by Ember Casey
“I’m not partaking in any of your traditions, Your Highness. Not unless you’re going to force it upon me.”
He doesn’t turn to me when he speaks again. “We should at least take our wine from the cup.” His voice lowers, and I’m certain I’m not meant to hear his words. “I could really use a drink.”
William
My knuckles are white as I grip the cup. Justine doesn’t say anything, and I don’t turn to look at her. Instead, I raise the goblet to my lips and take a long swig.
I’m breaking tradition. Custom dictates that she should be the one to hold the cup to my lips, and I to hers, but I guess we’re just fucking all traditions now.
Yes, she should have been consulted before the final marriage agreement was made—but she’s already admitted that she would have agreed to it anyway. So why does she continue to hold onto such anger? The choice has been made, our fates decided. Now we have two options: to bemoan our circumstances or to make the best of them. I’ve chosen the latter, but clearly she hasn’t.
I pull the cup away from my lips before I manage to drain all the wine and slam it back down on the table.
“The rest is yours, if you want it,” I say. A few moments ago, I was trying to keep things light—but no longer.
She eyes the goblet as if it were poison, not saying a word.
“Since it’s no longer a given that you’ll be partaking in the wedding traditions,” I say, “I suppose I should ask you whether you intend to appear at the wedding feast, or whether I’ll be there alone.”
She crosses her arms. “I’ll do my public duty, if that’s what you’re asking. But I won’t carry on in private as if this were real.”
It’s real whether you want to believe it or not, Princess. Since she’s clearly not going to drink from the cup, I pick it up again and drain the rest of the wine. I’m going to need every drop of alcohol in Montovia if I’m going to get through tonight.
It doesn’t help that in her fury she looks more beautiful than ever. Two spots of color have bloomed on her cheeks, and her eyes are bright and fiery. I’d be incredibly turned on if I weren’t so pissed.
She accused you of wanting to rape her, I think. She thinks you’re some sort of monster. In fact, she couldn’t be further from the truth—in my dreams last night, she was begging me to take her. That’s what I want—to have this woman pleading for my touch in desperate desire. Anything less won’t do.
Judging from the look in her eyes, though, such dreams will stay dreams, at least for the time being.
We’re married now, I think. And a lifetime is a very long time.
For the moment, at least, my focus should be on surviving my wedding banquet with a wife who hates my guts. There will be no convincing her of my good intentions tonight, that much is certain.
I place the empty cup back on the table. Perhaps I should have taken Andrew up on his offer to flee, but it’s too late to get cold feet now. What’s done is done.
There’s a light rap on the door.
“Your Highnesses,” comes the voice of one of the palace valets. “They’re ready for you.”
I straighten, looking over at Justine. “Are you ready to do your duty, Princess?”
The corners of her mouth tighten at my use of her title, but she lets it slide. “Let’s get this over with.”
I take her arm as we move toward the door. My fingers rest on her skin as lightly as possible. She takes a deep breath, and her anger disappears behind her usual calm, serene expression.
How much of her life does she spend hiding her true emotions? I wonder. As a prince, I understand the importance of maintaining a proper public persona, but I haven’t been in the spotlight as much as either of my older brothers. And I’ve never felt the urge to constantly pretend to be or feel something I’m not.
Of course, the next few hours will probably be a crash course on doing just that—on pretending I haven’t just realized I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. What I wouldn’t do to blow off the reception and head out to the gymnasium instead—a rousing fencing bout or two would do me good right now. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I can convince Victoria or Andrew to meet me there later.
The door swings open, revealing the now-full ballroom beyond. Guests line the edges of the room, waiting for our arrival, and at the sight of us, the chamber orchestra launches into the Montovian Wedding March again. The crowd applauds and cheers, and white feathers and silvery bits of confetti rain down from the ceiling on us.
Our parents all wait at the head of the ballroom, in front of our seats for the evening. I guide Justine over to them, and we bow before them.
As per tradition, each of them bestows a small blessing on us, welcoming us to each respective royal family.
After the final blessing is bestowed, the music begins again—this time a waltz.
Yet another royal wedding tradition here is that the newly married couple begins the dancing for the evening. I turn toward Justine, offering her my hand, and though I try not to show it, my back is stiff. I half expect her to swat away my fingers and storm out of the ballroom.
But as she promised, she decides to fulfill her duty. Her hand slips into mine, and she lets me lead her out into the middle of the floor. Her fingers are soft, and a touch cold, and though I feel the urge to tighten my grip, to warm them, I don’t. Instead, I pull her around in front of me, bringing her into position to begin the waltz. My other hand slides around her waist, and her free hand comes to rest ever-so-lightly on my shoulder.
I’ve always enjoyed dancing. That’s hardly the manliest thing to admit, but there’s a certain lively stateliness to the practice, and it reminds me a lot of fencing, my favorite sport. Proficiency in one feeds the other—both require balance and artistry, gracefulness of movement and a certain amount of dignity of athleticism. I’m not ashamed to say that my years of dancing lessons as a child—an inevitability for a prince—contributed greatly to my performance at a number of sports during my time at university and later during my military training.
