Bad Blood (Cora's Choice #3) (9 page)

In short, I was a big, fat
jerk.

I closed my eyes and groaned aloud.

“Are you quite all right?” Jane materialized in the doorway.

“I’m
fine,” I said with determined cheer. “Thanks so much for putting my things away.”

“Not a problem,” she said, looking slightly mollified.

I took a deep breath, ready to try to navigate the rocky conversational waters with my new lady’s maid. “I’ve probably never been to anything as fancy as this introduction. High school formals aren’t really the same, are they? I’m going to entirely depend on you for everything—clothes, hair, makeup.” I remembered the necklace and pulled its case out of my pocket. “Dorian gave me this. He thought you might want to use it.”

Jane
took it from my hand and flipped open the lid. She sniffed. “He should leave dressing a lady to me. I suppose I could work it in.”

“Whatever you think is best,” I said, happy enough to have an ally, however unlikely, against the gift.
Whatever sense of loyalty Dorian required of her, it clearly didn’t exclude all criticism, and I was grateful to have some of her scorn directed somewhere else.

“I’ve already picked out your dress, if it meets with your satisfaction,”
Jane added, in a tone that implied that any reasonable person would believe that it would.

“I’ve seen your taste, and I know it will,” I said firmly.

At that point, I would have worn a potato sack if I thought it’d make her happy.
Was that stupid? Probably. But I didn’t have the energy to spare for a battle of wills with the lady’s maid that I didn’t even want.

“What happened to all the flowers, anyway?” I asked.
The enormous, cloying bouquets no longer crowded every surface. Instead, there were now only two vases with much more modest displays.

“Oh, did you like
them all?” Jane looked chagrined.

“Uh…” I didn’t quite know what to say.
Yes,
and I was certain the room would soon be full to bursting—
no,
and I might insult her. “I was just curious. There seemed to be…so many of them,” I finished lamely.

“They were congratulatory presents,” Worth said.
“Sent by other cognates and by agnates who had no cognates. You’ll get more, after the introduction, of course, but these were all unofficial, sent by Mr. Thorne’s very closest allies.”

Allies,
I noticed. Not
friends.
Did vampires have friends?

“And I was supposed to be a secret?” I said
aloud. “There must have been a dozen of them!”

“Thereabouts,” she agreed.
“But they’d never say a word about it. They wouldn’t even let their staff know. Most of our own staff didn’t know. Most were sent away as soon as it became clear that your conversion would work. In fact, today is the first day everyone’s back at work.”

“Oh,” I said, still thinking that telling a dozen people was a pretty sorry way of keeping a secret.

Jane just smiled before disappearing into the dressing room with the velvet box. She reappeared holding my laptop, my graduation photo, and Nibbler.

“Where do you want these, Cora?”
For the first time, my name didn’t have a bite in it.

I cast around.
“The desk for the laptop, if there’s a wall socket nearby, and the bedside table for the rest.”

I had to suppress a giggle at the solemn way in which Worth
arranged the tiny stuffed rabbit in front of the framed picture, as if she were trying to find the angle at which it looked the most appealing among the elegant décor of the room.

They were such little things—the picture in its plastic frame and the stupid little toy.
But seeing them there made me smile, and for the first time, I felt like there was a place for me in the room.

Almost like I belonged.

And that thought made me shiver all over again.

A
fter breakfast the next morning, I curled up in a chair with my laptop, nursing the headache I’d had since the evening before. Jane had suggested that I look around the house and grounds.

“You are its mistress, after all,” she
had said, managing, as usual, to find just the wrong words to make me feel at ease.

But I’
d begun to feel at least somewhat at home in my corner of the vast house, so I’d declined. The bedroom that Dorian had selected for his cognate was as big as my entire campus apartment—bigger, even, if you included the bathroom and dressing room—so I hardly felt cooped up.

A dining area took up one section of the room
, complete with a circular table with four chairs around it and a sideboard against the wall, and a corner by the windows boasted a sitting area with small sofa—a settee, really—and an overstuffed chair that was perfect for curling up with one of the throws that were scattered about.  Of course, when I’d done that, contently ensconced with the blanket around my shoulders, Jane had come fluttering in, asking, “Are you sure you’re not cold?”

