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“I’m not doing this,” he nods at the bottle of wine still dangling from his fingers, “because of you. I’m not drinking because I have reservations about our union. Regardless of what it looks like, forging peace is my priority.”
I frown, noting the sudden clarity in his speech, the straightening of his slumped posture. “Then what is it about?”
His eyes search mine for several long seconds, and I can’t help noticing things about him I hadn’t before. Like his sharp jaw dotted with stubble, his slightly overlarge nose. The lump at its bridge makes it look as if it’s been broken. Contrasting such a rough feature are his crystal-blue eyes and his beautiful golden tresses that fall over his forehead in a devil-may-care style that looks too good to be anything but calculated.
He shifts in his seat, snapping me out of my inspection. I shake my head to clear it. Why was I bothering to assess his appearance? It’s not like it matters what my future husband looks like, only that he improves my reputation and saves my career. Which he’s so far managed to make worse.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t realize my actions were affecting you in such a way. I promise you, it hadn’t crossed my mind.”
I narrow my eyes. He didn’t answer my question.
He sets the wine bottle on the table like a peace offering. “Will you forgive me?”
Part of me is tempted to argue more, to make him fully understand what’s at stake for me. But reminding him of his own stakes might be far more persuasive.
I stand and reach into my skirt pockets, extracting five leather pouches. One by one, I drop them on the table with a thump. “This is the currency for the five courts we’ll be visiting on our engagement tour. It’s more than enough to cover train fare between each court, as well as cab fare, food, and spending money. Your hotels have been booked and paid for. You will stay in them, and you will do your drinking and debauching in private, far from the public eye. To society, we will present ourselves as the happy couple we need to be. Here is your itinerary.”
I take the last item from my pocket—a copy of our tour schedule, which I already sent in my first letter to him—and push it across the table.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.
“Youwillattend this tour. Sober. That is how you’ll earn my forgiveness. More importantly, that is the only way I will go through with our marriage. The only way peace between Faerwyvae and Bretton will be brokered. Don’t even think about requesting a change of bride. After this little display you’ve pulled, I doubt any well-bred relative of fae royalty would have you now.”
I don’t know which of my words are a bluff, if any, but they seem to have their intended effect.
With a resigned sigh, he gathers up the itinerary. His eyes go wide, and he lifts his gaze to mine. “The first event is tomorrow night.”
I gather my coat off the back of my chair and drape it over my arm. “Catch the first train to the Jasper City Station tomorrow. Pick me up in a coach-and-four at eight p.m. at the Foxhollow Hotel. Don’t be late.”
His smirk returns, as do his infuriating dimples. “Leaving so soon? We haven’t finished our bottle of wine yet.” Once again, his words are jumbled together. How does he switch so seamlessly between being sloshed and serious?
I whirl away from him and stride toward the door. “I have a train to catch.”
He springs to my side. “Shouldn’t we…you know, exit as a happy couple?”
I pause, fingers on the door handle. He’s right. That’s exactly what we should do. But I don’t think I can feign anything close to premarital bliss right now.
When I don’t answer, he leans in closer. “Not even a goodnight kiss before our audience?”
Clenching my jaw, I open the door. “Goodnight, Your Highness.”
Before I can step over the threshold, his fingers come around mine. I’m too startled to pull away, even more so when he whirls me around to face him. His eyelids are heavy, mouth quirked in a roguish smile as he bends over my hand. Then, with featherlight pressure, he alights a kiss on the back of my hand. My breath hitches at the feeling of his lips through my lace gloves.
A bright light blares into the side of my face. With a startle, I whirl toward the crowd that watches us. Another flash of light sparks before me, and when it dims, I notice a boxlike contraption held in a fae male’s hand. His other holds a stick with a large bulb at the end. I didn’t see the photographer when I first arrived, so he must have come while Albert and I were speaking. Behind him, two figures scrawl furiously in their notebooks. Reporters. Damn.
Something squeezes my fingers. A glance back at Albert reminds me he’s still holding my hand. He’s no longer bent over it, but standing tall, a glowing smile stretching from ear to ear. “Goodnight, Amelie Fairfield,” he says, not bothering to lower his voice.
It’s the first time he’s said my name, and the sound of it rumbling in his deep tone has my pulse quickening.
“Until tomorrow,” he says, then lets my fingertips slip from his own.
Belatedly, I tug my hand in front of me, hiding it in the folds of my coat. Then, with a forced smile for our wide-eyed spectators, and not a single backwards glance for Prince Albert, I leave the pub and make a beeline for the train station. My aggravation grows with every step I take, for no matter how I try to brush off my gloves, my hand won’t cease tingling with the warmth of Albert’s lips.
6
The next evening at a quarter to eight, I stand outside the Foxhollow Hotel in the Earthen Court, awaiting Prince Albert’s arrival. I half expect him not to show. There’s even a part of me that hopes he doesn’t. For if that’s the case, I can refuse to proceed with our marriage, and this can all be over. But that’s not the only thing that will come to an end. My career is still at stake. If we dissolve our arranged nuptials now, I’ll be seen as the cause. Scandal surrounding my name will never die down.
At least today’s papers have been mostly positive. While a few have reported upon last night’s icy first encounter between me and Albert at the Salty Satyr, the majority are more focused on the farewell kiss he planted on my hand. Since the latter story has photographic evidence to support it, it’s the most popular.
