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Jaryk trudged through the palace halls, weighed by weariness and trepidation.

He’d hoped to talk to Kismet before now, but she’d been fast asleep when he’d gotten up yesterday morning.

He’d left her to slumber, unaware he’d be gone all day and overnight.

Unexpectedly, the king had dispatched him to the far ends of Kaldor to meet with a group of disgruntled nobles.

Then a violent electrical storm blew in, grounding his transport and knocking out communications.

Unable to contact Kismet and forced to spend the night, he feared she’d think he’d abandoned her because he’d gotten angry at her accusations.

He wasn’t angry, but even if he was, he would not subject her to the silent treatment. He would address the problem openly and honestly. One day, she would discover that about him.

The trip couldn’t have come at a worse time. It was like his father was deliberately trying to keep them apart. Divide and conquer. The king wouldn’t be that diabolical, would he?

Jaryk had barely got back in time for the gala.

There would be little opportunity to have a heart-to-heart and clear the air before the ball.

Kismet was the only woman for him. The realization he’d hurt her had reinforced how much he loved her.

He could kick himself for having told her of his feelings in the middle of a fight.

I botched that. Would she believe him now?

They didn’t have history or longevity to bolster the veracity of his declaration.

He’d lusted for Charday—he hadn’t loved her.

There’d been fire, but no warmth. With his wife, he had both.

He wished Charday well—as he would any old friend—but the flame had extinguished.

In fact, when he’d met with her to tell her he’d gotten married, he’d found it hard to believe he’d been attracted to her at all.

Kismet was his present and his future.

After the ball, he would take Kismet away from the palace, the machinations of the king, and the distractions.

Time alone together would give them space to focus on each other and their marriage.

He would prove to her how much he loved her.

Normally averse to requesting his mother’s intercession, he’d ask her to keep the king from intervening with another trivial public engagement.

“Good evening, Your Highness!” Lewen met him at the door. “There is no time to waste. Your valet is waiting to help you dress. You have just enough time to get ready for the ball.”

“Where is my wife?”

“Ms. Kismet has dressed and gone. She and Ms. Karma are meeting the protocol tutor to review the etiquette one last time.” The grand, formal event required specific behaviors from how to address the king and queen to how to greet the guests and where and how to stand during the announcement ceremony.

“How did she seem? In good spirits?” he asked then realized he should keep their private affairs private. “Not nervous, about the ball, I hope,” he amended.

“She was composed. And quite lovely. You are a fortunate man, Your Highness.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“May I speak freely, Your Highness?”

“Of course, Lewen.”

“Then, may I suggest you make haste and dress.”

He clapped his butler on the shoulder. “Thank goodness I have you to keep me on track. Would you please send a message to my wife and tell her I will meet her in the anterior reception area of the grand ballroom?” If he hurried, they might have time for a few words.

“Absolutely.”

He found his valet, a jittery little man named Cashon, pacing. His face lightened with relief at the sight of Jaryk.

“I need to clean up,” Jaryk said. “I will need fresh undergar—”

Cashon handed him a small pile of folded clothes.

“Ments,” Jaryk finished. “Thank you.”

“Do you have a preference of formal wear, Your Highness?”

“Just something appropriate. You pick. You have better fashion sense than I do.”

“Your Highness is a man of the world. You flatter me,” Cashon said, but his entire face lit up as if he’d received the ultimate compliment.

After emerging from the cleansing unit, Jaryk donned his clean underwear and reentered his bedchamber.

He stifled a groan at what Cashon had selected.

He found no fault with the pale-orange color of the two-piece suit, realizing his valet had chosen it because it would complement his blue hair.

But a row of at least a hundred tiny darker-orange button gems ran down each sleeve of the tunic from collar to cuff.

He couldn’t just pull it over his head and be done.

The garment required a special tool to pull the buttons through the tiny loops.

It would take forever to get dressed. I hate formalwear.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” he said.

“That’s why I’m here. I am very quick,” Cashon said.

Criticizing the selection would undermine his earlier compliment, so he said, “Fine. Good choice.”

Cashon beamed.

