like a little girl digging through her mother's closet and playing dress up in too-big shoes.
We didn't speak to each other the entire ride, but it was an odd sort of amiable silence. Maverick leaned his head back against his headrest and closed his eyes to think-of what, I had no idea. Perhaps he was contemplating the many things he would rather be doing than taking me to an uppity society ball, or maybe he was simply letting his thoughts idly wander to less pressing matters. I wished I had the ability to do that, to forget the pounding of my heart as the hotel came into sight, to put aside the adrenaline that rushed like a flood through my veins when I realized my godmother was either inside or soon to be inside.
And when I asked her about Chuck Bass, she would not shake her head with sad eyes and tell me to 'ask your mother'. She would pull me aside, to some dim, quiet room away from the festivities, and ask what I wanted to know. Then, she would tell me everything honestly, with that open and sincere face of hers, and my now sepia-toned world would bloom into technicolor.
I felt a fluttering of happiness when Maverick failed to hold the front door open for me-something in me was starting to like that about him, in some warped and very unfeminine way; at least he had a conviction that he stuck to steadfastly, no matter how rude and insensitive it was. Then again, I had two hands and was perfectly capable of touching a door handle now and then. My arms were not broken, nor was I a swooning invalid, plus it allowed me to move between the two fairy-lit trees and into the hotel's lobby at my own pace.
We followed a steady stream of debutantes back to the ballroom entrance, through which I could clearly see an explosion of pure white and crisp champagne. The committee members were overseeing last second details and standing in clumps along the grand staircase where we would be presented to society. I spotted Cedric at the foot of the stairs in a nice, custom-made tuxedo, with his camera secured around his neck by a fine silky strap, and rolled my eyes good-naturedly when he snapped several candid photographs of Maverick and me.
“I can't believe they let you in here,” I teased, adjusting my hair so that my bangs fell correctly over my eyebrows.
“I never miss a party!” All I saw of his face was the broad, white-toothed smile beneath his camera as another flash went off.
Scarlett, who stood near the middle of the stairs with her long red hair falling in waves down the back of her figure-skimming emerald green dress, caught sight of me and my escort immediately hurried down the stairs in her stiletto heels to greet us.
“Maverick!” Rather than embracing him or giving him a kiss on the cheek like I had often seen her do, she eyed him up and down with a peculiar look on her face. “I can't believe you actually dressed up. You actually came in tails. Cedric, please, hurry and take a picture before Maverick Sparks re-inhabits his body!”
Maverick stared evenly at her and put his hands in his pockets. “Ha ha, Scar. As if Cedric would -”
But, before he could protest, our resident paparazzo snapped a rapid succession of full body shots that I dearly hoped he would make copies of. Not because Maverick looked particularly striking in his clean-cut black suit and midnight blue tie and matching cummerbund, or because I found it absolutely charming how cavalier he was about the state of his perfectly messy hair, or even because I found the slightly superior grin on his face highly attractive-he thought he was above all the pomp and circumstance, yet he had been cajoled into indulging in it by some very mild flirting. I could identify with a good, healthy superiority complex.
When Teddy joined us at the foot of the staircase, I immediately tried to mentally inquire as to our shared godmother's presence, but he seemed to be too focused on his date to pay much mind to me. I couldn't feel annoyed with him, however, considering he had already technically upheld the end of his bargain and I had officially upheld the end of mine, and therefore we owed nothing to each other anymore. Not as far as he knew, anyway.
“Teddy?” I bit my lip when he tore his eyes away from Scarlett and raised his eyebrows at me. “Can we talk? Just for a second.”
He frowned and looked around at the last streams of people taking their places in the lineup. “Right now?”
I nodded and gestured towards a little alcove beneath the stairs. He cast an apologetic look at Scarlett, who merely shrugged and smiled sweetly at him, which made him freeze in his tracks and sent his jaw scraping the glistening marble floor, which forced me to grab him by the crook of his elbow and forcibly drag him into the shadows.
“Teddy,” I started more than a little hesitantly, feeling a nervous sting pricking the back of my neck. It warned me not to continue, as I had not planned to utter my theory aloud or even think about it too hard until I saw Serena and could beg her to assure me that I was not going crazy, but if it was true then Teddy had the right to be forewarned. “I...I re-read Blair's diary, and I think I know who my mother is.”
“You do?” I saw in his expression the part of him that reminded me of me, the little flame in the back of his eyes that craved intrigue and excitement. He thought he had an inkling as to what I was about to tell him, but I knew as soon as it came out of my mouth that he had not been prepared to hear it. “She's your mother.”
