Chapter Twenty-Five Toss It!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Toss It!

I STARE AT the vicomte's outstretched hand, momentarily frozen.

"What a wonderful idea, my lord." José winks at me before offering his hand to Lady Arnould. "Shall we?"

She takes it without a second thought, a smile lighting up her round face.

"Well?" the vicomte prompts.

Do I dare allow myself to be so close to him? But with everyone staring at me, a refusal would be unacceptable. Véronique digs her nails into Hugo's arm as I give the vicomte a small nod. At least dancing will give me an excuse to get away from her and her deadly schemes.

"It will be my pleasure," I say, putting my hand in his.

A tingle rushes up my arm at his touch. I've never been much of a dancer, and the long train of my dress isn't a helpful addition, but the valse is not too complicated. I just need to make it through one dance and excuse myself.

The vicomte leads me to the dance floor, maneuvering us between the couples before turning and bowing to me. I curtsy back, holding my skirts up. Keeping his eyes on mine, he takes my right hand in his left before placing his other hand over my shoulder blade. His hold is strong yet gentle, assuring, almost protective .

"You look lovely this evening," he says, as he steps forward with his left foot.

I follow his lead, stepping back in time before moving my leg to the side and crossing for the upcoming turn. "Thank you, my lord," I say, trying to keep the count.

"Are we back to formal titles, Cleodora?"

My pulse quickens, but I ignore the sensation. Tonight, I am not Cleodora. I am a thief. The words repeat on an endless loop in my mind.

"I judged it to be proper, considering that you are tonight's host," I answer.

"And have you ever known me to care for what's proper?" He steers toward the center of the dance floor and spins us around. I nearly stumble from the surprise, but his hold keeps me steady. His movements are full of ease, gracefully rising and falling with the steps. "Not much of a dancer, are you?" he teases.

"It's the dress."

"Doesn't seem to be in the way." He spins us again before pushing his leg back and allowing me to lean into a dip. "Perhaps you just have two left feet."

I suck in a breath as he pulls me up. For a second, his head faces mine, a twinkle of a smile on his lips. "I haven't stepped on your toes yet, have I?" I ask.

He chuckles. "I attribute that to my fantastic ability to lead."

I barely resist rolling my eyes. After not seeing him for a week, I had almost managed to forget how arrogant he can be. Only now, rather than irritating, I find it charming. There's so much more behind his conceited mask. The butterflies in my stomach flutter with impatient wings. He presses his body to mine to keep us connected as we turn swiftly, and all I want is to draw even closer to him.

I remind myself that I'm here on a mission, that I can't let my emotions get in the way, but every moment in his company makes it harder to deny the fire brimming under the surface. The way his hand feels on the small of my back, the way his eyes sparkle in the candlelight—it's all too much. I need to keep my distance.

Yet here I am, dancing with him, as if my entire reason for being here tonight isn't to steal from him. To make him Talentless.

The music winds down, the valse coming to an end. "If you'll excuse me." I curtsy again, eager to leave, but he grabs my hand.

"That wasn't a full dance," he says.

The orchestra starts playing again, but this time the tempo is faster. Around us, the couples all bow to each other once more before leaping into a lively polka—combining the rotation of the valse with the driving gliding steps of the galop. The last time I attempted it, I was a child. There were no chandeliers above my head, or polished wood under my heels. My dress was but a nightgown, and my dancing partner was Father. There wasn't even any music, only Mother's enthusiastic clapping as we twirled around, hopping with the imagined beat. But this is not my old house—this is a ballroom. And the man before me is not Father.

"I insist." Nuriel bows again.

I can sense the blush blooming on my cheeks, the pleasant warmth that spreads in my stomach from knowing he enjoys my company. Perhaps even desires me. Yet the very same thought twists me from within. I shouldn't care about him. I shouldn't feel that rush of energy at his touch or have my heart skip at his gaze. I am a thief . . .

"I haven't practiced these steps in a while," I mumble.

But Nuriel takes my hand. "Just follow my lead."

