Page 7

I knew the story, comprehended the prince’s tragedy, loss, and sense of responsibility.

As I looked up at the picture, my betrothed joined me, standing behind and to the right, and I looked between Prince Escalus, a man of shadow and scars, and the portrait.

“You don’t look like your father at all. He’s very handsome.”

Prince Escalus gave a bark.

I’d heard that sound once before. I was fairly sure it was his form of laughter, and immediately I realized what I’d said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant—”

“I know what you meant. I resemble my paternal grandmother, a formidable woman who spreads terror before her like a farmer spreads manure.”

I sputtered a laugh. “I have indeed heard such.”

“Soon enough, you can form your own opinion.”

Without thinking, I snipped, “One more thing to look forward to.” At once, I realized I had broken my vow to my mother and myself, and swept around to face him. “Not that I—”

He was leaning down, leaning close, eyes closed, nostrils quivering.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

His eyes popped open, and we stood face-to-face.

“Were you smelling me?” How bizarre was that?

He didn’t straighten up or back away. “In the past, I’ve noted your hair smells like a flower.”

“A flower.”

“A rose. A dark red rose. One with velvety petals.”

“Dark red? You know what a color smells like?” Then, “In the past, you’ve smelled my hair?” I didn’t know how to respond. Outrage? Confusion? Laughter? I experienced them all.

“I don’t know why dark red. Your hair’s so black, it has blue highlights. I saw the whole glorious length of it, do you recall? In the moonlight?”

“Yes. I recall.” Thank God, my mother had made me promise to be all that was polite because the memory was so uncomfortable I’d have punched him in the pizzle right there.

“When you made the list of my virtues and my undesirable characteristics, which side did ‘her hair smells like a dark red rose’ go on?”

As you recall, gentle reader, by his own account, he’d done exactly that: made a list of what qualities I had that would make me a good wife and what qualities I embodied that weighed against me. Not that I held that cold, logical approach against him . . .

You’re right. In my family, we looked not for riches or pulchritude— everlasting love ruled our lives.

He said, “I like the scent of a dark red rose. It inspires me with . . . dark red passion.”

An almost inscrutable answer, except that now, as daylight fled and the autumn evening began its reign, I noted many things.

Although he was scarred by the tortures he’d endured at the hands of the house of Acquasasso and not (as I’ve said) a handsome man, his eyes were large and heavy-lidded, changeable as the sea, seductive in their intense focus .

. . on me. I, who had felt nothing but a burning humiliation at the clever and public way he’d entrapped me, now recalled how he’d laid me across his lap, wrapped himself around me, kissed me until wit had flown, and what took its place burned under my skin like cold, still silver heated to liquid lust.

The lust had not, as I thought, dissipated in the cold light of day, but only awaited the dusk and the man to heat again, and course through my veins, my nerves, my mind.

He grasped my left hand and looked into my palm. “Do you still have the betrothal kiss I placed therein?”

I nodded, because that was, in fact, what he’d given me on the night of my dishonor and our betrothal.

He’d spoken of his admiration for my courage and my loyalty to saving my family.

He’d pressed a kiss on my skin and wrapped my fingers around it and bade me keep it close to my heart, and, as Nurse had loudly and publicly noted, to my dismay, I did find myself occasionally and unexpectedly holding my fist to my chest.

Now the prince leaned in. His breath feathered across my skin.

“A more solid token will soon take its place on your hand. A ring of precious diamonds that will with its magic stones protect you from harm and be a warning to all that the prince has claimed you . . . forever.” His gaze compelled my eyes to close and—

Carried on the breeze, a voice called my name. “Rosaline . . .”