Like the odd compulsion to pick at a half-healed wound, Destrian couldn’t resist the urge to glance to his side, even knowing he would encounter Seraphina’s cool, disdainful countenance. She could be bored witless, fuming with anger, or lost in some lovelorn fantasy for all he knew. King Gorvenal’s only child kept her cards, along with her thoughts, feelings, and opinions, close to her impressive bosom. That she was a remarkably beautiful woman was not in doubt, although her current hairstyle, which reached dizzying heights, was a tad elaborate for Destrian’s tastes. Her gown, a dramatic affair made from a shimmery, icy blue fabric, matched the princess’s demeanour rather well, he thought.
Regardless, Destrian felt nothing for her, not even the slightest hint of attraction. If he had been able to read her in the slightest, it might have helped. But the only woman he had ever felt that sort of connection with, where a glance revealed as much as a conversation and words flowed easily between them, was the maid he had spent a day and a night with in a run-down cabin, deep in the mountains.
Eloise.
Destrian’s reserve slipped, and he only just managed to hide his anguish behind a sigh.
God, how he missed her, which he reminded himself was ridiculous. He barely knew her, having spent far less time in her company than Seraphina’s. His feelings couldn’t possibly be real . . . be fixed . . . be the sort that could sustain a relationship over a lifetime. But what a beginning it would have been if they had been able to take that initial attraction, the spark that threatened to ignite an all-consuming fire, and seen how brightly it could burn. Destrian didn’t believe, for one minute, that it would have ended like Merek’s short-lived affairs His brother’s lust for the latest in his never-ending stream of conquests invariably reduced to smouldering ash in a matter of weeks or even days. He never cared about the girls. He wasn’t interested in their opinion like Destrian was in Eloise’s. He never spoke of finding a kindred spirit, someone whose words felt like they had been drawn from his own thoughts, whose experience of the world, though totally different, somehow shared the same path . . . or illuminated a future path in such a way that it became the only one he wanted to tread.
But couldn’t.
Destrian had to stop torturing himself, stop thinking about the girl, stop going over and over in his mind every moment of the time they had spent together, reliving every word, every touch, every kiss. In reality, there had only been the one, but it was the standard by which he would measure all others . . . and all others would be found wanting.
“If you clench your jaw any harder, you’re going to crack a molar,” Justin murmured at his side. “You’re a miserable enough sod as it is, lately. I don’t fancy your company if you add a toothache to the mix.”
“Oh, shut up.” Destrian threw his friend a withering look. “I am doing my best. I don’t see anyone berating Seraphina for looking less-than-thrilled at the prospect of our betrothal.”
Justin huffed a breath. “Who would dare? Besides, how can you tell what she’s thinking? She could be tickled pink for all you know.”
The hint of a smile curved Destrian’s lip, but it couldn’t prevent a second sigh escaping his lips. How was he supposed to make a life with a woman whose only expressions were twitches of eyebrow, nostril, or lip? Mind you, if he was reading those twitches correctly, they betrayed her opinion of him as loudly as a bellowed denunciation. The only time he had seen her show any positive emotion was when they had been introduced during his time in exile, and she had laughed out loud at some outrageous comment of Merek’s. His future bride and younger brother had created enough sparks between them to ignite, maybe not a forest fire but at least a modest blaze, which had been no less than he had expected. But whatever connection the two of them had made was apparently a one-time thing. No matter how hard Merek tried—and oh, he tried, regardless of the inappropriateness of his actions on more levels than Destrian could count—Seraphina showed even less interest in his younger brother than she did in him . . . which was saying something. It showed class on her behalf. Merek, on the other hand, was acting like a lovesick fool experiencing his first ever bout of rejection.
“You are aware she is to be my wife?” Destrian had been forced to demand of his brother in regard to his antics. “I didn’t die as a result of Carac’s attack, and you don’t get to inherit the kingdom.”
“I don’t want the damned kingdom, father’s or Gorvenal’s.” Merek had shuddered. “And I am well aware you’re not dead . . . and glad of it.”
“Yet, you insist on making a play for my future betrothed. What are you thinking, Mer?”
“Damned, if I know.” His normally imperturbable sibling had thrown his hands in the air. “I’m sorry. I shall back off. But it’s damned hard to watch when it’s obvious you don’t care for her one iota.”
“And you do?” Destrian had scoffed.
“Yes! No! How would I know?” Merek had paced a few yards before returning. “I have never cared before, so maybe that’s what I am feeling.”
“Hardly. You’ve just never been scorned by a woman before.”
“Not one I want as badly as this one,” Merek had admitted with a grimace, one Destrian had mirrored.
“So, if she was willing, you would have cuckolded your own brother even before he was wed?”
“Not if I thought you cared about her.” Merek shrugged. “Either way, I would wait until she is with child—yours—so there’d be no doubt about the succession.”
“How very big of you, little brother.”
Destrian rolled his eyes at the memory just as he had at the time. The saddest part was all he could think when he pictured Merek lying with Seraphina, the woman who was to be his wife, was better him than me. It would be a different matter if his brother had made a play for Eloise.