My legs feel like wooden logs as I join in time for the first skip. Then we are twirling around the dance floor. I hop and turn and glide, unaware if any of it is in the right order or if I'm making a fool of myself. The music is driven, pushing the couples to spin rapidly and give in to the exhilarating tune. I can see Pauline among them, dancing now with a different man in a blue mask. We pass José and Lady Arnould, and Véronique and the marquis's son .

With each turn, my heart beats faster and faster, the euphoria of the dance sneaking into my bones and banishing all thoughts. The ballroom around me is a blur of colors, the other couples fading into the background, the music brimming from within as if playing through my blood. There is nothing but the movement, but the dance, and Nuriel's firm grip, sending tingles through my limbs.

As we spin, a flash of color catches my eye—a shade of magenta so vivid it cuts through the whirl in my mind. The sight of it is quickly swallowed by the many other dancers. I throw my head back to spot it, but the dance is too fast. I hop with the beat, allowing Nuriel to guide us around the dance floor, when I see it again. Just by the stairs, a lady in a rich, flamboyant dress is watching, holding a silver mask up to her face on a slender wand.

I try to keep my eyes on her as we turn, taking in more of her appearance with each spin. The satin bows and pleated trimmings. The delicate puffs of tulle on her sleeves. The way her shiny locks fall on her shoulders. We spin one more time and she moves her hand, dropping the mask for just a moment. But that's all it takes for my heart to seize, and for my count to falter.

I misstep, not following Nuriel's lead. My heel catches on the train of my skirt. I stumble and yelp, but the vicomte's arms stop me from hitting the floor. Another couple nearly crashes into us, and Nuriel yanks me out of the way at the last second.

"Let me guess . . ." He pants. "You blame the dress."

But my focus is elsewhere, my eyes searching the crowd for the magenta gown.

My sister is here.

Dahlia was right. Anaella did come around; she just needed time to wrap her head around it all. To understand that everything I'm doing is for her, for us. And now she's here, taking her first steps into our shared future. This ball is the perfect opportunity to present her to society—the sister who came from the countryside to live with her successful, well-established older sibling.

"Cleodora?" Nuriel—no, the vicomte —shakes my shoulder. I really shouldn't allow myself to get so comfortable with him.

"I'm sorry," I say, taking a step back.

"Are you not feeling well? Do you wish to sit down?"

"No . . . I'm—"

"Cleo?" My sister's voice is like a ray of sunlight.

I spin on my heel to find Anaella standing right behind me, holding her mask up to her eyes. She looks radiant, the vivid gown complementing the healthy blush on her cheeks. Opals dangle from her ears, matching her Talent ring. Dahlia clearly did not spare any expense.

"Ann . . . you came!"

"I did."

I want to jump and hug her, but with the vicomte standing right next to me, I have to be restrained, respectable.

"Will you introduce me?" Anaella's eyes sweep over the vicomte.

"Of course." I glance between them. If things were as they used to be, my sister would have heard all about Nuriel by now. She'd have known about our outing in the botanical garden, about the way his mesmerizing eyes captivate mine, about how we almost kissed. But as it is, she has never even heard his name. Perhaps for once it's better this way . . . she doesn't need to know how complicated my emotions toward my target have become.

"Ann, this is Vicomte Lenoir. He's the host of tonight's ball. And, my lord, this is Lady Anaella—"

"Finley. Anaella Finley," my sister says before I can finish.

Finley. Our father's name.

Why did she stop me from introducing her as Adley ? How am I supposed to explain that she's my sister now? This is supposed to be my opportunity to present her to society, to start our new life. Anaella knows that. That's the reason she came here. Isn't it?

When I look at my sister's face, I'm not so sure. I thought she'd be content. I imagined a smile on her lips, maybe an excited spark in her eyes. But all I see is tension in her jaw, and coldness in her gaze.

If she isn't here to accept Dahlia's offer, why did she come at all?

"A pleasure, Lady Finley." The vicomte kisses the back of her hand. "Though I must confess, your name is not familiar. Did you travel far?"

"Not too far, my lord," Anaella says. "In fact, I—"

"I do feel a bit light-headed." I cut her off before she can say more and turn to the vicomte. "Would you mind getting me a drink? Something without alcohol?"