Jaryk donned the leggings then pulled on the tunic, the unfastened sleeves hanging like folded wings.

Beginning at the collar and working downward to the cuffs, Cashon nimbly pulled the jewels through the eyes, zipping up the garment.

The valet’s speed had been no boast; he got him dressed in less than a tenth of the time he’d expected.

Ankle boots completed the ensemble, then Cashon pinned the Crest of Kaldor to Jaryk’s chest and stood back to examine his handiwork. He nodded. “Now, your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” He’d combed it before leaving the cleansing chamber.

“It is not quite right.”

With a suffering sigh, he sat, and the valet combed his hair into perfect order, trimming a little around his ears before spraying it into place with a light adhesive.

Jaryk preferred simple attire. A man should be able to dress himself with little time, effort, or fanfare.

His lips quirked as he envisioned the time Kismet must have spent getting ready—she probably had hours invested with the hairdresser alone.

He couldn’t wait to see her—eager to put things right and just be with her.

After tonight, everyone would know she was his wife.

Lastly, Cashon picked up a brush and carefully added three stripes across Jaryk’s nose and cheeks. He leaned back to take a look. “You are ready now, Your Highness.”

“Excellent work, as usual.” Jaryk dismissed him with a word of thanks.

“It is my pleasure.” Cashon departed.

Jaryk ran his finger inside the too-tight collar of the tunic jacket. He could still breathe, so he supposed he could suffer it one evening.

He’d forgotten to eat, but he had little appetite anyway, and servers would be strolling the perimeter of the ballroom with trays of delicacies. He wouldn’t starve.

With a spring in his step, he went to rendezvous with his wife.

* * * *

No fewer than a dozen people, mostly relatives, waylaid him, delaying him further.

Word of his marriage had spread, and they sought to offer their congratulations.

By the time he reached the anteroom, an hour had passed since his arrival at the palace, and the ball was already underway.

His tardiness didn’t matter—he would be expected to make an entrance—but he’d hated to keep Kismet waiting.

She sat on a settee, clasping her hands. “Jaryk!” She got to her feet.

Her hair had been curled into ringlets and swept off her face, the better to view her eyes highlighted by a skillful application of color.

She wore an iridescent off-the-shoulder gown in Kaldor blue with sheer sleeves, a clinging but modest bodice, and a full skirt, its hem skimming the tops of her matching low-heeled slippers.

She looked stunning, amazing, beautiful.

His heart swelled with pride and longing. I must make things right between us. “I’m so sorry I kept you waiting.”

“I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

“Lewen didn’t deliver my message?”

“He did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. I meant earlier. You didn’t come home all night.”

He grimaced. “A freak storm grounded my transport and rendered communication systems inoperable. I only got back a short time ago.”

“I was afraid you were avoiding me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” He glanced around in frustration.

They didn’t have much time, but he hated to leave her wondering.

Two guards serving as footmen stood at the ballroom door.

With so many people in attendance, security had been heightened.

“We need to talk. You deserve the whole truth. I owe you that. We shouldn’t have secrets—”

The door opened to admit Falkor. “There you are! Father is fit to be tied. He sent me to get you. Your absence has been noted.”

“Fine. We’re coming.” Jaryk waved at him to go away.

His brother bowed to Kismet. “You look beautiful.”

Jaryk could kick him and then kick himself for letting his brother beat him to the compliment.

She smiled. “Thank you.”

Finally, Falkor left.

“You do look amazing.”

She gave him a wooden smile and a muttered thanks, but when he offered his arm to escort her into the ballroom, she said, “You look very handsome. The color suits you.”

“Thank you .”

“How did you get all those little jeweled buttons fastened?”

“Cashon, my valet, hooked them. Getting dressed is partly what took so long. That and having everybody and their cousin stop me to congratulate me. Again, I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

Automatic doors had been switched to manual mode so comings and goings could be monitored. The guards swung the massive panels open, and Jaryk entered the ballroom with his wife.

* * * *

If Jaryk hadn’t had hold of her arm, Kismet might have fled. She’d never imagined , let alone seen , such intimidating grandeur. The closest she’d come to a royal ball had been her high school prom, and it was no contest.