Page 5 of Bloody Black

Not across the table. Not down the line. But beside me. Someone—not Ben, certainly not my guard—seated him there intentionally. It’s too close to be an accident. Probably hoping to spur gossip and undermine me. Such are the games at court, and it pays to always be wary.

“Princess.” He smiles warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Candlelight glints off his golden hair. He’s shaved and showered since I saw him. His uniform is crisp, but not tailored. Its collar is slightly frayed. I wonder how many other soldiers wore it before he did.

Dinner is a blur of glinting forks and sycophantic praise. I push boiled onions around the plate, nibble at a sliver of meat. I can’t remember what the dish even is. Lamb? Duck?

William and I don’t speak.

From behind me, Roger says loudly, “Cough twice and I’ll cut his throat.” Then he laughs, sounding a bit like a braying donkey.

The only thing redeeming this wretched dinner is the tarts.

Fresh, hot, and buttery. Stuffed with cream and fruits, dusted in sugar.

Despite my better judgement, I indulge in another tiny bite.

Three morsels and no more, Princess . More would be overeating.

We wouldn’t want the guests counting the number of items on your plate.

With a long-suffering sigh, I set the pastry aside.

William’s hand rests on the table, perilously close to mine. I stare at it, unblinking. My hand doesn’t move toward his—but it doesn’t move away either.

Then he shifts. His pinky finger creeps closer, barely touching, so slight I might as well be imagining it. But that small amount of friction is enough to start a fire beneath my skin .

“Would you like a pastry?” My mouth is bone dry.

“Which is your favorite?” he asks idly, his expression tense.

“I’m not allowed to say,” I admit. “And I’m not supposed to eat them in public, either. They’re terribly messy.”

“What if someone were to feed it to you?” William plucks an apple tart from the platter.

Feed it to… oh. I dare to twist my head, to look aside at him. “They wouldn’t like that at all.”

“And are you the sort of woman who cares what they think?” William adjusts his body, pivoting until he’s facing me.

Yes. No. Very much so. My eyes dart left and right.

Someone, surely, will be watching. Judging me.

Waiting to see if I’ll do something untoward.

No. Not someone, many someones. In fact, Lady Smythe-Dean is watching from further down the table.

No doubt she’s calculating how many scandal points this lovely interlude will earn me.

William holds out the pastry toward me. “Eat.” Voice low. Husky.

“My governess says they make me fat.” Why on earth would I admit that? Am I protesting? Or sharing a secret?

“Yes, well. I’m sure she would prefer that the men not be obsessed with your body.” His gaze drifts down to my breasts, then back to my face. “Have a bite.”

Father will murder me for this. Banish me to my rooms. I won’t see daylight for a month.

I don’t care.

Licking my lips, I lean forward slowly. Bare my teeth. Take a bite of the soft, delicious, sugary bread still balanced between his fingers. It’s so good that I have to close my eyes.

“Delicious,” William murmurs. He’s most certainly not talking about the pastry.

My cheeks heat, probably turn pink; I’m blushing. It takes every ounce of self-control not to look away.

“You have a bit of apple on your mouth.” He says, after a long beat.

“Where?” I ask, a little too breathlessly.

“Here.” His thumb brushes across my lower lip, sliding through the sugary juice. It’s completely proper. He’s only helping me.

He then sucks the jam off his finger. “Hmm.”

Down the table, Lady Augustine gasps audibly. I very sincerely hope she’s choking.

The energy between us is electric; it’s intoxicating. For once, a man is looking at me like I’m more than a title. As if I’m beautiful, as if I’m interesting. If we were alone, he would most certainly—

“Princess Anne.” Ben interrupts, his tone imperious. “King Francis would like a word.”

I’m sure he would.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to forgo ten seconds of male attention just to run to my father’s knee.

Besides, William hasn’t done anything. Nothing to give cause for alarm, anyway.

Indeed, he’s been a complete gentleman. Certainly, he is nicer than any of the lords my father has paraded before me.

And infinitely more handsome. Better at sword fighting.

Better with horses. He seems just as well-read as I am, despite having a poor upbringing.

I’m conscious of our hands. At the place where they are now overlapping. At the slight friction where William’s finger strokes over my knuckles.

“A man cannot help but want something he cannot have,” I murmur, studying him up close. He has a fine jaw. A smattering of freckles across his nose.

“Perhaps a princess cannot help it either.” William’s eyes never leave mine.

Ben notices our hands on the table and becomes irritated. His lips tighten into a flat line. “Must I tell you to behave yourself?”

I don’t even look at him. “You could, but it wouldn’t help.”

Because I’ve already made up my mind.