"Approaching destination, Miss!"
The carriage rolled to a stop, and two young ladies slipped out, stepping onto the paving stones of a lively Belmont Town. Both looked dazzling in their early twenties.
Belmont was known for its brilliance. Usually, the air hummed with spirit; the clatter of carriage wheels added to the excitement, and paperboys darted across the highway, distributing the latest editions. The giggles of ladies filled the air as they rushed to the new modiste to commission gowns before the next ball.
No day passed without a vibrant Belmont.
However, the past few weeks had been the exact opposite.
No paperboys. No carriages. Zero signs of ladies making haste to the modiste. Belmont had appeared deserted and depressing, with everyone glued to their abodes.
There was only one reason: the devil was back in town.
A man had staggered into the town quarters a few nights prior, his face muddy and his shirt and breeches drenched in blood—his own blood. The stranger reported to the constabulary that the devil had cornered him in an alleyway and feasted on him with its fangs.
The man didn't make it through the night, though. He puffed his last breath right there in the quarters, his body turning blue in an instant.
A few nights later, the man's testimony was confirmed. Three more people were murdered in the same manner. Their bodies were drained of blood, bite marks on their necks, their faces as white as cement.
Panic seized Belmont.
The last time they dealt with such a beast was fifty years ago. Successfully, with the help of skilled hunters, they had managed to kill it and lay it off. Now, another of its breed had returned.
Many had heard about this devil, but few witnessed him—and those who did never lived to tell the tale.
Nevertheless, a few days ago, the town realized there were no new casualties. Desperate for normalcy, they decided it was gone in the same vein it had arrived.
Therefore, the Marshall Ball of Summer 1706 was their way of celebrating its disappearance.
The Marshall Ball was also a ball of competition. It was a night to flaunt new attire, flash designer bags by the famous seamstress who had just grazed the town, and share the inspiration behind plush makeovers.
And, most vitally, it was a night to brag about partners—especially if they held an important position in Belmont. Everyone who had no partner would have questioning gazes thrown their way.
Ember Hall was, however, the exception.
No gentleman ever approached her. No one in his right mind would ask her for a dance, let alone court her. She strongly believed the thick, detailed scar that ran from the top of her upper lip down to her chin in a straight line was reason enough for every man to stay away.
And each time, she had been proven right.
Passersby spared her more than one glance—the second glance always came with a thick frown, a terrified gasp, or a look of disgust. Children ran for their guardians the moment they set eyes on her, claiming they had just seen a monster.
She was indeed one. She looked into the mirror and nodded in agreement.
So, whenever she got dragged to a ball by her friend, Lauren, she always wore a hooded cape. She received weird glances for wearing a cape to a party aimed at flaunting outfits, but at least they wouldn't see her scar. She knew she could worry less about the modiste when her cape prevented people from seeing the dress beneath.
However, she still let her bright, charming friend drag her down the street toward the shop. She had sneaked out of the house, refusing her lady-in-waiting's offer of a carriage, all to pick a sensual dress for the ball.
"This is madness, Lauren. You have hundreds of dashing outfits to put on. Why put us through this torture?" Ember ranted, positioning her cape properly above her head with one hand as she let Lauren carelessly yank the other.
Heaven forbid the cape slip off right before the crowd gathering around the modiste's shop. She could bet that once they saw her face, everyone would run for their homes, forgetting they had a dress to buy for the much anticipated ball.
"Nonsense. I need a new dress. Lord Mylthe is going to be present at the ball."
Lauren halted before the crowd hovering around the modiste shop, staring over with a perturbed frown.
"And Lord Mylthe is courting Faye," Ember reminded her friend, frowning at the crowd and wondering how they would get past it to get the "sensual" dress her friend needed to seduce the Lord.
"Oh please, he just wants to make me jealous." She suddenly flashed a smug grin and twisted around to face Ember. "And that's why I will be dancing with the Duke tonight."
Ember froze on the spot.
The Duke.
A name that never failed to make Ember weak in the knees. Always.
After that night of their first and last encounter, the Duke had managed to invade her thoughts, every single time, without fail.
His smile, his sexy baritone, his captivating blue eyes—not one day had passed since that night without these things raiding her senses and invading her dreams.
It got to a point where she was pushed to do the one thing she despised, just to force the thoughts of the Duke out of her head. She had appeared at a ball without her cape and waited for a man kind enough to ask her for a dance. At least he could replace the Duke in her thoughts. Or so she hoped.
A man—whom she later discovered had approached her only at Lauren's request—came by. But once she imagined the man to be the Duke throughout their dance, she gave up. She accepted that no man could ever replace him.
She was obsessed, and she admitted it—but only to herself. God forbid the Duke discover that a hideous girl like her had a thing for him.
"I... I need some air," Ember mumbled.
She lied about an upset stomach and slipped out of Lauren's trap, which was an easy success thanks to the fact that Lauren's attention was fixed on the long queue, waiting to collect their dresses, before the shop.
Ember could afford to watch the Duke dance with any other girl—but not her friend.
Over the years of their friendship, Ember had watched Lauren enjoy the privilege she had always desired. Lauren had a long, everlasting line of suitors asking for her hand in marriage. Meanwhile, Ember had received none.
It didn't make her jealous of her friend. In fact, she was happy Lauren had been blessed with such privilege, though she wished she had the same.
But if Lauren caught the eye of the man she had always yearned for—the Duke—she feared there might be a crack in their friendship.
That was how much she loved him.