His eyebrow cocks up, and for a moment I'm sure he's going to refuse. It wouldn't be out of character for him. But then he nods, striding away without a word.

At once I grab Anaella's arm. "What are you doing?" I whisper. "You can't use that name here."

"Why not?" She lifts up her chin. "You should be proud of it."

I glance around, but nobody is paying us any attention. I've already made one enemy in Véronique. Her plan to use the coachman to find my secrets might have been foiled by his death, but if she somehow catches our conversation and learns my real name, that will be the end of me.

"Did you come here just to ruin my plans?" I whisper urgently.

"I came here to convince you to stop this madness," she whispers back at me. "When that Dahlia woman sent me the dress, I knew this was my only chance to stop you before you do something you will regret. Please, Cleo." She begs me. "Don't do this."

My heart sinks all the way down to my stomach. This is not how seeing her again was supposed to go.

"But Ann, look around you! Look at yourself. " I hasten the words, drawing so close to her that my lips are next to her ear. I need her to see, to understand. "We were starving, Ann, and you were dying. You're healthy again! We're together, wearing these marvelous dresses like the ones Father used to make. This could be our life. This will be our life. We can still fix this. We can say that you used a different name tonight as a part of the masquerade ball, just as a game. We can still introduce you to society. I just need to find the vicomte's gem, and all of this will be ours."

"Do you even hear yourself?" She takes my hand in hers as she lowers her mask, revealing the pain written in every line of her face. "I don't want to take another name. All of this—" She gestures to the hall around us. "None of it matters. You're not a thief. Cleo, just come home with me. I know you will never hurt anyone. It's not who you are!"

But she's wrong. She has no idea what I've already done. How I stole the vicomte's blood—made the choice to hand the drenched cloth to Dahlia. How I fired the coachman—how his body was thrown in the river because of me. I'm not as pure as she believes me to be. And there's no going back now.

"Think about Papa." The lively music swallows her hushed tone, but the urgency in it is gripping. "You took his book with you for a reason. To remind you of who we are! What would he have said—"

"Papa isn't here." I pull away from her hold. "He's dead, Ann. He's been dead for a long time now. We need to move on. It's my responsibility to take care of us."

The pain in her eyes is crushing; it's like watching a wounded animal. And it's all my fault. I did all of this for her, for us. Yet I've hurt her in the process. I shouldn't be this harsh with her. I shouldn't throw Father's death in her face.

"Ann . . . forgive me, I didn't mean—"

"A drink for the ladies." The vicomte appears by my side, handing me a glass of what looks like orange juice and offering another to Anaella. How does he even have oranges at this time of year?

I straighten up quickly, realizing how suspicious Anaella and I huddling together so closely must look to anyone watching. Appearances are my only weapon now .

"I was hoping you might accompany me on a small detour, Lady Adley." He continues before I even take a sip. "There is something I'd like to show you."

I drink some of the juice to stall, the sweet-sour taste dancing on my tongue. Anaella only grips her glass far too tightly, the mask once more concealing her face. I've failed to win her over, and that pain will haunt me. But none of that matters right now. With or without my sister's approval, I will see this plan through. She will have to forgive me after the fact. Stealing the Talent is the only way to move forward, and if using the vicomte's affections can help, I won't reject them.

"Certainly. I'd love to." I crack a faint smile.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Finley." He bows his head to Anaella, but she doesn't return the gesture.

Instead, she grabs at my sleeve when he turns around. "Cleo, please," she whispers.

I shake her off without a word and rush to catch up with the vicomte. I have to force myself to not look back at her. To not let her plea change my mind. I wish I could turn away from it all and do what she asks. I wish I could be the woman she believes I am. I wish I could give her this life some other way. That I could keep my ruby without embracing the monster within . . . But I can't.

The vicomte leads me toward the stairwell, helping himself to a stuffed mushroom from a passing tray before placing my hand in his. I fight against the warmth spreading inside me—this isn't a romantic escape. This is just a part of a plan. A way to get to the upper floors of the manor. Soon we are out of the hall and walking down a wide corridor. Massive portraits hang on the walls, eyes seemingly following us as we pass.

