Dirty Halo

by Julie Johnson

  My mother’s voice is with me like a drumbeat as I take those first steps down the aisle. I set my pace by each syllable as I walk, feeling eyes on me from all sides.

  Stay bold.

  Stay bold

  Stay bold

  Eighty yards.

  Fifty yards.

  Twenty yards.

  The throne creeps ever closer, the crowd around me a mass of faceless strangers. I’m nearing the end of this long, dreadful parade when I sense a set of eyes on me from the front row, strong enough to draw my focus. I tell myself not to look at him, not to yield to the tractor-beam of his stare… but as I pass within a few feet of his chair, my own eyes shift without executive permission. They lock on his, bright blue and burning with unmasked longing, and for the first time since Simms said my name…

  My feet falter.

  It’s just a slight bobble before I recover; a stumble so small, I doubt anyone even notices. Except Carter. He’s watching me so intently, I know there’s not a detail of my dress he hasn’t memorized, not a single move I make that escapes his hyper-alert focus.

  Swallowing hard, I tear my gaze from his and start up the three wide steps onto the pavilion, where the archbishop is waiting in full regalia. I nod respectfully to him as I take my spot in front of the small, ornate chair to the right of the gilded throne. I don’t risk looking at the front row again, instead sweeping my eyes across the expanse, taking it all in.

  My kingdom.

  Every face in the crowd is turned to mine. They appear awed as they behold me. As though they’re witnessing something truly spectacular. It’s easily the most surreal moment of my entire life. My heartbeat pounds between my ears louder than a battle drum the longer I stand there — all eyes fixed on me, taking my measure in turn.

  Their princess.

  Thankfully, Simms voice draws their attention away before the pressure can crack my composure — booming out to announce Octavia’s entrance. Everyone shifts in their seats to watch her, the picture of regal poise as she begins her procession down the stairs. She soaks in every ounce of attention, her steps tiny, her pace glacial. I think I lose three or four years of my life, just waiting for her to take her place beside me on the stage.

  Really putting the queen in drama queen, if you ask me.

  Simms voice booms out one final time.

  “His Royal Majesty Linus Lancaster, King of Germania…”

  Every member of the audience climbs to their feet to greet him, a sign of respect reserved only for the highest echelon of the monarchy. Linus looks every bit a king as he makes his dignified procession down the aisle toward us. His eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments as he steps up onto the throne pavilion. I see a flash of warmth and pride before he looks away to greet the archbishop. Bowing his head, he takes a shuddering breath as he kneels upon the plush cushion at the center of the stage.

  And so it begins.

  The essential elements of a Germanian coronation have remained largely unchanged for the past thousand years: an hour-long ceremony of acclaim, anointment, and sworn oaths to uphold the law, the church, and above all, the loyal subjects of the land.

  Linus’ voice is strong and clear as he accepts his responsibility. When he rises, an elaborate crown sitting upon his head, the applause is so loud, I hear the crystal chandeliers rattling perilously overhead. Lady Morrell instructed me most firmly that I was not to clap — a princess does not cheer with the masses; do endeavor to maintain a somber countenance — but I can’t help myself from smiling.

  In a sort of daze, I watch as the archbishop moves on to inaugurate Octavia as Queen Consort — a simpler, shorter version of the same process. (I assure you, my somber countenance is firmly in place when the room applauds for her.)

  Then, terrifyingly… it’s my turn.

  Kneeling with my hands clasped tightly, I stare into the dull brown eyes of the bishop as I repeat back the words of fealty I’ve spent the past few days practicing in my bathroom mirror.

  To my great surprise, as I speak my oath, the blind sense of panic fades. My pulse slows to a steady tempo. My voice doesn’t shake, the words crystal clear as they ring out in the silent room.

  “I, Emilia Victoria Lancaster, do pledge my sovereign allegiance to the people of Germania as heir apparent to the throne. In this role, I vow to uphold law and justice with mercy, to maintain the doctrine, worship, and discipline of both church and state, and to preserve all such rights and privileges of each man, woman, and child under my dominion.” I take a deep breath and bow my head. “All that which I have promised, I will perform and keep to the fullest extent of my power. So help me God.”