There was even a small work area with a desk and a bookcase.
I imagined that it had been intended for the lady of the house to spend hours every day going over her longhand correspondence or something equally refined and outdated.

In truth,
I didn’t want to wander around the house by myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel curious. The idea just made me feel like an intruder—whatever Jane said, I was certain in my mind that I wasn’t anyone’s or anything’s mistress. And I was still more than a little wary of what else might be in the house, besides overly eager staff members whom I accidentally offended at every turn.

So I
sent Jane away as politely as possible and hid out in my room, surfing the internet, reading the newest bestseller Hannah had told me I just had to try, and messaging my friends on Facebook.

Until
Geoff’s name lit with a green dot, and a moment later, a message popped up.

You said it went well.
Good to hear.

I blinked.
Oh, God, Geoff. What on earth was I supposed to say to Geoff?

Yeah.
I’m feeling pretty great,
I typed back.

That was safe.

The typing message flashed—for far longer than it should. He was writing, then erasing, then writing again.

Finally, the message arrived.
Wonderful. Can’t wait to see you next semester.

I let out a breath of air.
Next semester. Geoff and I had gone out on one date—right before I’d gotten my cancer diagnosis. It had been nice. Well, it had been more than nice, and I’d been looking forward to that date turning into something steadier.

But once I found out about my cancer, everything had changed.
Sure, we’d had an on-again, off-again mutual crush for a couple of years, but there didn’t seem to be a good opening for saying, “Hey, yeah, being your girlfriend would be great, and by the way, I’m probably going to die. Hope that’s okay!”

Eventually, my roommate Lisette had told him about my cancer, and he’d made it clear that he was still interested in me.
By that point, I’d decided to take the treatment that Dorian had offered, knowing only that it would either cure me or kill me.

So I
had told Geoff that if I was feeling better after the Winter Break, we’d give a relationship a real shot.

Of course, I hadn’t counted on being bonded for life to an ageless vampire, much less ending up in his bed.

Yeah. Complications.

But Geoff was…still Geoff.
And I realized that whatever I felt for Dorian, if it could even be named, existed separately from what I felt for Geoff. My feelings for Geoff were familiar, comforting—and altogether human. He was a reminder of what my dreams had always been, the boyfriend, the degree, the career, the house, and eventually, the kids. The picture-perfect life that would show my Gramma that everything she’d done for me was worth it.

Plus,
I wouldn’t say that his touch wasn’t quite pleasant in its way—hell, sometimes way more than pleasant—but it couldn’t drive me to insanity. I never imagined that I wanted him to hurt me. And that was always a bonus.

I’m looking forward to it, too,
I typed.

Eh.
Stiff and awkward enough, Cora? But it got the point across.

The message alert sounded.
Cool.

Just then, the door opened, and
Jane entered, carrying another tray overloaded with food.

Quickly, I wro
te,
GTG,
and I closed the lid of the laptop.

“I’ve got lunch,”
Jane announced with a smile, setting the tray on the center of the table.

I suppressed a groan as I stood up.
I thought I’d eaten enough for three meals at breakfast.

“And after that, it will be time to get ready for the introduction,” she added.

“What’s it like?” I asked.

“Oh, we’ve never had one before, so I don’t
truly know. But the butler and the housekeeper and the event planner have been having fits for days, so it’s got to be impressive,” she said with barely contained excitement.

Ah,
Jane. So skilled at saying the exact thing I didn’t want to hear.

I
tucked into my food obediently, my reluctance evaporating with the first taste. As soon as set my spoon and fork down with a sigh—would I ever be happy with mac and cheese again?—Jane herded me into the dressing room to start the process of transforming me into an image fit to be Dorian’s cognate.

It was
four hours before the beginning of the gala. I wondered if she’d have enough time.

“The gown!”
Jane announced with a dramatic wave of her hand.

It hung from a hook in front of the closet, turned
outward so that it could be seen in its full glory. The dress was, without question, gorgeous. A shimmery, ethereal green, it was strapless, with a sweetheart neckline made of many-pleated wrapped layers in a figure-hugging bodice that went down to the hips and met a tight skirt that flared out in a mermaid’s tail at the knees. It was covered in intricate beadwork that was as subtle as it was extravagant.

