“Othmar.” I snap at my guard, whose knuckles are curled beneath his chin, propping up his head as he rests his eyes. I could be stabbed and he wouldn’t notice until I was bleeding out all over the dance floor. Not that these girls have the kind of deviousness it takes to stab a prince. If one did stab me, I’d marry her on the spot. A bit of intrigue to spice up the marital bed wouldn’t go amiss.
What a peculiar thought.
I motion Othmar behind a pillar and quickly unfasten my white jacket with its red sash draped from left shoulder to right hip.
“Put this on.” I thrust it at him. “Quickly. Give me yours.”
“Highness, they’ll know.”
“Who?” His jacket fits a bit loosely on me, but it’s not too bad. “The girls who’ve only seen me from a balcony? Their chaperones, waiting in the reception room? My father, who returned to his bed an hour ago?”
“I don’t wish to be punished, sir.”
“Then don’t get caught.” I straighten the red sash and pat his lapels. The buttons strain across his chest and the fabric is tight over his biceps, but as long as he doesn’t make any sudden movements, it’ll be fine. “Off you go.”
“Who is the next partner?” he asks.
“How would I know? Find out from the scribe.”
Exasperated, I push him in the direction of the scribe’s table. The herald calls out, “Lady Drucilla Tremaine.”
I wince. Lady Drucilla Tremaine is no prize. Even from this distance, I can see the faint shimmer of a glamour shifting around her. Hers is not a good enough potion to be subtle. It slides every time she moves, like the magic is tired and trying to run away. I almost pity her for resorting to such measures, but I can’t be bothered to care about any of these money-grubbing status seekers.
I should have these women arrested for using illegal magic. I can’t though. Damned politics.
I have a distinct recollection of dancing with this woman once before at a holiday event, and I am not keen to repeat the experience. I turn on my heel, snatch a goblet of wine from a passing waiter and tip it into my mouth, only to discover to my great displeasure that it isn’t wine after all. Lemonade, as pallid and unappealing as the company.
I deposit it into a potted plant and stride into the main hall. At one end is the reception room where the chaperones are gathered to wait for their daughters to take their turn. The other end is dominated by a grand stairway leading to the castle’s private quarters, with guards stationed on either side to prevent trespassers. The gallery is open to visitors, but few of our guests this evening display an interest in portraits of the royal family. The hallway is dimly lit to protect the art, and only one person has ventured into the gloom.
A lady with a crown of red hair pinned atop her head.
Pulse quickening, I tilt my head at the woman who’s wandered aimlessly down the hallway, inspecting the gilt-framed pictures of my ancestors.
Hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Her red hair catches fire in the low light. My cock tightens in salute. She’s slightly built but curvaceous in the right places. Her ice-blue gown looks oddly familiar. Like something Briar would have worn.
“My lady?”
She startles so badly she trips over her own dress and stumbles elegantly backward several steps, pressing her gloved palm to her chest.
Time stops. The thrum of blood in my veins slows. Her eyes flare wide.
Aquamarine.
It’s her. The girl I nearly trampled with my horse a few days ago. I’m certain of it.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” I reach for her free hand. Time restarts when my fingertips meet the smooth satin of her glove, a sudden leap forward that sends my pulse racing. A giddy, almost dizzy sensation fizzes through me. Magic. Half the women here are doused in it, but this is exceptional quality. I’ve never felt anything like it.
Her pulse flutters faintly in her throat. She swallows.
“Are you lost?” I ask. A faint rosy stain rises to her cheeks. She’s charming. Demure. Shy. I was smitten on sight. Now, actually meeting her, I’m in love.
It could be a spell,a little warning voice pipes up. Ruthlessly, I quash it.
“I was looking at the paintings,” she says.
“A bit dark for aesthetic interpretation, isn’t it?”
This end of the hallway is cloaked in gloom, but from the way she stares at me, I’m sure she recognizes me, too.
