A moment after Bartholmue stops talking, the soft music begins again in the background and the atmosphere becomes fluid again. People step to the side and bow their heads as he descends the steps, followed by Camille and François.

As soon as Emelia had seen him, all fancily dressed in a tailcoat jacket and emerald sash, hate had boiled in her blood. When he had winked at her, she had almost lost her composure.

Whilst listening to the speech, she hadn't failed to notice the stiffening of François' shoulders when his mother was mentioned. It would seem that she is a sensitive subject he doesn't appreciate being reminded of, or perhaps it is because of something else entirely. Emelia doesn't know and probably never will but this doesn't stop her from wondering.

"Jacques!" someone calls jovially.

All three of them turn to see Malcolm making his way over through the throng of people, a glass of champagne in his hand. When he gets close enough for Emelia to see his features, her mouth drops. What she originally thought were wrinkles are actually horrific scars stretching across his thin, almost-translucent skin like a tight clingfilm face mask. The kind of scars fire survivors and acid-attack victims have.

Sofie doesn't seem surprised by the sight and nudges Emelia with her elbow.

"It's rude to stare," she whispers and Emelia snaps her mouth shut, blinking rapidly.

Although she tries to, she simply can't get over the shock of seeing him. How can he stand to be out in public like that? she wonders. If Emelia looked like him, she would never show her face again.

"Malcolm," Jacques says, extending his arm out. "It's wonderful to see you."

"Same to you, my friend," Malcolm says, grasping Jacques' hand in greeting. His wolfish eyes then glide to Emelia.

"Miss Temple," he says with an overly large smile. "How nice it is to properly make your acquaintance."

"Wish I could say the same," she replies bluntly, not bothering to feign politeness. Malcolm seems like the sort of individual who can see through others easily and she doesn't want him to pay any more attention to her than he already has. Giving him no lies to analyse might help her slip under his radar. The man gives her a severe case of the creeps.

Unfazed by her response, he turns his attention to Sofie.

"Miss Llewellyn," he purrs. "It is lovely to see you again. How are you finding that book?"

Emelia and Jacques both frown.

"What book?" he asks, peering down at Sofie curiously.

"Just one I borrowed from the library," she mumbles, shifting uncomfortably under all three of their stares.

"You went back there by yourself?" Emelia asks, gawking at her. The very thought of her cousin wandering around the estate all by herself is enough to spark a sharp current of worry and anger to course through her. Why would she do that?

"Y-yeah," Sofie stammers, refusing to make eye contact. "I, uh..."

She's saved from having to provide a coherent answer by François, who suddenly appears at Emelia's side without any warning.

She flinches slightly, surprised, then glares at him.

"My gracious prince," Malcolm sings, bowing dramatically. An amused smile tugs at the corners of François' mouth but he keeps a straight face.

"Godfather," he replies dryly. "I see you haven't wasted any time in becoming intoxicated."

"It is one's duty to get drunk at an event like this one," Malcolm says matter-of-factly, . "I hope you treat your duties for tonight just as earnestly."

"Oh, I plan to," François assures, finally allowing his smile to show. "But first, some fun."

Emelia scowls when his eyes meet hers and she demands,"Why on earth are you looking at me?"

"Because you're joining me for the first dance," he says. It isn't a question. Her eyes widen.

"I'm not dancing with you," she denies, looking at him as if he has suddenly grown an extra limb.

"Actually you are," he replies, ensnaring her around the waist.

"Hey!" she protests, floundering in the high-heels which she is quickly beginning to hate as he drags her away from the conversation.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Don't make a scene," he warns, his voice threateningly low and calm. "I know that doing what you're told isn't your fòrte but if you embarrass me in front of my people, I swear I will make you suffer more than you ever have before."

Other couples move out of the way as François and Emelia step into the arena. Their eyes follow them curiously but they maintain a respectful distance.

As the orchestra switches to playing music with a slower tempo, anxiety brews in Emelia's belly.

"I can't dance to this," she hisses at him.

"You can't dance?" he asks, one eyebrow raised. The tone of his voice is patronising.

"Of course I can dance," she says defensively "I just can't dance to this."

"Well then," he quips, "I hope you're a fast learner."

Releasing her in the centre of the floor, François takes a few strides back.

"Curtsey," he orders and Emelia's eyes go wide with disbelief. Oh, in his dreams.

"I'd rather die," she spits, sneering.

In less than a second François is back in front of her, his face so close that the tip of his nose touches hers as he growles, "Carry on talking back like that and you just might."

His threat is spoken not shouted, however, it seems that everyone in the vicinity is able to hear it.

Emelia can feel that they are being stared at but she refuses to look away, holding his gaze defiantly without so much as a flinch.

She is too angry to be afraid and too proud to bow. If he wants a curtsy, he will have to do it himself.

There is movement in her peripheral vision as other couples prepare to dance.

When the music starts up, François grips her hips and pulls her closer to him. Her entire body stiffens.

"Give me your hand and place the other just below my shoulder."

The urge to shove him away is strong but, begrudgingly, Emelia follows his instructions.

"Stop being so stiff," he mutters as if her reactions are irritatingly unwarranted. "And just follow my lead."

This is the only warning she receives before he moves, much quicker than she is prepared for.

She stumbles and almost trips, but François' firm grip keeps her standing.