The Kind of Woman They Want

The neckline plunged so precipitously that the valley between my breasts was on full display, and a slit ran all the way up my right thigh — the slightest shift would flash bare skin. How, exactly, was I supposed to describe a dress like this?

The honest word was vulgar. Saying that to the designer's face, however, would have been unforgivably rude.

"It's bold."

The moment I offered that carefully watered-down verdict, Madame Deborah burst out laughing.

"Young lady, I hear you're going to Salon Minerva. Over there, this is perfectly ordinary."

"Salon Minerva?"

"Oh, heavens, look at me. Here — a note from Viscount Cecilia."

What Madame Deborah held out was a small card. There was no envelope. I opened it and found a brief message.

I had no idea what Salon Minerva was, but if this kind of attire passed for ordinary, I could guess the atmosphere well enough. I could guess what sort of gathering it would be, too.

Perhaps I really ought to stop by a gunsmith's.

Then again, with a dress like this, I wasn't even sure I could hide a pistol.

I was swallowing a sigh at my reflection when a knock came at the door.

"Young lady. His Lordship the Count has arrived. Are you still changing?"

Marianne's voice. Before I could answer, Madame Deborah chimed in brightly.

"She's all dressed. You may come in."

The door opened, and my eyes locked with Lyft's as he stepped into the room.

His face was its usual hard, expressionless mask — until he took in my appearance. Then he snapped his head aside, looking anywhere but at me.

I must have looked thoroughly scandalous. But the side of his face, still flushed red from the blow I'd landed last night, was right there in my line of sight, and that didn't sit well with me either.

Oblivious to either of our discomforts, Madame Deborah trotted over to Lyft and struck up a conversation.

"Count? I run Boutique Deborah. Angelina Deborah. I don't believe we've met? Might I ask your name?"

Whether you called it shameless cheek or a talent for business, she was working hard to cultivate an acquaintance with this nameless count. Lyft glanced at me once, then turned his head away again.

Madame Deborah, delighted by a man who couldn't even look at me properly, smiled with satisfaction and pressed on.

"Well? Isn't she beautiful? That snow-white skin against the red — doesn't it suit her wonderfully?"

"I have no need of it. Take it back."

"No. Please have it ready for me to wear tomorrow evening."

I answered in his place, cutting across that cold dismissal. Madame Deborah, who had looked quite stricken, immediately bustled over to me and began to fawn.

"See? You like it, don't you, young lady? It suits you so, so well."

"I'd like to change now."

"Yes, of course. What are you all standing around for? Help the young lady out of it."

Lyft had been looking at me as if he meant to devour me, but when the boutique staff moved to undress me, he had no choice but to turn around.

The door shut with more force than usual. Once again I was turned this way and that in the staff's hands as they changed me.

Madame Deborah and her people, apparently terrified I might change my mind, packed up their boxes as hastily as they'd arrived and made a swift exit. The moment they were gone, Lyft came back into the room.

"If you require a dress, I will have another prepared."

Meaning: don't wear that one. It wasn't as if I'd volunteered because I liked it.

"It's fine. I'm attending an event Viscount Cecilia arranged. I should wear the clothes he sent."

"That dress does not suit you."

A man commenting on a woman's attire was already a breach of etiquette, but Lyft clearly found the dress so objectionable he couldn't help himself. I didn't know why, but it made me laugh. I let out a small chuckle and asked, teasingly,

"Too vulgar?"

Lyft didn't answer, but his rigid expression said everything. It had looked that way to me, too. Why would it look any different to him?

I shrugged.

"Then that's perfect. A woman so steeped in vanity and greed she'd turn her back on her own blood's death — a monster in a woman's skin who'd do anything if there was money in it. That's exactly how I need to look."

"Why must you?"

"Because then trash like Viscount Cecilia will think I'm on their side."

Even after my explanation, Lyft's expression didn't ease. He simply dropped the subject of the dress and changed the topic.

"I am told dinner is ready."

Dinner already. I still had no appetite, but I nodded without protest.

I started toward the dining room, but Lyft didn't move. He didn't seem to have anything more to say. He was simply standing there, looking at me.

