The Duke of Snow and Apples Read Free

entrance, in front of a full regiment of male servants standing at attention in blue and gold livery. A heartwarmingly familiar woman stood at their head. She wore her snow-white hair teased into youthful curls beneath a massive yellow turban sprouting feathers from at least half a dozen birds.
    Refusing to wait for a footman or a stool, Charlotte leapt out of the carriage, stumbled a bit as she landed, and ran toward Aunt Hildegarde, Viscountess Balrumple, her arms opened wide. The viscountess let out a whoop, hitched up her tangerine-colored skirts, and dashed to cover the gap. The two women met in a concussive embrace, jarring one of Lady Balrumple’s feathers askew.
    “Aunt Hildy!”
    “Charlotte, my darling, where have you been?” Aunt Hildy pulled away to regard her grandniece in more detail. “You’ve grown taller in my absence. How inconsiderate of you. How is your dear papa? And Sylvia?”
    “As fine as one could wish,” Charlotte said, evasively .
    Aunt Hildy’s green eyes, as well as the warmth in her voice, chilled a few degrees. “And your stepmother? In good health?”
    “Tolerably so.” Charlotte laughed, too loudly. She had counted on her stepmama’s past experiences with Lady Balrumple to facilitate her own escape to Charmant Park, the one place where Stepmama—and hopefully Sylvia—wouldn’t follow her.
    Aunt Hildy linked her arm through Charlotte’s and drew her inside, into the warmth and grandeur of a black-and-white marble foyer, where more servants waited in two orderly lines. Two footmen took her bonnet and pelisse.
    “Come, then, everything’s already been arranged,” Aunt Hildy said. “Most of the other guests are resting before dinner. Your room has been prepared, and I believe you said you were not bringing a maid?” At Charlotte’s nod, Aunt Hildy snapped her fingers and said something in Selencian.
    A woman stepped out of the line of amassed servants—an incredibly beautiful, expensively dressed woman with an abundance of black hair. She wore a haughty expression that softened only slightly as she approached Lady Balrumple.
    “This is Lamonte,” Aunt Hildy said. “My lady’s maid, and an artistic genius, but since she works for me that goes without saying. She will attend to you during your stay.”
    Lamonte held out a soft, gloved hand. The woman wore a tiny, frilled, and entirely impractical muslin apron over her fashionable gown as a token nod to status.
    “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Lamonte murmured. Charlotte started at the maid’s thick Selencian accent. The Blight had swallowed Selencia and all of its inhabitants nearly twenty years ago. Charlotte was used to hearing such an accent from cooks, modistes, and elderly expats, but never from a woman as young as herself. Doubtless the accent was an affectation, made in incredibly poor taste.
    “The footmen are already bringing up your luggage,” Aunt Hildy said. “Lamonte, go and make sure her clothes are properly aired.”
    Lamonte nodded, and dipped into the shallowest curtsy Charlotte had ever seen, her face a neutral mask. She departed with the air of a Pure Blooded peeress leaving a dull party to pursue her own pleasures. Charlotte wondered how her great-aunt could tolerate such an ungracious servant.
    Charlotte turned the conversation back to Aunt Hildy, the better to deflect questions away from herself, questions she wasn’t ready to answer yet. “So what is this I’ve been hearing about this salon you’ve started? The Seven Dowagers?”
    “Dowagers?” Aunt Hildy stiffened, the feathers on her turban quivering with offence. “We are the Seven Diamonds . Society prefers to think of us as older ladies past our usefulness, and call us what they please, but they still turn their heads to avoid our sparkle. Come, let me introduce you before you dress for dinner.”
    Charlotte followed Aunt Hildy through the house, passing rooms whose colors and styles varied wildly, no two the same, a