“Forget the tooth, you’re going to crack your jaw at this rate.” Justin nudged Destrian in the side, and he deliberately eased the tension in his muscles.
“You’re not still pining over that girl from the forest, are you? You do realise that ship was never for you and has already sailed.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Destrian scowled. “Now why don’t you do something useful and go get me a drink. Enduring this farce sober is clearly not an option.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Anything you say, Your Highness.” Justin made a sweeping bow, ignoring Destrian’s muttered curses. Fearing Seraphina might have overheard, he was relieved to see she had gone to sit by her father. King Gorvenal appeared far from well. In fact, he looked like he should have followed the physician’s orders and remained on his sick bed. Some were calling it his death bed, and Destrian couldn’t blame them for the assumption. It was little wonder the man was in a hurry to see his daughter’s future—and that of his kingdom—secured. It also meant that Destrian was likely to become the ruler of Gorvenal’s realm much sooner than he had expected.
A commotion near the entrance to the ballroom drew Destrian’s eye, a welcome distraction from contemplating his formidable future.
“What’s going on?” he asked Justin as his friend approached from that direction and handed him a glass of wine, one Destrian downed in a large gulp.
“There’s a mystery guest causing something of a stir. Quite a stunner, though I only spotted her from a distance. She’s one of the ones wearing a mask.”
“Strange business.” Destrian shook his head, never having attended a ball whose female guests were arrayed in such an eclectic array of fashions before.
Justin nodded. “Apparently, it’s in response to being freed from Althelos’ oppression, a sort of ‘anything goes’ approach after the years of stifling rigidity. I wouldn’t be surprised if the locals aren’t testing their new king and queen to see how they will respond to a little mild rebellion.”
Destrian looked to where his parents were hovering over Gorvenal and his fretful wife. The populace could allay their fears, as he couldn’t imagine either of his parents being bothered by such frivolity. With a w
ar being waged on one border, food shortages, a possible peasant uprising, and an imperative alliance hanging in the balance, they had enough to contend with. He imagined the nobility could dress as jesters for all his father would care, as long as they didn’t act like them and try to interfere with his plans for reform.
“I had best go see if I am needed.” Destrian handed his glass back to Justin.
“While I shall continue impersonating a servant,” his friend retorted with mock affront and another sweeping bow.
“Pfft.” Destrian flicked his fingers. “We both know you’ll go find the mystery guest and begin your seduction as soon as my back is turned.”
Justin slapped a hand to his chest. “You wound me . . . though it has been a while since I have bedded such a comely wench.”
Destrian raised his brows. “She must be a looker, since the lass I saw sneaking out of your quarters this morning was far from plain.”
“You know me,” Justin said with a grin. “I have excellent taste . . . in wine, women, and song.”
“Don’t forget friends,” Destrian called over his shoulder as he made his way to his father’s side.
“Destrian, dear, you are just in time,” his mother said, a concerned look in her eyes. “Gorvenal is feeling poorly, so we thought we’d bring the betrothal announcement forward, so he can retire.”
“Let them dance, first.” Gorvenal waved his hand towards where couples were forming lines in the centre of the ballroom. “I have dreamed about this day, and I want to see my daughter on the arm of your son, symbolising our two kingdoms united at last.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Destrian bowed before Gorvenal then held his hand out to Seraphina. He was glad of any excuse to put off the inevitable, even if it did involve making a spectacle of himself on the dance floor while accompanied by a partner who might as well have been carved from ice.
“Shall we, my dear?” he asked, provoking the twitch of her brow with his wording.
“It is lovely to see them getting along so well,” he heard Seraphina’s mother say as they walked away, and it took all Destrian’s not inconsiderable training in court etiquette not to release a guffaw.
“She sees what she wants to see and is oblivious to anything else,” Seraphina said, her chin lifted even higher than usual.
It was the closest to anything of a personal nature she had said to him in three weeks, and Destrian raised a brow. “I am sure your mother just wants your happiness.”
“Happiness?” Seraphina turned to face him. “Since when does happiness have anything to do with ruling a kingdom?”
“It is not possible to accomplish one while experiencing the other?”
“Only if one is as delusional as my mother.” Seraphina rolled her eyes then faced forwards. “Now let’s get this charade over with.”
“Let’s.” Destrian drew in a deep breath. As far as he could tell, the charade had barely begun.
The grey stone walls of the castle rose high into the night, the lights of a thousand torches competing with the grandeur of the stars blanketing the sky above. As the carriage made its way up the winding mountain road, the horses’ hooves drowned out the pounding of Eloise’s heart . . . almost. Passing through the towering gates and into the immense courtyard that fronted the palace, she was grateful for her long, black gloves. They not only disguised her servant’s hands but hid the fact her palms were sweating.
“Will ye be all right, miss?” Ben asked in a low voice, as he assisted her down from her seat. Nodding, she wrapped the long, fur-trimmed coat that matched her glorious gown more tightly around her shoulders. It was late in the season to be holding a ball, but the coronation of a new king could not go uncelebrated.
