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“I still mourn the span you two separated.” The queen drops the fan from her face and whispers, “But you know why we had to break off the engagement. You understand, don’t you, girl?”
Fleur taps the queen’s hand. “I understand.”
I don’t. Not at all.
“This one”—the queen huffs, adjusting her crown—“comes from a family of fourteen. Three older sisters already married, with children.”
“Family of seven, milady,” I whisper, even though I want to snap at her. I wish she would speak more kindly of me, even if the circumstances of my union with her son are tragic at best.
“I detect an accent,” Fleur says, kind blue eyes focused on me.
I nod. “I’m from Northorn.”
“Oh,” she says, seemingly excited, “our commander’s family lives in that province.” She waves at someone, and before I can compose myself from her visit and the conversation with the queen, a male arrives at the table.
The tightly laced black leather riding boots over white pants that hug his muscular thighs already make me regret I forgot my fan. A row of gold buttons from navel to neck tightly secure a thick leather jacket with intricate blue and gold designs over the sleeves.
He stands at least two heads taller than I, and his broad shoulders are covered with a pair of golden epaulets. Black hair cut just past his square jaw contrasts against his piercing teal-colored eyes.
If her calling him commander wasn’t a dead giveaway, his eyes would be. All Lionopeles males have those eyes.
D’Artaron Lionopele.
My brother’s best friend.
My sister’s ex-fiancé.
The pride of our province. At all the schools in our province, they make us sing songs about his heroics, and once we grow up, those songs turn more decadent. As grown females, we sing about the Heartthrob of Northorn. Even my married sister told me once that D’Artaron’s mere presence can arrest a person’s lungs.
I always thought that was ridiculous. No one male could be that desirable, even if he came from the finest Seelie breeding pools.
Ho boy, was I ever wrong.
And how come nobody ever mentioned his potent mating scent? He releases it freely, as if we’re all his to tease. It smells as if he picked an orchid from a spring meadow and rubbed it against his leather-clad hands, then sprinkled the petals all over my naked skin.
He takes my breath away.
3
CHLOE
I’m staring.
I know I’m staring because it seems as if the music has died and he and I are the only people in the massive hall. When he lifts an eyebrow, heat covers me. I’m certain there’re red patches on my neck.
Why, oh why did I leave the fan on my vanity?
“The commander of the Summer fae armies,” Princess Fleur says, introducing him, then me. “This is the Spring princess.”
“Oh, they don’t call me that,” I manage to utter.
The Summer princess leans in and whispers, “They will now.”
D’Artaron seems unimpressed, yet he smiles politely, a bare turning up of the corners of his lips as he executes a well-practiced bow…from which he doesn’t rise.
What’s going on?
What’s he doing? Does he have a cramp in his back?