  The room is so silent, you could hear a button drop.

  The archbishop anoints my forehead with holy oil, his thumb slippery against my skin. I inhale involuntarily when he lifts the sparkling tiara from an ornate box to his left. It’s heavy with gold and diamonds; heavier still with importance as he sets it down upon my head. It settles against my hair, glittering in the light, a perfect complement to my gown.

  As I rise and turn to greet my countrymen, I’m met with a forceful wave of applause. They cheer and clap, eyes feverish with unconditional excitement as they behold me.

  Their heir apparent.

  Their future queen.

  I have done nothing to earn their love. Yet here I stand, a product of divine right, acclaimed and adored for no reason at all. A fraud, collecting credit for absolutely nothing except the surname on my birth certificate.

  The smile wavers on my lips. The pulse jumps in my veins. And the beautiful crown upon my head begins to feel like something else entirely.

  A golden lie.

  A dirty halo.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Hot damn, E! You look fucking incredible! That dress is a wet dream.”

  “Um.” I blink at Chloe. “Thank you… I think?”

  “Trust me, it’s a compliment.”

  “She’s right,” Alden cuts in smoothly, stepping up to me with a smile. His eyes are shining. “You look absolutely perfect, Princess.”

  My smile wavers. “Please, don’t call me that.”

  His brows lift in confusion.

  I glance away, back to Chloe, and find her squinting at the diamonds on my tiara. Her cherry red lips — the same shade as the mermaid-style dress she’s wearing — are parted in pure lust.

  “You’re going to let me try it on later, right?”

  I snort. “I don’t think I’m allowed to, actually. Pretty sure it goes back into the royal vault as soon as the party ends.”

  “Then I suppose we’d better make the most of the moment.” Alden’s hand extends. “If it’s not too forward of me… may I have the first dance?”

  “Oh,” I blurt gracelessly, blushing deeply. “Of course.”

  He beams as he tucks my hand in the crook of his arm and leads me out onto the dance floor. I glance around at the Great Hall, telling myself I’m taking in the sights — not scanning restlessly for a dark head of hair and broad, tuxedoed shoulders amongst the throng of guests.

  There’s no sign of him anywhere. And I can’t help noticing that Ava is suspiciously absent, as well.

  It doesn’t matter.

  It doesn’t matter.

  It doesn’t matter.

  Pushing thoughts of Carter Thorne from my head, I force myself to appreciate the beauty of the ballroom. The space has been impressively transformed, full to the brim with fresh flower arrangements and white linen table cloths and shining silver candlesticks. Sharply uniformed waitstaff distribute champagne flutes to everyone in the crowd. An eight-piece string band offers musical accompaniment to the many couples already whirling around elegantly at the center of the room.

  Alden and I take our place amongst them. I hardly breathe as he leads me through my first ever waltz — well, with anyone besides Lady Morrell, which I’m relatively certain doesn’t count. He’s a much more exciting partner, leading my turns with ease, steering my every move
as though there are marionette strings attached to my toes. After a while, I find I’m actually enjoying myself as we glide to the tempo.

  “I can’t believe you lied to me,” he whispers in my ear as the waltz comes to an end.

  “What?”

  His smile is ultra white. “You’re a lovely dancer. You’ve not tread on my feet even once.”

  “Give it time.”

  “Does that mean I can persuade you to dance with me again?”

  I open my mouth to agree, but the words are cut off by a lightly accented voice from the left.

  “Unfortunately, the princess cannot dance with you,” a young man I don’t recognize says, bowing slightly as he beholds me, his brown eyes sparkling. “As she will be dancing with me.”

  “Oh?” I arch a brow. “And you are…?”

  “Westley Egerton, Baron of Frenberg. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Your Royal Highness.”

  “Just Emilia, please.”

  His brows shoot up in shock at such familiarity. Lady Morrell would be positively scandalized by my impropriety, but I don’t care. I’m so tired of being called Your Highness I could spit. And the night has only just begun.

