Chapter Twenty

126K 2.5K 92
                                    

Chapter Twenty

His scowl did not lessen as they danced, despite the fact that she seemed genuinely perplexed by his displeasure.

Evidently, despite her concern for his “health”, she was in no mood to coddle him. “By what are you not amused?” she asked, impatience stamped into the tight set of her mouth. “The decorations? The musicians? They seem more than adequate to me.”

“You know what I mean.” He said it forcefully, just to make certain she had not simply learned to hide the truth in the time she had lived with him.

She stared at him in such puzzlement that his scowl relaxed and he found himself feeling groundlessly grim. Purposefully, he began directing their dance to carry them toward the entryway. With barely a pause, he led her into the dining room, its tables laden with food and guarded by huge blocks of sculpted ice. “Look at this.”

Her glance at the tables was not cursory, and no glint of recognition shone in her eyes. He had just decided to explain when he felt her start of surprise. She went nearer, on tiptoe, as if she were afraid, and began to peer at the sculptures: Cinder Ella, her prince at her feet; Rapunzel in her tower, her hair let down; Sleeping Beauty, Little Redcape, Snow White, Beauty and the Beast.

Fairytale characters captured in ice. And that was not the worst: Every woman had Miranda’s face and every man was Simon — except that for the tale of Redcape he had been rendered with angular, wolfish features.

She put her hand out to the familiar features caught in ice and rested her fingers on the chill wolfen brow. “I had no idea.”

His lips tightened, then twitched. “My mother, of course. Her idea of amusement.” He gestured for a footman. “Take these away immediately.”

“No.” Miranda shook her head, and the footman halted, looking at Simon for further instruction. She touched his arm. He could not hide his anger, but she met his gaze full on. “Leave them. They are beautiful.”

“We will be the laughingstock of society for this folly,” he muttered.

Miranda shook her head, a shuttered look of sad certainly on her face. “Your mother would not do that. Your family name is too important to her.”

He jerked his arm away from her. So his mother had even convinced her of the Watterly honor. How ironic.

She reached for his arm again, touching him lightly, “Please. Leave them, Simon. No one will laugh. They are too beautiful for that.”

Her eyes rested wistfully on the Sleeping Beauty sculpture, the handsome, princely Simon bent so that his lips met and melded with the lips of the icy Sleeping Beauty, carved in the likeness of Miranda. “Leave them for my sake.”

He watched her, hoping his inner war not obvious in the taut lines of his face. Why did he continue to torture them both like this? He should send her back to her family before she was ruined forever — not her reputation, but her heart, He remembered then that his mother had warned him of that very thing. Damn her.

“They’re only ice, Simon. They won’t last.”

Just like your dreams, he thought, but did not say. Of course, as he knew she would, she persevered. “By the end of the evening they’ll be puddles on the floor. Can I not have them for this little while?”

He did not answer her, but turned his attention to the footman, who had watched their exchange wide-eyed. “Leave them. My wife wishes it.”

He would have left her then, if she had not slipped her hand in his. “Dance with me again, Simon. The room is so full of strangers watching my every move. I would like to dance once more with you.”

The Fairy Tale BrideWhere stories live. Discover now