"Where are we going?" I ask. "Won't anyone miss you back in the ballroom?"

"Hardly." He chuckles. "It's only expected for couples to sneak away on such a night. "

Couple. My mouth turns dry.

But he is not wrong—there are couples sneaking around everywhere, sharing forbidden kisses and passionate caresses in hidden and not-so-hidden nooks. I gasp as my eyes fall on a gentleman and two ladies sneaking into a nearby room, their clothes half undone, eager to tear off the rest. Is that what the vicomte has in mind for us? My cheeks burn hotter at the thought.

We turn into another corridor when I notice a couple leaning by an open window. Unlike the others, they don't seem to be in the middle of a passionate interlude just yet. The woman is tall, wearing an exquisite gown in shades of pink that leaves her shoulders bare along with most of her bosom. I almost turn away when I notice the druzy gem of her necklace. Josephine Garnier is not the person I'd have imagined sneaking away with a man, not when she could be at the center of a large social event. And yet, I hadn't thought she'd be the kind to have a secret passage in her shop, either. I stare shamelessly as we get closer . . . and then I recognize the man by her side.

I nearly stumble again but manage to keep my composure. Henry, one of the guards Dahlia assigned to me, is pressing his body closer to Josephine's.

My gaze darts away from them at once as I hurry to stay close to the vicomte. Is this Henry's way of keeping watch on me? Or is Josephine just a side endeavor for his pleasure? Whatever the answer may be, his presence is a clear assurance that I'm making the right choice by ignoring Anaella—a reminder that Dahlia is watching.

I will fulfill my end of the bargain.

The vicomte leads me up another set of stairs to an upper floor that looks abandoned. His Talent must be somewhere inside one of these closed rooms, ready for the taking. Now if I could just find a way to be here alone so I can search for it.

"Here we are." He opens a heavy wooden door, holding it for me to enter first .

The room is dark, lit only by the moonlight coming through a large window overlooking the garden. But the faint silver light is enough to illuminate the mess—books, scrolls, quills, and strange instruments of measurement cover every surface of the cluttered study. My heart slows a little. This isn't a bedroom where one would take a woman for a night of passion. I bite my lip at the strange sinking sensation in my stomach before mentally scolding myself. This isn't something to be disappointed about.

"Why are we here?" I ask.

The vicomte lights a gas lamp and points to the wall behind the main desk. A painting hangs right between the heavy bookcases—a beautiful landscape of sunset over a bay, the water shimmering as if set aflame.

It's feels like a lifetime ago when I saw it at Renee's art exhibition. "Do you think the water is burning?" I asked the vicomte back then.

"You bought it?"

"Indeed. I brought you here to thank you. Without your insight, I might have missed this masterpiece."

We stand in silence as I take the painting in. It is as beautiful and haunting as I remembered it—vast expanses of water that should speak of freedom but instead echo pain, as though there's no escape from the endless flames.

"I thought of placing it in one of the main halls," the vicomte says. "But I've decided I want it all to myself."

"Is this your personal study?"

"The one place in this house that's mine." He sounds almost bitter.

I turn to look at him, watching the shadows cast by the gaslight playing on his sculpted features. I'm not sure if it's a trick of the light or an effect of the mask, but his eyes are a bit glossy, as if clouded by tears. He blinks and the effect is gone, replaced by his usual teasing smile.

" Ladies are usually not allowed in here," he says.

"Oh, is that why it's such a mess?"

He laughs, stacking up some of the books on his desk. "You sound like my mother." Turning his back to me, he carries the books toward one of the glass-covered cabinets.

I follow him, glancing at the titles as he replaces them on the shelves. There are books about philosophy, history, mathematics, even strategies of war. Nothing I wouldn't expect. But one title stands out.

" L'architecture est un art ," I read the title aloud.

"My friend, the architect, gave it to me as a gift," he says, but hurries to put the book away. "I still haven't had time to read it properly."

"Did you manage to get another meeting at the botanical gardens for your friend? The designs you showed me were truly beautiful."

"Not yet."

"I'm sorry."