  “Princess Emilia it is, then,” Egerton says tactfully, smiling as he extends a hand. “Shall we?”

  With an apologetic glance at Alden, I take his outstretched hand and allow myself to be pulled into another spirited dance. Feeling the weight of many male stares, I have a creeping suspicion his won’t be my only offer this evening…

  My hunch, as it turns out, is correct.

  Two hours later, my feet are aching as yet another suitor from some place I can’t remember the name of steers me around the dance floor. Unfortunately for me, unlike Alden, this particular earl does not possess even an ounce of lightness of foot — as evidenced by the fact that he’s already trampled on mine at least three times.

  “Apologies again, Your Highness.”

  I hide my wince with a fake smile. “Not a problem.”

  Chloe grimaces at me over the shoulder of the handsome lord she’s dancing with. I try to smile back, but it turns to another scowl of pain as his considerable weight comes down on my toes.

  “Deepest apologies, yet again—”

  I set my teeth in a grimace and pray it’s almost over. I’m exhausted from smiling benignly and making small talk with strangers; from being mauled by middle-aged lords with sagging bellies and sour breath; from fending off scathing comments from their wives during the brief interludes I’ve managed to escape the dance floor for a fortifying sip of champagne.

  “Please forgive me, Princess,” the earl is saying, but my attention is suddenly elsewhere — snagging on something in the crowd that makes my heart race at twice its normal rate. Something I haven’t locked eyes on all night, despite my constant search.

  There’s a man standing at the edge of the dance floor. He’s got a glass of bourbon in his grip, but his eyes are on me. Even from this distance, I know he can see the way I wince when the Earl of Toe-Crushing lives up to his nickname once more.

  “So sorry, so sorry…”

  I open my mouth on auto-pilot, prepared to accept his most recent apology, but the words evaporate from my tongue. I can’t speak, can’t even breathe. Every fiber in my being is fully occupied, watching as Carter slowly drains the bourbon from his glass, discards it on a nearby table, and steps out onto the floor. There’s a darkly determined look on his face as he crosses toward us, cutting a path through the sea of swirling couples without ever removing his eyes from mine.

  He moves like a predator, all smooth muscle and lithe strength in an immaculately-tailored tuxedo. For once, his hair is pushed back from his face — styled sleekly with pomade, it gleams a lustrous black beneath the chandelier light. The effect is breath-stealing; I feel the air physically leave my lungs as I take in the sight of his sharp cheekbones on full display. The blade-like angles of his face cut through me with a sharpness I register in every square inch of my soul.

  Holy.

  Shit.

  My feet go still and the earl stumbles off balance, his hand falling away from my lower back. I don’t even bother apologizing as he attempts to right himself. I don’t even glance his way. I can’t look away from Carter as he comes to a stop beside us. His dark brows are pulled inward. His eyes are on mine.

  “Can I cut in?”

  He doesn’t wait for permission. He simply steps into our space, slides his arms around my body, and tugs me out of the earl’s fumbling hold. My lips part on a gasp as my body collides briefly with the hard planes of his chest. I press them firmly together as my right hand interlaces with his, my left sliding up to rest lightly on his shoulder.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss as we begin to move.

  “Just being a good brother.” He pauses meaningfully, eyes glittering with leashed violence — at me, at our situation, at the whole damn world. “Saving my sister from permanent foot damage.”

  “Carter…”

  “You’d rather I left you to that great oaf?” His eyes narrow. “Fine. I’m sure I can call him back—”

  “Don’t you dare,” I snap.

  He smirks.

  I blow out an exasperated sigh and give myself over to the dance. And it’s strange — we’re surrounded by hundreds of people but, somehow, in the circle of his arms, I’m able to convince myself it’s just the two of us. A dance all our own, without regret or repercussion.

  We move together flawlessly — miles more in sync than even my most accomplished suitors. It’s as though my body recognizes his, as though he knows every step I’m going to make before it happens. As the waltz progresses, our spins and turns bringing our bodies closer and closer, the sliver of air between our faces begins to simmer with so much tension, it’s hard to breathe properly. His hand tightens on my waist, flexing against the gold fabric of my dress, and I know he feels it, too.

