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“Would you honor me with this first dance?” he asks in the clipped accent of the upper class.
Disappointed sighs ring out from the ladies around us.
“The honor is mine.” My accent mirrors his, my voice pitched lighter than usual with the breezy tone of a courtier.
I don’t even choke on the sickly-sweet words.
He takes my hand. I can’t help but notice that his is pleasantly warm, rougher than expected, and how it fits perfectly around my much smaller one. Tension crackles between us, even as his features remain poised in arrogance.
He pulls me onto the dance floor, but I wait to speak until a few other couples have joined us.
“It truly was an honor to be chosen.” I try to feel him out, see what he knows of our arrangement.
“How could I resist, when we were matching so perfectly. And so coincidentally.” His expression doesn’t so much as twitch to betray his emotion.
His bright emerald eyes only stare indifferently over my head as he moves into the basic steps of this dance, waiting to see if I’ll follow his lead.
Two can play at that game.
“Indeed,” I say noncommittally, careful not to let a trace of sarcasm seep through. “What more could you possibly need in a bride?”
His gaze flies to my face, like he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind my words, and I offer him a bland smile.
“Indeed,” he murmurs.
A strange energy thrums between us, and I wonder if it is only the knowledge of what we will be to each other creating the odd tension. Despite his blatant attempts at nonchalance, he keeps stealing glances down at me, his speculative frown telling me he feels it, too.
Whateveritis.
He sighs, and it needles at me.
“Is the prospect of finding a wife really so boring for you?” I ask through the grin plastered on my face.
A low rumble goes through his chest, but there is no humor in it.
“Finding implies searching, both of which imply a choice I don’t have.” That answers the question of whether he knows about whatever Mother has set in motion, at least.
“Then I suppose that puts you on even footing with each of your prospects here,” I say sharply. “Are you really so sad to be deprived of the chance to choose your bride from a three-day masquerade? Hmm.” I make a show of thinking. “With our faces covered and so little time for conversing, I wonder whatever assets you could be taking into consideration.”
Interest glints in his eye, and he finally looks at me full on.
“Historically, the purpose of the masquerade was to put the ladies of differing circumstances and influence on equal footing, but these days it’s not as though there’s any real mystery. To answer your question, though, no. I’m not particularly bothered by anyarrangementsthat were made. One courtier is pretty much like the next, I suppose.” His tone is light, dismissive, as though he honestly couldn’t care less.
My lips part in offense.Arrogant tosser.If I weren’t here to marry him, I would pull out my throwing knives and show him just howlike the next courtierI am. Before I can formulate a response, though, a commotion catches my attention from across the room.
The Jokithan King has arrived.
At least, I assume it’s him, since I haven’t seen any other hulking men with silver-blond hair and a giant chalyx in tow. He wears a silver wolf’s mask, as brutal as it is beautiful, and a matching brocaded tunic with a high collar. Pale blue eyes survey the room, either failing to notice or deliberately ignoring the women already fawning over him.
Fury rises up in my chest. My sister is not yet cold in her grave.What is he even doing here, at a party? Is it politeness, or did I read him wrong?
Perhaps he is looking to replace her already.
Francis gives me a conspiratorial wink. “But perhaps you’re bothered by it. What do you say, Lady Aika? Want to abandon your lowly dreams of marriage to a prince in favor of the king?”
Celestial Hells.I almost wish he were pasty and portly, at this point, rather than condescending and thoughtless. I glare at him until he looks me in the eye, rage overtaking any vestiges of propriety I have left.
“Would I care to marry my s — cousin’s widower, you mean?” I catch myself before I saysister. “A mere month after her death?” My voice is sharper than the edges of the knives in the fan at my wrist.
