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ALISTAIR

“Presenting Lady Mullins.”

The instant her name is spoken, I’ve already forgotten it. This woman’s hair is hair-colored. Her eyes are both the same color, whatever it is, a shade of brown or blue or something in between. It doesn’t matter.

“Write her name down.” The royal secretary sighs heavily and adds her name to a lengthy roster of names of women I’ve already danced with this evening.

Why am I still here?

I could be gone.

Yet I’m still watching for her to walk through the banner-bedecked archway. Delusional, I know. My heart aches with yearning for a phantom. She would be mine. We would be happy together.

Hours pass. She doesn’t come.

The red-headed girl is a figment of my imagination. I know this, and yet I can’t let go of the fantasy.

I lead Lady Mullions or Mullins—whatever her name is; I don’t care—onto the dance floor. A slow song plays. Every song this evening has been slow. Droning. Practically a dirge. I feel as though I’m attending my own funeral.

“Have you made a selection?” asks the scribe when I return the lady to her chaperone.

“Yes,” I bark curtly. I have resigned myself to marrying Lady Cockburn, unfortunate surname and all. Hers is the only name I recall from this evening. “The first one.”

“Cocklebur.”

Whatever her name is, she’s to be the next queen of Belterre. Despite my eagerness to end this miserable evening, the king scolded me for thinking I could escape dancing with each and every one of the maidens in attendance this evening.

We invited them. It is up to you to show the young ladies proper respect.

Fuck etiquette. I am a powder keg of frustration and each simpering girl is a match that threatens to ignite my temper. There are too many of them. More than three hundred girls. I could have selected my wife by choosing at random, but my father wanted to teach me a lesson.

“Othmar.” I snap at my guard, whose knuckles are curled beneath his chin, propping up his head as he rests his eyes.

I could be stabbed and he wouldn’t notice until I was bleeding out all over the dance floor.

Not that these girls have the kind of deviousness it takes to stab a prince.

If one did stab me, I’d marry her on the spot.

A bit of intrigue to spice up the marital bed wouldn’t go amiss.

What a peculiar thought.

I motion Othmar behind a pillar and quickly unfasten my white jacket with its red sash draped from left shoulder to right hip.

“Put this on.” I thrust it at him. “Quickly. Give me yours.”

“Highness, they’ll know.”

“Who?” His jacket fits a bit loosely on me, but it’s not too bad. “The girls who’ve only seen me from a balcony? Their chaperones, waiting in the reception room? My father, who returned to his bed an hour ago?”

“I don’t wish to be punished, sir.”

“Then don’t get caught.” I straighten the red sash and pat his lapels. The buttons strain across his chest and the fabric is tight over his biceps, but as long as he doesn’t make any sudden movements, it’ll be fine. “Off you go.”

“Who is the next partner?” he asks.

“How would I know? Find out from the scribe.”

Exasperated, I push him in the direction of the scribe’s table. The herald calls out, “Lady Drucilla Tremaine.”

I wince. Lady Drucilla Tremaine is no prize.

Even from this distance, I can see the faint shimmer of a glamour shifting around her.

Hers is not a good enough potion to be subtle.

It slides every time she moves, like the magic is tired and trying to run away.

I almost pity her for resorting to such measures, but I can’t be bothered to care about any of these money-grubbing status seekers.

I should have these women arrested for using illegal magic. I can’t though. Damned politics.

I have a distinct recollection of dancing with this woman once before at a holiday event, and I am not keen to repeat the experience.

I turn on my heel, snatch a goblet of wine from a passing waiter and tip it into my mouth, only to discover to my great displeasure that it isn’t wine after all.

Lemonade, as pallid and unappealing as the company.

I deposit it into a potted plant and stride into the main hall.

At one end is the reception room where the chaperones are gathered to wait for their daughters to take their turn.

The other end is dominated by a grand stairway leading to the castle’s private quarters, with guards stationed on either side to prevent trespassers.

The gallery is open to visitors, but few of our guests this evening display an interest in portraits of the royal family.

The hallway is dimly lit to protect the art, and only one person has ventured into the gloom.

A lady with a crown of red hair pinned atop her head.

Pulse quickening, I tilt my head at the woman who’s wandered aimlessly down the hallway, inspecting the gilt-framed pictures of my ancestors.

Hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Her red hair catches fire in the low light. My cock tightens in salute. She’s slightly built but curvaceous in the right places. Her ice-blue gown looks oddly familiar. Like something Briar would have worn.

“My lady?”

She startles so badly she trips over her own dress and stumbles elegantly backward several steps, pressing her gloved palm to her chest.

Time stops. The thrum of blood in my veins slows. Her eyes flare wide.

Aquamarine.

It’s her. The girl I nearly trampled with my horse a few days ago. I’m certain of it.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” I reach for her free hand.

Time restarts when my fingertips meet the smooth satin of her glove, a sudden leap forward that sends my pulse racing.

A giddy, almost dizzy sensation fizzes through me.

Magic. Half the women here are doused in it, but this is exceptional quality. I’ve never felt anything like it.

Her pulse flutters faintly in her throat. She swallows.

“Are you lost?” I ask. A faint rosy stain rises to her cheeks. She’s charming. Demure. Shy. I was smitten on sight. Now, actually meeting her, I’m in love.

It could be a spell, a little warning voice pipes up. Ruthlessly, I quash it.

“I was looking at the paintings,” she says.

“A bit dark for aesthetic interpretation, isn’t it?”

This end of the hallway is cloaked in gloom, but from the way she stares at me, I’m sure she recognizes me, too.

She chuckles nervously. Her gaze drops to her feet. When she glances up again, her vivid eyes are full of shy curiosity.

Visceral need tightens my body into a bowstring. I cling to restraint the way I held onto my horse that morning in the streets of Belterre City—desperately fighting for control.

“I suppose that’s why I was looking at them so closely. I wasn’t going to touch them,” she says. Fear flickers through those gorgeous eyes. I’m momentarily possessed by the need to hunt down whoever put that wariness into her and tear him apart with my bare hands.

“I wasn’t worried about that.”

“You weren’t?” The mystery girl blinks at me.

“They’re not my paintings.” I shrug. Technically true. They belong to the castle, which belongs to my father, not me. “What interests you about portraits of long-dead nobility?”

“Nothing,” she says quickly. “I’ve never seen the royal family, that’s all.”

Wonder unfurls within me when I realize she has no idea who I am. Obviously, she doesn’t recognize my face, apart from our chance encounter in the street.

I don’t know why she was dressed like a servant then.

Her bearing is that of a lady, from the way she enunciates her words to the graceful way she carries herself.

She’s shorter than I thought, and delicately built, yet muscular in a way that ladies of the nobility seldom are.

Her physique reminds me of the court’s dancers.

How does a lady at court not have at least a passing familiarity with the prince of the realm? I’ve endured debutante balls since my own balls dropped and I was old enough to dance with girls. Every young lady in the realm knows me by name and sight.

Except this one.

“Would you like a tour of the castle?” I can hardly take my mystery girl out onto the ballroom floor.

That would ruin Othmar’s cover. Many of the women here tonight have danced with me once or twice before, but he resembles me closely enough to fool them as long as I remain out of sight.

“Or are you waiting for your turn with the prince?”

She hesitates.

“I arrived too late to dance,” she says after a minute, as if carefully choosing her words. I’m mildly insulted that she doesn’t appear to feel upset about her missed opportunity.

“Nonsense. He was ordered to dance with all maidens who attended.” My toes ache from being repeatedly trod upon by young women in slippers. Most are adequately skilled, but many get awestruck around a prince, and not every lady possesses natural grace.

A conflicted smile flickers at the corners of her mouth. She clasps her gloved hands, transparently searching for the correct response.

“I don’t want the prince,” she finally says, her gaze locked on mine. “I didn’t come here to meet him.”

My pulse stutters. A grin steals across my face.

“Did you come here looking for me?”

Her cheeks turn crimson, visible despite the dimness.

“I…” Her tongue darts out. A lightning bolt of pure lust strikes my spine. “You rode a white horse. I thought you might be a lord.”

Though flawed, her assumption isn’t illogical, nor is it entirely wrong. I am the highest lord in the land, save one. She doesn’t need to know that, though. Not yet.

“Tell me your name.” I offer her my hand.

“El—” She breaks off and stammers, “Sin—I mean, my name is Elsie.”

Gingerly, she places her gloved palm in mine. I close my fingers around her small, warm hand like I’m capturing a bird.

“You can call me Alex.” It’s close enough to my real name that I won’t forget to respond to it. “Come, Elsie, I’ll show you the castle.”