“That's impossible,” he shivered as if we were caught in a strong, frigid wind. “My mother died when she gave birth to me. She was -”
“Misty Bass was a lovely woman,” I interjected, keen that he didn't think I was dishonoring her name. “But she is not your mother.”
He kept his eyes on me, but something died behind them as he choked for a breath. “Shut up, Elle, I mean it. Don't say another w -”
“No, s'il te plait, listen to me.” I grabbed his arms to keep him in place, but it was unnecessary. He was rooted to the spot. “I re-read the diary and I thought about it all night, and it all makes sense if you just step back and think objectively. Chuck Bass married Blair Waldorf on December 27th, 2010, and we were both born on June 15th, 2011. I know from Gossip Girl's website that they were dating in September of 2009, which has to be around the time we were both conceived, and -”
“Stop.”
He did not yell or lash out or insult me or even shove me off of him. Teddy just sighed and looked caught under a terrible weight. Naturally, I ignored his request and took the contemplative silence as a cue to continue blathering on, despite the wrinkle it put between his eyebrows and the tense way his lips curled up at the edges and twitched uncontrollably along with the tic in his jaw. I had to give him the information, and damn the consequences.
“And it all adds up. I did a little digging, and those newspaper articles you found never said that Misty Bass married Charles Bass. Just the CEO of Bass Industries, which could mean she married your grandfather Bart and that the woman you've been thinking gave birth to you is really your grandmother!”
Teddy grit his teeth together and shook his head. “My dad told me that she died in childbirth.”
“Did he tell you your mother died in childbirth?” I clenched my fingers tighter around his arms. “Or that Misty Bass died in childbirth?”
“I -” His voice caught over the following word, and only then did he look away. “The letter she wrote me -”
It was my turn to shake my head in contradiction.
“The letter she wrote to 'Charlie'? Teddy...” I reached into my clutch and removed the pages I had chosen to rip out of Blair's diary the night he had shown me that very letter. They each described her days recovering in the hospital after 'Charlie' was born, all of them were signed Blair Bass, and the majority of them showcased quite clearly her love of and reliance on Chuck Bass. “Read these, when you get a chance. Just do not say you will not believe me until you read these, all right?”
I pressed them into his hands as a string quartet began to play soft music to accompany the presentations. When he refused to open his palms and receive the papers, I stuffed them into his pockets, shot him one last imploring look, and dashed to the stairs to get in line across from Maverick, who was looking quite bored and above it all on a lower step.
Lily smiled at the assemblage from her perch on the landing and moved to stand in its center behind the podium, but I could not see the entire board around her due to my hampered height and the distressing number of tall Amazon women on the steps above me.
Part of me didn't know what I would do if I saw Serena there-would I break apart from the line and rush up to her to beg her to come somewhere private with me for a chat? Would I smile congenially and act like nothing was amiss? Or would my brain dry up and forget everything I had obsessed over and wanted to ask her?
“Welcome, everyone, to this year's Annual Dispensary Cotillion and Debutante Ball.”
A smattering of polite applause rose from the floor behind us and from the upper galleries. I scanned that crowd to see if perhaps my godmother was simply watching the festivities out of the spotlight, but all I managed to do was spot a lithe, dark-haired girl in cream silk waving emphatically at Maverick, who winked roguishly back at her and grinned an honest smile I had not seen on his face before then.
I vaguely heard Saffron's name called along with that of her escort, but I refused to acknowledge her existence. The fact that Lily seemed to 'accidentally' break into a rather loud coughing fit when she read out the Queen Bee's shallow future plans made me feel a whole lot better about my social disgrace, and my mood soared even higher when the applause at her pronouncement was lukewarm at best.
Her half-sister received a much warmer reception, but it was the reading of her escort's name that shot a thrill up my spine.
“...escorted by Theodore Harold Bass...”
I almost forgot how to move my feet to alight the next step.
Before I could reflect too much on that revelation, which served to further confirm my shoddily-compiled evidence, it seemed like some higher being pressed a fast-forward button on the rest of the presentations, and I found myself standing at the top of the heap, my jewelry glittering perfectly on my throat, my dress fitting perfectly over my figure, as Lily van der Woodsen...Humphrey introduced me to Manhattan society. Many of the older families there had never seen or heard of me, so my list of achievements abroad immediately set their seasoned tongues wagging; the fact that I bore the surname Waldorf was no small matter either, and for the first time in a long time, I remembered to smile and carry myself like someone deserving that title.
