"If I recall, my face isn't down there Duchess," Hawthorne murmured, a rare playfulness in his tone.

"Truly, you render me speechless from such a complaint," I returned, hazarding a glance upward to roll my eyes before shifting them back to the floor. "I'm doing both of us a courtesy by not stepping on your toes, Duke. Besides, I thought I was known to operate beyond the bounds of ballroom decorum?"

Eli Hawthorne remains quiet, and I can feel his gaze boring into the top of my head.

"You'll have to excuse any impolite oddities of behaviour I might display," I added, nibbling my bottom lip as the pace of the music suddenly increases.

"And you say this as if you haven't been odd or impolite from the start."

Touché. And I have no barbing comment in response—shocking, I know.

There's a lengthy pause as neither one of us says a word and to my surprise, Hawthorne is the first to break it. "You're not going to severe my toes, Evara. It's all right to look up."

"No, no. I dare not risk it. I'm not much of a dancer and the last thing I wish to be accused of is stomping on ducal feet."

"Ducal feet?" he asked.

"What else do you call the toes belonging to the feet of a Duke?"

"Are you asking or do you wish to spar with words?"

Sighing, I finally straighten my spine and look Eli Hawthorne dead in the eyes. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Stop worrying. You might doubt your capabilities, but I don't doubt mine. As your dance partner, you do me a tremendous dishonour by not relying on me."

"And you talk as if trust is a thing that actually exists between us," I grumbled, losing my patience with the man and instantly regret my words when Hawthorne whisks me past the couples around us, twirling and dipping me with a bemused smirk on his face as my head swims.

The damn, beautiful, and obnoxious prick!

Once again, I'm torn between this Sha-La-La moment where a male character is quite literally whisking me off my feet and the churning of my stomach as my head spins along with the room.

"See. Nothing to worry about," Hawthorne whispered, sinfully close to my ear and if I wasn't smart enough to know that it's all an elaborate act for the spectators eyeing us, my dark heart might have actually skipped a beat. Besides, I have my own safety to worry about.

My expression must be swimming with anxiousness because the smile slides off his face and I dart my eyes around the vast room. "There is so so much to worry about."

He stiffens, clasping my hand more firmly. "We've taken all the necessary precautions."

"How?" I questioned, eyes widening when he points to all the people assembled around us.

Hawthorne grins, easily stepping us back into the dance. "Why not take a closer look at some of the ladies in attendance."

"What?" I snapped, shrivelling up my features slightly to zero in on some of the ladies occupying the floor. Realization suddenly dawns on me and I release a gasp from the shock. "No. Eli Hawthorne, you didn't," I murmured.

There, in the most outlandish and comical way possible are his personal guard dressed as society women attending the wedding reception. Men who normally strut with ease in their uniform, squirm uncomfortably in blindingly bright dresses, wigs, and shoes that look three sizes too small for their feet.

"Why couldn't they have just attended as themselves?" I asked, recovering quickly.

"The ratio of men to women was off, so they offered to come as a few."

"They offered or you made them?"

Duke Hawthorne tilts his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "And is there a significant difference between the two?"

Snorting, I shake my head and glance at the guards with sympathy. Trust me boys, I know what it's like having an overbearing boss who's impossible to please.

I'm casting them a sympathetic look when I notice some of the male guests begrudgingly approach a few to dance. Horror and indignation fumes from the guards parading as high society women, but some are willing to commit to their roles—stomping and fighting for dominance on the dance floor, creating a scene of spiteful men arguing over who has the right to lead until rippling muscles tear through the bows and delicate fabric of gaudy dresses.

An ancient Dowager Marchioness—a relative on Hawthorne's side—screeches like a vulture when one of the guards paired with a male guest collides into her, sending her glass of wine splashing on those standing nearest. This in turn creates a domino effect, with more yelling, champagne and wine gushing across the throes of people, and a highly strung music conductor who sweats under the pressure of surmounting mayhem.

Hawthorne and I have stopped dancing at this point, taking in the wreckage when a pair of side doors swing open and Duchess Storm whirls in bringing a pack of wolves—yes, wolves leashed onto gilded collars and groomed into domesticated elegance, but their presence sends a stream of panic throughout the ballroom with women screaming and children yelping in excitement.