  I just hope no one watching from the crowd can see the way my pulse is pounding, can sense the slight hitch in my breath whenever I pull a shallow gulp of air into my lungs.

  Just two siblings, sharing a celebratory dance.

  Totally innocent.

  His face is set in a polite mask, but his eyes — they singe me like a fiery brand. He hasn’t looked at me like this since the night we crossed an unspeakable boundary, back at the Lockwood Estate. I worry as soon as this dance ends, he’ll never look at me like that again. That, as soon as the notes fade into silence, he’ll throw that wall back into place — the one made of callous indifference, that’s so terribly effective at shutting me out.

  Time is running short. Each slide of the violin bow against its strings carries us one note closer to the end of this moment. The end of us. So, before I can stop myself, before I can remember the reason why those careful walls exist between us in the first place… I ask a reckless question. A question that’s been killing me each night as I lie in bed, waiting for a bluetooth chime that never comes.

  “The song.” My throat spasms. “Why?”

  The final notes play out, and our steps taper off into stillness. He still hasn’t given me an answer. In my peripherals, I sense couples around us pulling apart, exiting the dance floor in the brief interlude between songs… but we don’t move. Neither of us is ready to let go. Because we both know, the moment we do…

  It’s over.

  “Why?” I beg, a break in my voice.

  He stares at me with his jaw clenched tight for so long, I don’t think he’s going to answer. When he finally speaks, his tone is carefully stripped of all emotion.

  “Because the only thing I hated more than seeing you with him… was making you cry over me.”

  His words hit me like a physical punch. My hands drop away from him. My eyes are full of tears when I shake my head and whisper shakily, “Then you’d better look away.”

  The last thing I see before I turn and race off the dance floor is Carter’s face, crumbling with defeat and despair.
My feet don’t slow as I brush past several waiting suitors, eager to claim my next dance. The facade I’ve kept in place all evening is unraveling with an alacrity that scares me. If I’m going to hold myself together, I need air that doesn’t smell like bourbon, spice, and smoke. I need space that’s not thrumming with acute anguish. I need time enough to forget the feeling of forbidden hands on my skin.

  So incredibly wrong.

  So utterly right.

  Leaving the ballroom behind with a series of muttered excuses, I don’t stop until I’ve found my way outside into the castle gardens. It’s dark and cold in the late October night — far too chilly for any other party guests to brave the elements. The three guards keeping watch at the doors don’t try to stop me as I run down the winding path, my long train whipping out behind me like a flag. I revel in the silent solitude as I drag uneven breaths into my lungs.

  I’m not even sure where I’m headed until I find myself stepping into the glass greenhouse at the center of the courtyard. It’s warmer inside. There’s no light except that of the full moon shining overhead. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, squinting until the shapes of various plants and flowers come into view. There’s something almost haunted about this place, lit only by starlight. Closed off from the rest of the world.

  Brushing the worst of the dirt off a slate workman’s table, I prop myself against it and drop my head into my hands. The clatter of my crown falling to the flagstones makes me jump — I’d completely forgotten it was on my head.

  I crack open my eyes, already bending to retrieve it… and freeze as I find myself staring not at a dirty greenhouse floor, but into the turbulent blue eyes of the man who’s just crouched down at my feet. I didn’t even hear him follow me in, but there he is — Lord Carter Thorne. On his knees with my tiara clutched gently in his big hands, looking up at me like I’m the source of all his pain and all his passion.

  Shadows play over his features as I reach out, trembling like a leaf, and wrap my fingers around the tiara. He doesn’t relinquish his hold — even when I tug lightly. Instead, he rises, finding his feet in one smooth motion, stepping forward into my space… And then, the crown is clattering back to the stones at our feet, utterly forgotten, because without another thought or breath or beat of hesitation, Carter reaches out, hauls me into his chest, and crushes his mouth to mine.