I slid my arm through Maverick's and we joined the others in the ballroom, which was a beautiful wonderland of expensive imported flowers, one-of-a-kind silky Egyptian cotton linens, and soft romantic lighting. I could not see anyone in the style of dress I expected from Serena, nor could I make out her signature long waves of blonde hair in the thick of the uptight crowd; I did see Aunt Jenny's blonde curls at a table near the center of the onlookers, and though she was resplendent in pale pink and ivory, I saw the red rims around her carefully made up eyes.
Nate was across the room with a group of men I assumed were business colleagues or college friends. Lex was nowhere to be seem-I assumed he was out painting the town blue with Julian-and Lux was holding court with a few other freshmen minions in the back of the room. Maverick and I moved to a table near where Aunt Jenny sat making small talk over sparkling champagne, and were joined before long by Scarlett, Teddy, and a few other people who did not prescribe to The Saffron Kennedy Show.
The point of the four-course meal was to showcase the deportment and gentility the debutantes had learned from weeks of etiquette classes. I sat up straight in my chair and took tiny bites, not because I was aiming to impress any of the hawk-eyed committee members, but because I was not hungry and the high position gave me a better view of our fellow diners. Either Serena had not yet arrived, or she was hiding very well among her peers.
When the music changed to a stirring waltz and we gathered on the dance floor to entertain the parents and other guests, I concentrated more on glancing periodically over Maverick's broad shoulders to search for a pair of navy blue eyes or a sunny smile twinkling at me from amidst a haze of strangers. Where was she? I saw Eric near his mother, sharing a cup of wine with Colin, and chuckling over something or other, but where was his sister? He had promised me she would be at the debutante ball...
As we turned in endless circles for the Viennese waltz, I did my best to keep an eye out. That is when it happened.
A dark figure in the middle of the room, his chocolate brown hair falling over his narrowed brow and dark shadowed eyes. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, and his eyes bore into mine like they could see through tissue, flesh, and bone, and into the core of my very soul. I gasped all at once and accidentally dug my spiked heel into Maverick's foot.
We broke the formation rather spectacularly, while he drew his mouth into a straight, thin line to pretend like he wasn't in excruciating pain, and I whirled around with his arms still around me to inspect the place where I had seen that familiar face staring so intensely at me. But, when I stood still and had time to gaze unhindered, there was no on there. Just an old married couple watching the two of us with slightly concerned looks on their lined, weathered faces.
Maverick let out an annoyed grunt, turned me back around, and tried to get us back in the rhythm with everyone else. I heard Saffron's chirpy laugh somewhere behind us, but tried to ignore it as I had studiously refused to notice her silly dress, ugly hairdo, and completely ill-coordinated Jimmy Choos.
Serena. I tried to remind myself to focus on the task at hand. You have to find Serena.
But that dark face would not leave me alone. When the music drew to a close and Maverick was able to take a step back and massage his foot with an undignified look of annoyance on his altogether quite naturally and unrepentantly handsome face, I caught my breath and wondered if perhaps I had imagined him-he couldn't possibly be in the same room as me? It was just out of the question. He was a world away, far away, far away from me and my world and entirely removed from everything I knew and was. To have him so close and staring at me like that as if he knew precisely who I was made me uncomfortable. I realized that perhaps I was playing the part of a pawn in a very complicated chess game when all along I had been pretending to be the queen.
“I suppose you'll want to keep dancing.”
Now that the rehearsed waltzes were over with, we were free to enjoy the company of other partners, or retire to dinner tables to socialize with other guests, but all I was concerned about was a foggy memory and an all-consuming quest that I was starting to imagine might actually consume me until it burned the charred remains and there was nothing left.
“No, thank you.” I leaned up, putting my hands on his shoulders to support myself, and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Then I excused myself into another room, where I hoped my godmother might be relaxing amidst less stuffy companions.
As I crossed the threshold, I felt someone right behind me. Diesel Fuel For Life invaded my nostrils, pricking the invisible hairs on my forearms, and tensing my muscles underneath my increasingly clammy skin. How much more could I be expected to take on a night that was meant for frivolity and mindless dancing?
“Here she is,” I heard that horrifying high-pitched faux baby voice and looked around to see Saffron smirking at me with improved vindictiveness. “Though I can't imagine what you want with her.”
And there he was, all at once. The figure that haunted fevered nightmares, who intruded on my self-imposed exile with unwelcome phone calls and invaded my memories with his soft touches, his gentle caresses, his firm insistence that he held me in the utmost regard. I was not ready to see him, not ready to hate him as vehemently as I so dearly wanted to for all the sins he had committed against me; nor was I ready to fully face up to the fact that I had not been entirely innocent and probably deserved much worse than the punishment I had earned.
