The Summer Palace [Fantasy romance/enemies to lovers/new adult]

Chapter Eight

It was a bold move to stride through the palace and straight back to my suite, but I do it anyway. The room is as if I never left - curtains pulled closed and the cushions I hid beneath the duvet to look like me back on the sofa and chairs in the entranceway. I sit at the dressing table - my collection of potions and powders still atop it where I left them, and set to brushing the knots out of my hair.

I was sure to have been spotted by more than one person on the walk to my rooms, and word travels fast in the palace. Indeed, the first person to enter my rooms - not even knocking - is Emmeline. The real Emmeline Fletchley, in the flesh.

"Miss Corina," she says, her mouth agape. "Why are you back?"

I open my mouth to explain, but I don't have time to. In flounces my mother in an emerald green dress, her mouth a fine line and her budding wrinkles rather prominent. She's frowning up a storm.

"Just where have you been?" She demands. Her voice gets shrill when she's angry, and I see myself wince in the mirror. "We were about to send people out looking for you."

"I'm back now, aren't I?" I say, guiding a tweezer up to my eyebrows. Emmeline bustles over and flaps a hand at me to stop. I'm grateful when she starts rubbing an oil into my hair, fussing around me as she likes to do before a ball.

"You'd better have a good explanation for this," my mother seethes. "Lord Richtenstar came this morning to speak with you. With a bouquet of flowers, even. I had to make excuses for you. I have never been so embarrassed-"

She's interrupted by my father opening the door. Which is fortunate - otherwise I was concerned that her diatribe might last the entire evening, and I'd miss the ball entirely.

"Oh, here she is," father waves a hand flippantly at me. It's as if he'd misplaced something trivial, like his left boot, and he'd just managed to find it. "I told you she'd be back soon enough."

"Please, Julian," my mother scolds him, "this child has humiliated us in the face of the whole court."

"Hardly anyone but us knew she was missing, Margrit," my father returns. His statement doesn't fill me with joy. "Besides, you can hardly blame her. You'd have run if you were to marry that bumbling man."

"Then don't agree to the wedding!" I throw my hands in the air, exasperated. I startle poor Emmeline, who was halfway through fixing a braid to the back of my head.

My mother crosses her arms. "We can't deny it. And you'd do well to do what's asked of you. We all have to make sacrifices."

Just because Lord Richtenstar is a wealthy lord doesn't mean they have to go along with his marriage proposal. I knew we'd lost some money in the last year, but I didn't seriously believe we were in such dire straits as to warrant marrying me off to the wealthiest ferret.

My father watches me. He's got a strange look, as though he's in uncomfortable pain, or has trapped wind. Either way, it's disconcerting.

"Fetch for me in the morning, if you like," I tell my mother. "I must get ready for the ball."

At this my father leaves, but my mother always has to have the last word.

"You will go to this ball, and you will talk to Lord Basyl. You will charm him with what little guile you have - if any, Gods help us - and when the time comes you will stand with him at the altar."

I will do nothing of the sort. I am no longer obliged to do as my parents bid - as she will very well soon find out.

By the time I've detailed my last twenty-four hours to Emmeline, she's finished applying serums and powders to my face. My hair falls in waves apart from two braids which circle my head and meet at the back of it, there's sparkle on my cheekbones and eyeliner winged towards my brows. She's painted my lips a dusky rose. I must admit, it's a look worthy of a dramatic entrance. All it needs is the right dress.