"Oh, heavens..." I murmured, sharing an amused glance with Eli who returns my wonderment with a smile of his own.

"Evara! Duke Hawthorne! Come meet my latest pair of pets," cried Duchess Storm from across the room as a disgruntled servant swats an enormous wolf away from the tray of hors d'oeuvre.

Not thrilled at the idea of being caged by a pack of wolves, I step back only to be gripped viciously by a thin hand. "Evara Storm! Hawthorne! Whatever your name may be young lady—and however improvident I may seem—I demand reparations for the state of my lovely gown!" The old Dowager Marchioness from earlier fumed, tapping a foot with impatience.

"Oh Duchess Hawthorne! Might we get an interview or per chance a few words for our readers?" chirped a woman with deceitful eyes and hands clasped tightly in mock sweetness off to my left.

Is she from the Gazette? Because I definitely have a few colourful words for her.

I open my mouth to address both when a teenage girl stomps towards us with one of the poorly disguised guards in tow. "Duchess, who are these hideous women taking away all the eligible gentlemen away? I haven't danced for at least a quarter of an hour!"

"Hideous! I knew this colour was ridiculous on me!" the guard exclaimed, aghast.

"You think the colour is the problem? You look like an ogre in a dress!" the girl (who I think is a distant cousin) remarked haughtily.

The guard having had quite enough, crosses his muscular arms defensively. "Oh, as if you're pleasing to the eyes."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Why I never!" the Dowager Marchioness cried, upset on behalf of the sniffling girl and eyes the guard like he's some alien species occupying an ill fitted dress.

Eli for his part is also flocked by intruders, a man tapping his shoulder in a flare of annoyance and twists his cravat in a nervous, tipsy fumble when I peer over. "Hawthorne, might you step aside and let the other gents dance with the bride? We've all been waiting, you know."

"That's not fair! Evara! Stop stealing all the men!" The teenage cousin burst, actual tears welling into her eyes when she overhears this.

What the heck—how's this my fault?

A woman who resembles her in a flowing gown made of sunflower yellow strides over in a hurry and harshly shushes the girl. "Stop acting petulant Genevieve! You're making a horrible scene—What will your father think!"

"But Mama—"

"Evara! Duke Hawthorne—come see the wolves!" Duchess Storm bellowed again but this time, the room goes berserk when the wolves tug and pull—and the Duchess loses her grip on their leashes.

Oh. Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

And this elegant monosyllabic soliloquy continues to flash inside my head as everything dreamy and magical turns into a nightmare.

People scamper and tables turn over while servants jump on top of whatever piece of chair is available; resulting in people, glasses, and trays crashing everywhere. Even poor, innocent Hamish turns ghostly pale and faints.

"Henry! Come back here this instant!" wailed a frail woman, panting as she chases her child across the dance floor.

The child in question is giddy with excitement, perched on the back of a wolf, a silver fork flailing in his tiny right hand. "En Garde! Into battle we go!"

And to make matters worse, the music intensifies as the conductor sweats more profusely than ever because a single lone wolf yawns and lays in front of the musicians, closing its eyes...wait, is it actually listening and enjoying this?

"Duchess!"

"Duke!"

My eyes have gone so wide, I think I might lose my sight and pass out from everything happening—it all spins and turns in a blur but the hand that rests against my back and wheels me stealthily out of the room, guides me down winding halls until all that I can hear is the gush of a fountain.

What the hell just happened? Blinking, I note Hawthorne's bemused expression and the nervous hand that runs through his dark hair.

"Eli," I finally croaked, clearing my throat.

His head snaps to my face, searching for something—maybe an answer to why our families are deranged or delusional. "What?"

"Did we just run away?"

"Call it a strategic retreat to hold onto what remnants of sanity still remain," he mumbled darkly, taking my hand and leading me farther into the lurking night.

But as he guides me, my brows furrow curiously because I'm pretty certain I saw a glimpse of the Crown Prince and Winston in a heated discussion behind a column on our way out.

********