I found it more than a little disturbing how right his long fingers felt wrapped around the top of my bare arm. As if he had never pressed flesh to flesh hard enough to stain a royal bruise on fearful white porcelain; as if he had only ever cradled and gently caressed and cherished and left his mark in breadcrumb trails of sweet, possessive kisses.
When he turned me around to face him, it was as if we were back on Avenue Henri Martin in scarves and fashionably upturned hats. When he ran his thumb across my lower lip, I did not shudder or protest as I should have-as I had every right to do; it was as if we were on our couch in Blair Waldorf's living room, or turning around and around in hot water inside the claw-foot tub in my private bathroom. When his eyes swept up and down my body, that is just how naked I felt; raw and unprotected and unable to feel ashamed, whether or not that was the appropriate emotion.
I just stared, somehow unsurprised that he had found his way across the sea to me. Had a little part of me been waiting for him to be around every corner? Had it started before his calls or after? Would a little part of me always feel like it could forgive him, could still want him, could still try to live up to everything he said he wanted?
“Tristan?” It was scarcely more than a dreamy whisper.
The smirk on Saffron's face told me that, somehow, she was instrumental in his presence. I had not paid attention to her presentation, but perhaps I should have-perhaps then I would have seen him looking dashing in white tie, the tails of his jacket sweeping the backs of his barely ticklish knees.
Perhaps I would have been better prepared for the dent his being there put in my plan.
His lips parted wolfishly over sharp, pearly white teeth, and his fingers suddenly stiffened and tried to puncture my skin.
“Bonjour, ma petite.” His breath spread hot over my face and stirred the little hairs on the back of my neck. “I've come to collect.”
Sophie, the rightful winner of our disastrous bet, had chosen the boy I was to lose my virginity to. Not a lowlife member of some unimportant school club, or her lecherous father or one of her unappealing brothers, or a stranger from a club, not even an older sort of clueless man I would need to seduce and maneuver into my bed. She had selected the one person it would demolish me to sleep with, the one person who had the power to send me melting to my knees at a single word, the same person she had won fair and square and was graciously 'letting me' borrow for an evening.
She was the munificent and benevolent ruler, and I was the petty pauper at her feet.
“How did you find me here?” It was all I could manage to choke out, other than heavy, fearful breaths, or shocked little gasps.
Tristan Marchand was my every dream realized in one tall, dark, handsome, suave, worldly, filthy rich, tortured artist soul with the chiseled face of every prince charming I had ever read about as a child. He was also a predator, with glinting eyes and sharp, wolfish teeth, which he showed me with his dark and daunting scowl and the way he suddenly shoved me hard against the wall the way he had done in the music room that fateful day.
“It's not nice to promise something and then back out on the deal,” he whispered against my cheek, his hot breath a scorching piece of metal on my flesh. “You owe her your virginity, and I'm here to take it.” When I tried to dig my heel into the middle of his foot, as I had unintentionally done to Maverick during our Viennese waltz, he shook me hard enough to make me dizzy, but not enough to draw any unwanted attention to our squabble. “By force, if necessary.”
Did no one see us? I knew Saffron was standing nearby with a self-satisfied smile on her smug whoreish face, but did no one else see that I could not possibly escape from the much larger person bruising me with his touch and his eyes and his words and his lips when they descended on mine with all the force of a bullet train. I cried out into his mouth for someone to get him off of me, but for the second time in my life, it only added fuel to his fire. His tongue clashed against my resisting one and though I tried to bite it, he darted it back behind his own teeth so that my jaw ached from the internal collision.
“Get off of me, Tristan!” I shouted, pushing against his stone firm chest.
He merely pressed closer and taunted me with his lovely eyes. “In ten minutes you'll be screaming 'get me off, Tristan!' instead.”
Just as I started to lose all faith that anyone would come to my aid, I heard Teddy's voice shout “Hey!” somewhere from my left, and then there were heavy footsteps, and then someone (a distinguished knight come to rescue the helpless princess from the evil dragon) heaved him away from me by the collar of his shirt. I was able to slap at Tristan's wandering hands as hard as I could before he was yanked out of reach and I stumbled back into the paneled wall, my hair in shambles around my face and my lipstick smeared horribly across my mouth.
The dark figure I had seen in the crowd earlier had my attacker pinned against the opposite wall and he growled from the pits of his chest.
“Stay the hell away from my daughter.”