With head held high, she ascended the endless stone steps to where sword-bearing soldiers guarded the palace’s entrance. Any second now, the spears they held to their sides would be crossed, barring her entry. Questions would be asked, proof of her claim to worthiness would be demanded. Her mask would be torn from her face, as she was denounced as an imposter, or worse, accused of being a spy. With her heart in her mouth, she turned to flee.
“This way, my lady.” The guard to her left gestured, as the massive carved doors were opened.
“Enjoy your evening, my lady.” The guard to her right bowed at her passing, and Eloise forced her frozen lips into the semblance of a smile.
“Miss Eloise Sommerville,” she informed the head steward after her cloak had been taken and she had been escorted to the top of the stairs that led down into the glittering ballroom. “My family arrived earlier, but I was delayed. Would you mind not announcing me, as I would rather not draw attention to my tardiness.”
With trembling fingers, she slid a coin into the courtier’s hand, her breath catching in her throat while she awaited the man’s response. His eyes widened, but then the hint of a smile twitched his lip.
“Certainly, miss. I had the pleasure of announcing Lady Sommerville and her daughters earlier. They are holding court on the right side of the ballroom if you would prefer heading towards the left.”
Eloise gave the man a grateful smile, the first natural one she had managed all evening.
“I remember your father well,” he added. “It was a bad business, his banishment and what followed. I wondered what happened to his little girl. He’d have been proud to see how well you turned out.”
“Oh!” Eloise swallowed around the lump that formed in her throat. So many years had passed since she had last visited the castle, she didn’t think anyone would have remembered her. “That’s very kind of you.”
The steward nodded and stood to attention, leaving Eloise to make her way down the grand stairway into the colourful crowd below. She had worried she would look ridiculous in her mask, but Ayleth had worked the oddest of miracles, with every third lady in attendance wearing some sort of exotic adornment. Her sisters’ creations still took the cake in terms of absurdity, but she was happy for them to draw whatever attention they could . . . away from Eloise, preferably. She would stay just long enough to find Destrian and speak with him, taking only a few moments of his time. Until the opportunity arose, she would hide in plain sight, mingling unnoticed in the crowd.
Halfway down the stairs, she began to question her plan. People were staring, murmuring, even pointing. A glance over her shoulder confirmed she was the only late arrival. Another glance assured her nothing was amiss with her gown, the bodice not that scandalously low. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, she was soon surrounded by elegantly attired gentlemen vying for a place on the dance card she had been handed by a steward and which now hung from her wrist.
“Of course. Certainly.” She smiled, her gaze barely registering their features as she strove not to panic at the questions being asked.
“Who is she?”
“Where is she from?”
“Does anyone know her name?”
“What’s all the fuss? Why are the gentlemen congregating over here? My daughters’ dance cards are not yet filled.” A familiar voice rose above the others, and Eloise jerked her head in the direction of the imperiously issued demand. Not three rows of people away stood Gloria, Millicent, and Winifred.
Eloise’s heart threatened to burst from her chest when she saw them staring right at her. As one, they looked her up and down, their lips pruning with displeasure. If she wasn’t mistaken, their expressions betrayed jealousy, but rather than savour the moment, she held her breath, awaiting their denouncement. It didn’t come. Instead, they raised their collective noses in the air and turned their backs.
Ayleth was right. With the elaborate mask, Eloise was virtually unrecognisable . . . but far from invisible.
The musicians began warming up in preparation for the first dance—she had arrived just in time—and she wasn’t lacking in choice when it came time to select a partner to escort her onto the dance floor. She tried not to seem rude but was barely aware of the man opposite her, her gaze scanning the crowded ballroom i
n search of Destrian.
As the dancers formed two long rows, Eloise spotted a lady who could be no other than Princess Seraphina, and her heart sank. Tall, elegant, regally gowned and with her long fair hair arranged in a stunning design, she was every bit as beautiful as Eloise had been warned. How could she possibly compete?
Gritting her teeth, she concentrated on recalling the steps to a dance she had not studied or seen performed in what felt like a lifetime. She wasn’t here to compete with a princess. She just had to find Destrian and beg for his assistance.
Her steps faltered when she saw him, standing tall and proud opposite his wife-to-be. Dressed all in black, his tunic embellished with silver, he looked every bit as handsome as she recalled . . . but far less accessible. After changing partners several times, as the dance slowly progressed, Eloise calculated that she wouldn’t come close to reaching Destrian before the music ended. She had not come this far to fail.
“Please, excuse me.” She smiled an apology to her partner then threaded her way through the crowd. At the beginning of the next rotation, she boldly stood before him, ignoring the spluttered protest of the lady whose place she had usurped.
“Hello, Destrian,” she said, her heart in her mouth as she awaited his response.
Chapter 11
After taking his place opposite Seraphina at the head of the two columns of dancers, Destrian nodded and the musicians began to play. The courtly dance involved intricate steps and minimal touching, which suited him perfectly. Once an entire circuit of the dance was completed, the partners rotated—suiting him even better. How was he supposed to endure a lifetime with Seraphina when they could barely manage five minutes in each other’s company without him feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his skin and leave it behind like the husk of a dead snake? Consummating the marriage was going to be a bloody nightmare. The only way he could imagine enduring it was if he were to close his eyes and pretend he was with another.
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