How can he smile when we’re in this situation? How can he stand there, knowing me as intimately as he does, knowing also that his son is probably going to propose before the end of the night?
“Welcome, Celinda,” says the King in that rich, deep voice, and I glance around despairingly, certain that I’m going to pass out from sheer panic. None of the servants are close enough to catch me.
The King jerks his head slightly, and Brantley hurries to pull out my chair for me himself, rather than having one of the servants do it. I drop gratefully onto the cushioned seat and try to remember my manners. I didn’t curtsy, but I’m sure neither of them will mention it. Thank Fate my stepmother’s order from last night no longer applies, so I don’t have to listen to rude phrases spilling from my mouth without my consent.
“Thank you for having me,” I say as calmly as I can manage.