Justine seems to have a natural affinity for it as well. As I spin her around the floor, she moves with a fluid grace, responding to even my slightest shift as if we’ve been dancing together all our lives. It’s rare that I’ve found myself with a partner so attuned to me, and in spite of everything I feel my anger toward her start to dissipate, replaced instead by curiosity.
I wonder if she’s really as good as she seems to be?
We’ve already made one circle of the ballroom floor, but rather than continue in the same direction, I pivot an extra half turn, twisting around to lead us in a different direction.
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she doesn’t miss a beat—she falls perfectly into step, her movements as graceful as ever.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I smile. “Just keeping things interesting.”
We’re close enough and the music is loud enough that no one else can hear us speak to each other. They can probably see my smile, but they can’t see the emotions that flash in Justine’s eyes. There’s annoyance there, certainly, but also something else—something that gives me hope.
I pivot again, turning us in a new direction, twirling her around with a swirl of her white skirts. Once again, she falls right into step, following my every movement as if we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“You’re a very good dancer,” I tell her.
“You have to be, when you’re forced to dance with as many terrible dancers as I am.”
“Are you calling me a terrible dancer, Princess?” Before she can answer, I release her waist and spin her all the way around, and she moves beautifully into the movement, twisting away from me with a swirl that draws delighted gasps from the watching crowd. My grin widens as I pull her back into my arms. I’ve made my point, I know.
Justine gives a little shake of her head, refusing to look me in the eyes. But I’d swear there’s the hint of a smile on her lips.
“
You’re not the worst partner I’ve had,” she says.
“Is that the best compliment I get?”
“Don’t push it, Your Highness.”
I don’t. But I can’t keep the grin off my face. We certainly have quite a few barriers to cross between us, but at least I’ve discovered one arena in which we speak the same language.
And oh, though I should know better, I’m enjoying teasing her. Every time I take an extra half step, or turn her an extra time, or try to catch her off-guard, she’s ready for me, and despite what I’m sure are her best efforts, I can tell that a part of her is enjoying the challenge. There’s no doubt in my mind that she feels it, too—this exhilarating connection, this meeting through movement.
The waltz is coming to an end. I’m sorry to hear the music winding to its close, but the evening is only beginning.
I bring her to a stop just before our gilded seats for the feast. My heart is thumping against my ribs, my breath coming fast from all the spinning. She looks just as breathless, and her eyes are bright with the exercise. A couple strands of hair have come loose from the elaborate braids on top of her head, and she looks so beautiful that I can’t fight the urge to lean toward her, to tilt my face down and bring my lips closer to hers.
She stiffens. When she speaks, her voice is so soft I can barely hear it, but there’s no mistaking her tone.
“If you kiss me, I swear to God I’ll punch you in front of all these people,” she says.
I smile. I should have known her feelings on physical contact wouldn’t have changed, even after the dance we just shared.
“Fine,” I say lightly. I tilt my head slightly, brushing my lips softly against her cheek instead. When I pull back, I see the flash of something in her eyes, and for a moment I think she might throw a punch at me anyway—but she doesn’t. I try to keep from laughing as I turn to face our guests.
“Let the wedding feast begin,” I announce to the room. But my thoughts are still on Justine and our dance. Her fingers are still clasped in mine, and they’re warmer now than they were a few moments ago.
You’ll see soon enough, Princess, I think. There’s no denying the inevitable.
Justine
The dance with William was…exhilarating.
I’ve always loved dancing. I might have made a career of ballet if such a profession were considered proper for a princess. Dancing was always a way for me to escape when I was a girl—I could go into the studio at my family’s palace and lose myself for hours. I suppose all those hours spent practicing have served me well now—it seems I’m expected to attend far too many of these same types of events, representing my country. And not everyone moves like William on the dance floor.
I wonder where else he might respond to my every motion?
He squeezes my hand, and I force myself to ignore the thrill of electricity that runs up my arm from his touch.
This is not good. If I allow myself to actually feel something for this man, it is going to make it all the harder to leave Rosvalia in three months.
William announces the beginning of the feast to the crowd, and a large cheer erupts. Immediately, the formal event has turned into a raucous party, and I can barely hear myself think.
He tilts his head to speak into my ear. “Come, Princess. We should take our seats at the head of the table.”
“Of course, Your Highness. Whatever you wish.”
Something flickers in his eyes, but that damn grin that seems to always be on his lips never falls in the slightest.
He leads me around the line of tables at the front of the room, guiding me up the four stairs to the platform where we’ll overlook the rest of the party for the night. He drops my hand before he holds my chair for me, then he takes the seat beside me.
“How long have you been dancing, Princess?” His hand slides across the table, and closes over mine.
