Straight ahead, seated at the table at the top of the wide staircase, was Garin. He was smiling at her from atop Marguerite’s throne on the left, his pearl-white teeth glistening.
His beauty alone forced her eyes back down at the crowd. There, she spotted her parents and most of their court. Gertude and Helena, slowing in their jig, just noticing the music had stopped. Agnes and her husband, whispering fervently. Hedwig swinging a tankard in a frilly chartreuse gown. There were several of her staff and dozens of others she hadn’t met or seen up close in years—prominent shopkeepers and nobility alike.
“Look,” Agnes’s husband murmured from the edge of the dancefloor. “Do you see how she’s staring at him? How uncouth.”
“Shut up, William,” said Agnes. “Look at the way he stares at her.”
Unable to fix any expression she might’ve worn, knowing she could not help the unsavory thoughts her mind threw at her, Lilac dared look again. He wore a sharp black blazer emblazoned in gold, forming perfectly to his shoulders and biceps. His hair had been styled, combed through and over, even his signature drooping curl tucked neatly into place.
Logic warred weakly against her, a gnat in her ear. She should’ve stayed in, people would notice. They were noticing already.
As if sensing her deliberation, Garin’s eyes narrowed above his shark-like smile. Even from a distance she saw his brows quirk, challenging her. If she turned back now, he would only command her forward, leaving her to struggle awkwardly against her own body. Lilac dipped into a low curtsey, everyone gaping at the gossamer sleeves and outer layer of her dress moving like sunlight through water—a ghostly trellis both man-made and magic, gracing the floor like rainfall in reverse.
When she straightened the crowd was parting for her, a whispering, glittering sea, leaving a clear path to the steps in its wake. Then, they began to kneel. One by one. First Gertrude. Then Helena, and the maids next to her. The shopkeepers around them and her parents next, nudging eachother as if forgetting themselves, utterly lost in the still radiance of their daughter. Last, William, then begrudgingly, Agnes.
The room was so silent, one could hear a feather fall.
Lilac started—there was a light touch at her elbow. It was Piper, kneeling with Yanna and Isabel behind her. “Go, Your Majesty.”
“Stand,” Lilac suddenly mouthed, dread and self-doubt gnawing their way into her chest. “Walk with me. There is plenty of seating up there.”
Piper shook her head minutely and said, “He only wants you. This moment is yours.”
She couldn’t protest with everyone staring. Redder than ever, feeling all the eyes on her now, Lilac made her way to the front of the room. By the time she reached the bottom step, her body was buzzing with more than nerves; there was an unnatural excitement, an eagerness to be near him despite everything. By the time she reached Garin, he was standing, bending at the waist. Lilac hastily curtsied and slid past him; even as she squeezed against the table, the light brush of him against her back was enough to send currents of unwavering heat throughout her body. Lilac collected her skirts to sit when Garin clicked his tongue.
“Wait,” he murmured, and her body froze. “What about your speech?”
“I was ambushed by this feast and a most unexpected visit,” she replied, her smile straining. “I have not had the time to prepare a speech.”
Garin flashed a smile at the sea of guests, then turned his devilish charm onto her. A twinkle in his eye and a dimpled, threatening grin that saiddon’t make me make you.
Lilac sighed forcefully. “Thank you all for being here. Tonight, we celebrate our Honorable Guest, Sir Albrecht Fritsch of the Holy Roman Empire. Welcome, My Lord.” There was an awkward silence. She kept her gaze on the crowd, refusing to acknowledge the feigned expression of honored shock she knew Garin wore. “Please stand.”
As everyone rose from their knees, there was a low hum of dissatisfaction. Beside her, Garin was fingering the rim of his cup. “If I may?” he said to the crowd.
“No, you may not,” she hissed.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” He gave her a pompous smile, one the crowd could also see; they stood close enough to each other where he could place his hand lightly at the small of her back without anyone noticing. “Itis indeed my honor to represent my liege, the great Maximilian—as you know, former archduke of Austria, German King, and now, faithful emperor. The histories of our kingdoms have skirted each other for years. We have supported your great crown in strife before. Now, Maximilian extends his proposition of marriage in hopes of continuing to do so on a much grander scale.”
Garin coughed in pain when Lilac’s foot stamped down on the toe of his boot. His right hand instantly dropped and gripped her left ass cheek, his fingertips finding purchase in her flesh and sending violent flutters throughout her stomach before releasing her just as quickly.
She glared up at him in her peripheral, cursing the urge to lean into his hand.
Heads turned in the crowd as whispers filled the room. His announcement seemed to shock a handful of her guests who were either oblivious of the purpose for Albrecht’s presence, or skeptical of it. The rest probably thought Lilac had ruined her chances of marrying Maximilian by dumping a flute of champagne on his head.
If only she were so lucky.
“His offer stands to strengthen the might of your defenses, filling any gaps that might exist in numbers and armor. As his most diligent dignitary, I behoove…” Garin trailed off, lifting his hand from her thigh and squinting into the back of the crowd. “I’m sorry, is there a question?”
A man at the back of the hall was waving. One of the shop owners, it seemed. The fellow to his right was a bit taller, pointing down at him. “He has a question!”
The muscle under Garin’s eye twitched. “Questions will wait.”
“No, no,” said Lilac with a wide smile, beckoning them forth. “Come forward. Please.”
The men shuffled through the now unsettled crowd—understandably so at the topic of war. When the pair arrived at the steps, she saw she’d been right. It was both of them, the butcher and blacksmith, if she wasn’t mistaken.
The shorter one bowed. “Brient Cleaver, of Cleaver and Tallow, Your Majesty. And this is Hamon Martin, of the Paimpont Forge,” he said, motioning sideways at the taller one, who nervously tipped his hat.