He raises an eyebrow. "What for?"

"I . . . You just seem to really care about it."

The vicomte turns quiet, all hints of teasing gone as he stares at a wooden box on the top shelf. "If you could choose, would you be a singer?" he asks.

"What?"

"You said you love fashion." He turns to me. "Have you ever tried it? Making clothes on your own?"

I shake my head. "It's not my Talent."

"That's not what I asked."

I press my lips together for a moment, remembering the feeling of holding a small needle between my fingers, of pricking through muslin with Father's warm, guiding hand. The soft touch of a new bolt of velvet and the excitement of a new lace delivery. I can almost see the endless patterns spread on the floor and the rush of fear and delight at cutting through a new fabric to match them.

"I did . . . a long time ago. But that's not what I'm meant for."

The vicomte sighs. "That ruby on your finger doesn't have to determine that. You are more than your Talent."

"What are you . . . ? "

His hand cups my cheek before I can finish my question, and my entire body tingles in response.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," I futilely try to maintain a sort of formality.

"I told you to call me Nuriel."

He's so incredibly close now. How did that even happen? I can feel his heat radiating toward me, my heart racing as I take in every single detail—the way his hair falls across his forehead, the ripple of his muscles as he moves, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with the natural musk of his skin. He draws closer with a smile and for the first time I notice a very slight crookedness to his upper lip. Somehow, the tiny imperfection only makes him more beautiful.

"Nuriel . . . I . . ."

With a gentle hand, he takes off my mask, his speckled, gemlike eyes staring right into mine. They hold a passion that resonates in every fiber of my being, a desire I desperately wish to kill—for just sensing it brimming inside me is a betrayal.

Yet the intensity of his gaze weakens my resolve. It's as though he's trying to read my thoughts. To see what's in my heart. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the tension between us palpable, almost unbearable.

Then, without warning, his lips find mine.

And I am lost.

His kiss is not at all the same as Dahlia's—while her touch was hungry, almost tinged with pain, there was an endless sense of softness to it. His lips press against mine with ferocity, as though he's been waiting for this since the day we met. The strength of his desire is overpowering, like lightning striking the bare ground. His hands curl into my hair as he pulls me closer, his fingers tangling in the strands as the kiss deepens. It burns through me like flames erupting from within, threatening to consume us.

At that moment, I throw all caution to the wind. I don't care that I shouldn't allow myself to feel for him. That I need to find his Talent. That I need to steal from him. All I want is to have him closer. To taste the sweetness of his lips and lose myself in him. It's as though the rest of the world has fallen away, and all that exists is the two of us, lost in this firestorm of desire.

I press myself against his firm muscles, my fingers loosening his tie before moving down to unbutton his waistcoat. There is a hint of confusion on his face, his brow rising ever so slightly in response to my boldness. Yet his hands don't need any extra invitation to accept it.

He lets out a low grunt that sends a pleasant shiver through me. Then we're against his desk, books thudding as they hit the floor, swept away in a delirious haze.

"Cleodora." He whispers my name as we part for air, and goosebumps rise on my skin. Then he kisses me again, his teeth biting lightly into my bottom lip, his hands searching for the laces at the back of my gown.

I tug at his collar, begging him for more, begging for our bodies to entwine and succumb to this madness. His lips trail down to my neck, and I let out a soft moan.

That's when a knock comes at the door.

He backs away from me, chest heaving. "Who is it?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, my lord," a man's voice replies. "Your mother is looking for you."

Nuriel groans, his frustration echoing my own. I need his mouth on mine.

"Tell her you couldn't find me." He leans in again.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but she says it is urgent."

This could be my chance, the only opportunity I'll have to search without prying eyes. Yet all I want is for him to stay, to kiss me more.

"You should go." I force the words out, each one like a rope around my neck, pulling me farther away from what I truly desire.

Nuriel stops a mere inch from my lips and sighs, his warm breath making me shudder. "Wait for me?" he whispers.

I nod, trying to calm my beating heart .

He steals one more kiss, imprinting his taste on my tongue, before heading to the door. The servant on the other side jumps as he walks out without a warning. "Let's make this quick," I hear Nuriel say.