“Since birth, the same as you, I suspect.” I might have yanked my hand away if there weren’t so many people watching our every move. And though most of me doesn’t want any of our guests suspecting anything about my fake marriage to the man beside me, I find there is another part—a very small part—that doesn’t mind his touch. A tiny part that welcomes it. Possibly enjoys it, though I would never admit that to William.
I smile and nod at a few couples who are doing their part in the traditional Montovian custom of dancing until they make their way to the head of the room, stopping to curtsy or bow in front of our table.
William does the same, not moving his hand. If anything, his grasp seems to tighten the slightest bit every few seconds, and before long, I find he’s lacing his fingers through mine.
I don’t yank my hand away—it would be too obvious now, and he seems to know it, his grin widening. “We’ll have to try that again later.”
“Dancing?” I nod at the couple in front of us before turning to him. “Tradition dictates that we only have the one dance at our feast. And you are all about tradition, aren’t you William?”
Something in my words must wound him, and he flinches ever so slightly. But his smile never falls in the slightest. “Some traditions are meant to be broken. Others, though, Princess—”
He’s interrupted by a server setting plates with the first course of our dinner in front of us. William finally takes his hand from mine as we prepare to begin eating. Though it’s a small thing, I find I’m almost…disappointed that he’s no longer touching me. I’m not sure what has shifted inside me regarding the man who is now my husband, but something seems to have.
I look down at my food. I’m not hungry, and even if I was, I wouldn’t be able to eat what’s been served. Instead, I push the food around my plate, making it appear that I’ve at least sampled the cuisine.
“You don’t like it, Princess?” William shoves another forkful of the appetizer into his mouth.
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Then you should try it.” He motions at my plate with his fork. “It’s delicious. One of my favorites.”
“That’s…good to know.” I fiddle with the food for another moment, pushing it again around my plate.
He sighs and stabs at one of the large shrimp on my plate with his fork before he pops it into his mouth.
I turn to face him. “You can have all of it if you want—”
He rolls his eyes. “What is it with you noblewomen, Princess? It’s your wedding. You can’t allow yourself to eat at your own wedding?” He shakes his head and spears another shrimp from my plate. “I’ll never understand why you noblewomen are so obsessed—”
“I’m allergic to shrimp, Your Highness. To all shellfish, actually. And most seafood, come to think of it.” I give him a small smile. “I assure you, I have no problem eating, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I…” He cocks his head, his smile falling. “You approved the details for the reception. Our mothers—”
“Planned the entire thing. I had no say in the matter, I assure you.” I smile again at a couple who has stopped in front of our table, bowing and curtsying before us.
“Your mother approved the details, then. Why didn’t she say something? As far as I know, only the fourth course is a meat dish. The first three are fish—”
“I’m certain she forgot about my allergies. Or doesn’t care. Or perhaps she never knew about them at all.” I smile again, nodding at the next couple in front of us. “Believe me, I’m used to it.”
“Perhaps there is an alternate dish available? Surely you aren’t the only person with allergies—”
I turn to him. “It’s fine, Your Highness. As I said, I’m quite used to it. I won’t be making a spectacle of myself.”
“But you need to eat—”
“And returning my plate now would be an embarrassment to the chef. If I were to point out my allergy and the fact my mother has forgotten it, it would be an embarrassment to her.” I smile at the next couple, nodding them away. “I’ll not be embarrassing anyone tonight.” I pause, turning
to him. “Even you.”
“Had my mother known, Princess—”
“It isn’t an issue, Your Highness.” The line of couples has grown long, as dinner is now being served to the guests and everyone wants to return to their seats to begin eating.
We spend the next several minutes greeting the guests in turn, which consists of little more than a nod and a smile from each of us. After the last couple is seated, the second course is served.
Before the waiter can set the plate in front of me, William turns to him. “Is it possible for my wife to have a non-seafood dish?”
The waiter’s face turns white, and the plate he’s holding begins clattering from his trembling. “I… I…”
“She has a seafood allergy, you see. It won’t do, serving her this mussel dish.”
“It’s not a problem.” I motion for the poor man to set my plate down in front of me. “Please.” I smile at him, but the trembling doesn’t stop and he looks like he might faint. I motion again for him to set the plate down, and he finally does, almost running from our table afterward.
“You don’t have to be a martyr, Princess.” William’s brows draw together, and his semi-permanent smile falls slightly. “In fact, I insist—”
“Stop insisting on things for me, Your Highness. I’m capable of taking care of myself, I assure you.”
“I have no doubt of that, Princess, but—”
“And when are you going to stop using my title as though it is a derogatory term?”
“You’re one to talk, Princess. You’ve been addressing me as Your Highness since we’ve met.”
“And yet, that is the appropriate way to address a prince or princess, is it not?” I glance down at the dish in front of me before I glance over at William’s plate. He, too, hasn’t taken a bite of food from this course. “Do you not like mussels?”
“On the contrary, I quite enjoy them. But I’ll not be eating if you are not eating. It is only polite.”
“Well, thank goodness for your manners. Though I suspect the sarcasm you use when you call me by my title was not part of your protocol training.”