“But does she have daggers?”
“I gave her the Vhranian windblade.”
“Oh, good.”
I happened to catch the Lady’s gaze as we turned, her eyes hungry and shining with opportunity.
“The Lady is watching,” I said quietly. “She’s already suggested I sleep with you.” To his credit, he didn’t so much as flinch. “You don’t look shocked.”
“Do you think she’s the first person to suggest bedding a royal to get ahead in the world?”
Not when he put it like that. “She’ll try to use this dance against you.”
“Fox, she doesn’t scare me; she’s motivated by coin, which means her satisfaction can always be bought, as long as the price is high enough. Wren, on the other hand, is motivated by loyalty. That’s much more dangerous.”
“So don’t step on my feet.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
He moved me an inch closer, swirled me a bit faster, and I let myself relax in his capable hands, my head spinning from the movement, the music, and the nearness of him.
“What if I asked her to buy your bonds?”
“No.” I turned on him. “If she thinks you’re interested, she’ll never let us go. When the Aetheric practitioner is caught and we go back, she’ll up the price and we’ll never be able to pay it off.”
There was pity in his eyes. “That’s a difficult situation.”
“It’s a shit situation. But it’s the life we’ve got. And I’d much rather discuss other things. You’re a very good dancer. Did you learn to dance in the City of Flowers?”
“Princes learn all manner of things.” His voice was low and wicked, and sent a shiver down my back.
I kept my expression mild, even though my heart raced. “I agreed to a dance. Not a flirtation.”
He clucked his tongue. “I was referring to swordsmanship, calligraphy, languages.” But the gleam in his eyes didn’t diminish. It seemed a dare to match his outrageousness. Disobedient prince indeed.
The song became faster, the steps more staccato, and I missed more than one. He dropped the hand at my back and shifted so we stood beside each other. “Watch my feet,” he said, and demonstrated a move.
I repeated it. Not gracefully, but in the correct order at least.
“Good,” he said. “Now with me.”
We did the steps again, our hands linked as we took steps, then turned, then swept around each other and joined hands again. As the music sped further, I matched my steps with his, until we were both laughing and nearly stumbling, but somehow managing to stay upright.
The song ended with a flourish, and we stopped, hands still linked together, breath coming fast. His eyes were bright, his smile wide.
And with my hair coming loose from its comb and my dress constricting my breathing (why did people wear these?), I wanted to kiss him. To stretch up on my toes and touch his beautiful face and press my mouth to his. The hunger in his eyes said I wasn’t alone.
And then the guests burst into applause, and the moment shattered, as they always seemed to do. I looked around; we were the only dancers left on the floor. The others had slipped away to give us space to move—or to give the audience a clearer look.
He lifted a hand to acknowledge the shouts of approval, then took a step back and gave a very courtly bow. I returned with a curtsy as tidy as I could manage.
Then we walked back into the crowd. I could still feel their eyes on me, wondering who I was and how I’d managed to snag a dance. And found he was right—not that I’d ever admit that to him. I was the same person, whether dressed in cloth of gold or patched linen. Whether they had issues with me, or my right to dance with the prince, was none of my concern.
So I met their gazes and smiled as brightly as I could.
I made the mistake of meeting the Lady’s gaze again. Her smile was wide and satisfied, like a cat who’d just caught a very satisfying lunch.
I wasn’t sure which of us—me or the prince—was the mouse.