I gasp for air as he closes the door behind him, my heart pushing its way out of my chest. What just happened? I run my palms over my face. I kissed him. I wanted to keep kissing him. I wanted all of him.

His taste, his smell, his touch. All of them linger in his wake, making my body hungry for more. How different they all are than Dahlia's delicate sensuality—harsher, more confident. I thought Nuriel was the white rose, and Dahlia the red—perhaps I've got it all wrong.

Seconds tick by and I'm still frozen in place, as if waiting eagerly for his return. Why am I not moving? This is the chance I've been waiting for. Possibly the only chance to find his Talent. I need to stop fantasizing about his hands running through my hair and focus. He could be back any minute, and the longer I wait, the greater is the risk of me losing myself to him completely. I shudder and shake my shoulders.

"Finally," a tiny voice whispers from outside the window. "I thought all this kissing broke you."

I spin around to see Lirone perched on the windowsill, right behind a set of decorative metal bars.

"What are you doing?" I rush to the window and lift it open. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in days!"

Somehow he looks even skinnier than usual, his oversized clothes hanging loosely on his tiny figure. He always looks so undernourished—where did he get the strength to climb all the way up here? How did no one see him? If it weren't for the ornate bars I'd have already grabbed him and pulled him into the safety of the room, away from the dangerous edge.

"I've been busy," he says. "Now, c'mon. That call from his mother I arranged won't keep him long."

I should have suspected Lirone had a hand in this. The vicomte's leaving was too convenient .

"Where should I start?"

"Isn't it obvious? The box."

"What box?"

Lirone gives me his signature eye roll and I almost smile. "That one!" He points to the wooden box at the top of the cabinet, pushing his tiny arm through the bars. It's the same box Nuriel looked at before asking me about my singing and my love for fashion. How long was Lirone watching us?

"You . . . you think—"

"Obviously," he says.

My legs shake as I walk toward the cabinet. Could his Talent really be there? Just waiting for me to take it? Could it really be this easy?

I reach for the handle and open the glass door with a soft pull. The wooden box has its own shelf, as if placed with respect.

"Please, Cleo. Don't do this." Anaella's voice echoes within me. "I know you will never hurt anyone. It's not who you are!"

With trembling fingers, I touch the smooth wood, noticing the delicate gold frame covering the corners. It's not the marvelous showcase I imagined. It's an intimate display, placed in the room closest to Nuriel's heart. This is the ultimate conclusion to Dahlia's plan. She told me to get close to him, to flirt and win him over. She knew it would lead me straight to his hidden and most treasured possession.

Can I truly do this?

"Hurry up!" Lirone urges.

My heart falters as I lift the heavy lid. Right there on a cushion of red velvet sits a diamond ring. Waves of energy radiate inside it; they are so bright that I wonder how Nuriel can ever bear to be parted from such powerful magic. The pull of it must be so strong in his blood.

I know I'm about to steal it. But just touching it feels like a crime. I draw a shaky breath as I take it in my hand, and its unexpected warmth seeps into my skin. This is it. All I've been working toward is finally in my grasp. It was so simple, elegant even. All I need to do is close the box and give the diamond to Lirone, and the vicomte will be none the wiser. Not until it's too late.

"What are you waiting for? Toss it!"

I turn to look at Lirone, his hand outstretched, ready to take the Talent and disappear into the night. I should just do it. Hand it to him and get it over with. Finish the task. Make Dahlia happy. Give my sister the future she deserves. Keep my ruby.

But all I can see is Nuriel's honest eyes filling my mind, the easy confidence in his smile . . . All I can feel is the warmth of his lips against mine.

I am not Cleodora. I am a thief. The mantra returns, but it has lost all conviction for me.

Steps echo in the corridor outside.

Lirone shoots me a panicked look. "Cleo! Toss it!"

But I can't.

The handle clicks and Lirone curses under his breath before swinging himself away and disappearing.

I only have time to turn before Nuriel opens the door with a breathtaking grin. Then his eyes fall on me, standing frozen with his Talent resting in my hand.

"What are you doing?" The smile evaporates from his face.