“It’s stunning,” I said
, feeling a little dismayed. “And it’s built for curves that, at the moment, I don’t have.” The cancer had not been kind to my body, and though I no longer looked like the survivor of a death camp, I had at least five pounds to go before I moved from looking half-starved to merely too thin.

Jane
smiled and pulled out a foundation garment that looked like something out of the Gilded Age. “And that, madam, is why we cheat.”

I was clearly outmatched, and I submitted myself t
o her with good grace. I couldn’t see how corsetry could possibly make me look less thin—until the garment was on and cinched tightly enough that I considered cracking a
Gone with the Wind
joke.

But then I looked in the mirror, and I understood.
My waist was not merely smaller—the corset had a generous amount of padding that reshaped the lines of my hips and breasts.

“I think this is called false advertising,” I said, looking at the artificial curves in bemusement.

“It is called enhancement,” Jane corrected. Her tone was prim, but her eyes danced with pleasure.

She helped me wrestle the dress over my head, tugging and pulling it into place.
The effect was gorgeous. There was really no other word for it. My arms still looked a little too thin, my collarbones a trifle too prominent, but it was otherwise perfect.

“Excellent.
Just a little
here
, and it will be perfect.” Jane pronounced her professional judgment as she quickly used a few pins to change a seam that was puckering slightly. “Of course, only if you agree, madam,” she added with perfunctory subservience.

“I think I have to,” I said, staring at myself.

“Very good.” She eyed my nails. “Dress and foundation garments off again, then manicure, hair, and cosmetics.”

I obeyed and found myself wrapped in a fluffy white robe and hustled over to the dressing table chair, where she trimmed and shaped my short nails and cov
ered them with a pale, glossy pink polish. As they dried, my hair was curled and teased and smoothed again, then pinned and sprayed until it had the careless perfection that could only be achieved with enormous amounts of effort, tumbling from a mass at the top of my head to brush the nape of my neck. Then she attacked my nails again, spreading some kind of cream on them as she buffed each one carefully to a high shine.

Jane
nodded in satisfaction, then attacked my face with equal enthusiasm. I winced as she shaped my eyebrows, something I hadn’t gotten around to in months. Then came a battery of cosmetic products—concealer, foundation, highlight and lowlight contours, powder, then brow pencil, eye shadow, eyeliner on the waterline and lashline, mascara, individual false eyelashes, blush, lip conditioner, lip liner, lipstick, and gloss.

When she finally allowed me to look at myself, I braced for all
the horrors of a drag queen. But the reality was startling. After half an hour of fussing and painting, I looked like...myself. Only better. Peculiarly, I looked like I was wearing less makeup than I did when I applied my own.

“That shouldn’t actually be possible,” I said, peering at my reflection.

“Clever little pots of paint, aren’t they, Cora?” Jane beamed over my shoulder.

“I think it has more to do with the hand holding the brush than the makeup itself,” I said, thinking of the mess I’d make of it if I tried to apply all those products to myself.

“Mmmm,” was all Jane said, but I could tell she liked the compliment. “Jewelry,” she said. “And scent. Though neither need to be applied until just before the event.”

She brought out a parade of perfumes.
I recognized Chanel No. 5, but the others I had never heard of—Ralph Lauren’s Notorious, Shalimar, Caron’s Poivre, Joy by Jean Patou, and more that could not even remember the names of. After smelling half a dozen on tester strips, I gave up and waved them away.

“I can’t smell anything straight anymore,” I said.
“You pick one. You were right on the hair, dress, and makeup. You’ll probably do a better job of selecting a perfume, too.”

“Very good,
Cora,” she said, practically preening with smugness as she slid the tray away. “And now for jewelry.”

From a black velvet box came a necklace just a little longer than a choker made of oval-cut emeralds placed end to end in a gold setting, along with a matching bracelet and a set of earrings.
The ruby pendant had been taken from the necklace that Dorian had given me to be worked into the center of the emeralds.

“You approve?”
Jane asked.

“Of course,” I said, not even attempting to calculate its value.

“Mr. Thorne would like to speak to you before the party,” Jane said, offering me a pair of slippers. “He will be having a light tea in his study.”

I put the slippers on.
Always, there was someone waiting for me now. It was a strange sensation—I was much more used to waiting than being waited on, in any sense of the word.

“Well, then,” I said.
“I suppose I should go and see him.”

And once again, I was led to Dorian.