"Would you like to join me?"

I asked on a whim, and he nodded. It was already awkward enough that I — a dependent under his roof — was the one issuing the invitation. That he'd accepted made it even stranger. It was too late to tell him never mind, so we went down to the dining room together.

We sat across from each other at the round table and began an awkward meal. The vividly red side of his face kept catching my eye.

"You should put some ice on that."

I said it while pretending to poke at my salad, not looking at him. He must have known what I meant, but Lyft said nothing. He set down his cutlery, drained his water glass, then looked at me. I kept pretending to be absorbed in my plate. He watched me anyway, then spoke in that flat, inflectionless voice of his.

"Allow me to apologize once more for last night."

This was awkward. I couldn't say it was fine — it hadn't been fine. But I also couldn't keep holding it against him, not when I understood why he'd done it. I kept turning over a lettuce leaf that had long since given up, then let out a long breath.

"Just eat."

Whether he understood my discomfort or not, Lyft said nothing more.

The dress that came back the next day was even more daring.

I'd been told they would cut the hem, but I hadn't expected them to raise it high enough to leave my calves completely exposed. And these stockings — they showed not the slightest intention of covering any skin. Marianne, who was helping me dress, shook her head. I couldn't even bring myself to look properly at my reflection.

The one mercy was that the weather was still cold enough to justify a coat. Of course, I'd have to take it off the moment I arrived at Salon Minerva.

I stepped into the hall, worrying whether the dagger I'd tucked beneath my breasts would show — and found I could set aside my fear that the outfit would stand out too much. If anything, my dress, which at least covered my shoulders, was on the modest side.

I'd been told a salon was a place where noble men and women gathered for social events. This was closer to a tavern. And not a respectable one — the kind where hostesses circulated the floor with the drinks.

It was astonishing enough that men of high nobility held their gatherings in a place like this. It was equally astonishing that Viscount Cecilia could send a dress like this to his dead wife's sister and look genuinely pleased about it.

"Well, well. Young Lady Dvorden. I knew it would suit you."

"Thank you, Viscount."

Trying to smile into a face I wanted to spit on, I could already feel a twitch starting at the corner of my mouth.

"This way, if you please. Everyone's been waiting for you."

Viscount Cecilia slipped an arm around my waist as naturally as breathing and steered me deeper into the salon. The press of his hand through the thin fabric sent a crawl of gooseflesh over my entire body.

He led me past women who might as well have been naked, and past attendants ferrying trays, down a long corridor. The hallway was dressed in lavish ornaments, but to my eyes it looked like the road to the gates of hell.

I bit my lower lip without thinking, then quickly released it. Smeared lipstick would have been a problem — but if I started bleeding here, everything I'd worked for would come to nothing.

At the end of the long corridor stood a thick door of dark wood.

"Here we are."

Viscount Cecilia smiled suggestively as he opened it, and a space entirely unlike the one we'd come through appeared. A private room, furnished with several round tables, sofas, and a long bar. The thick carpet was one thing; the wallpaper had been hand-painted by artisans — a piece of genuine luxury.

Four men sat in various postures on sofas arranged in a loose circle. Viscount Cecilia brought me to a halt in front of them.

"Gentlemen. This is the young lady of Baron Dvorden I mentioned."

Four pairs of undisguised eyes turned on me. One looked me over from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. Another leered at the exposed valley of my chest, a smirk playing on his mouth. Wherever their gazes landed, it was an appraisal.

"Isn't she a bit old? And she's not even blonde."

"If the hair color's a problem, just have it dyed."

"I don't know. I'm not convinced this time."

"When has His Lordship ever turned down a woman Viscount Cecilia brought? I trust the viscount's eye."

It was wretched. Not because of the words these shameless men were tossing around, but because of my sister, who had once stood in this same place.

How had Dorothy endured this humiliation? Had that tender-hearted child crumpled to the floor and wept?

Sick with a grief too deep for words, I looked at Viscount Cecilia — the man who had put that child here. When our eyes met, he winked and gave a little nod, as if we were conspirators.

I closed my hand into a fist and swore that on the day I took his head, I would gouge out that eye first.