Free The Duke of Snow and Apples by Elizabeth Vail Page B

ground, to all outward appearances an ordinary, easily overlooked footman in the same peacock finery all footmen wore.
    When it was Charlotte’s turn to be helped down, she noticed the near-imperceptible rise of his lips as his eyes met hers. For one instant, she imagined he looked almost smug . Bloody presumptuous cheek ! When she took his hand to be step down from the carriage, she dug her heel into his toes with a mite more force than was ladylike, and was rewarded with a less-than-masculine squeak and hiss of pain. Ha! Charlotte Erlwood doesn’t lose so easily. Not to a footman.
    A smile sprouted and grew across her face, as large and tenacious as a weed. I’ll show Frederick. I’ll show Sylvia. I’ll show them all.
    At first, she walked stiffly around the ballroom as other ladies arrived in their silver taffeta and Barjovian lace, trailing intricate spells that surrounded them with pixie lights or made the embroidered figures on the hems of their gowns caper with delight. All these women, too many women, dripping beautiful charms and spells. For an instant, Charlotte could only remember her plain, square features, and her natural ineptitude for fire that made the magical strain from even the simplest glamours leave small burn-blemishes on her skin when she wasn’t careful.
    Augusta, Lady Tamsin, called her name, causing Charlotte to turn around, and the movement flared her red skirts seductively. The moment of self-criticism popped like one of the rainbow bubbles floating off Lady Enshaw’s gown. She loved the ripple of the scalloped hem that rendered every step fluid and graceful, the silk that sang against her skin, the cut that traced her curves with worshipful attention. Had she really considered locking this gown away without ever wearing it? All because of Mr. Peever?
    She tried to hold onto her anger. She deserved to be angry. However, she couldn’t guard her tongue while imagining setting Frederick on fire at the same time.
    For instance, in casual conversation Viscount Elban admitted he’d written the sheet music she’d borrowed the day before. As they spoke, a footman bearing a tray of wineglasses passed by. Not Frederick, of course, but the mere reminder of him sent her mind scurrying in the opposite direction, leaving her tongue unguarded. Instead of fluttering her fan and muttering, “How delightful,” Charlotte blurted, “How can you write such lovely music and not show it to the world?”
    “You don’t think I’ll only end up compared to my grandmother?” Viscount Elban asked. “That I’ll only be seen as a paltry Enshaw copy?”
    Viscount Elban occupied a social sphere as far above Charlotte’s as could be, and yet, as he grimaced, Charlotte experienced a shock of recognition and sympathy as potent as a bolt of lightning. She almost laughed, even as she felt something loosening, unknotting inside of her, falling away to leave her feeling free.
    “Clearly music runs in the Enshaw family,” she replied. “The truly paltry decision would be never to share it.”
    Perhaps thanks to the heat of the room, the blazing flame of her dress, or the rising tattoo of her heart, problems and annoyances and rules melted away to drip onto the floor. Everything about the ball slowly quickened and transmuted into something lighter, easier. Minutes and hours melded together instead of marching onward with staid, regular politeness. The glimmering of the candles and lampstones stretched into streaks of light as she spun around the dance floor with her partners. She felt awake and light-headed, as if even the blood sped faster through her veins. Somehow, thanks to some mysterious, unknown alchemy, she was enjoying herself at a ball for the first time in years.
    During one small bubble of silence and stillness, when everyone in Charlotte’s circle happened to pause at the same time to sip at their lemon fizz or flag down a friend, Charlotte swayed with sudden disorientation. Why were the smiles around