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I open my mouth but not a sound comes out. While I assumed only elite members of society could enter the tent, I didn’t anticipate a need for formal invitations.
Dante, unflustered by the request, says, “I’m Prince Albert, son of King Grigory of Bretton. This is my fiancée, Miss Amelie Fairfield, sister to Queen Evelyn of Fire. As this is my first time in the Wind Court, I would like to pay my respects to Queen Ilma.”
He says it with such poise and regal confidence that it’s no wonder he was recruited as the prince’s decoy.
The butler’s eyes flash from Dante to me and back again. Then, wordlessly, he scurries into the tent and approaches the queen. He whispers something to her, and Ilma’s gaze slides to us. I try to evoke some of Dante’s confidence, but the frantic pulse of my heart sends my knees quivering.
“Don’t be nervous,” Dante whispers.
“I’m not nervous,” I bite back, grateful I can lie.
The queen cocks her head, and her butler whispers something else. A bright light flashes somewhere inside the tent, and I realize—with no small amount of horror—that there are reporters and photographers inside. I knew they would likely document today’s event, but how could I have failed to foresee that they would be in the queen’s tent too? If I’m rejected from her audience and the moment is captured by pen or film…
“She’ll love you, Amelie,” Dante says, patting the hand clenching tighter and tighter around the crook of his elbow. When I fail to acknowledge his attempt at reassurance, he adds, “If not for your personality, then certainly for that gorgeous swell of breasts you have on display.”
I’m so shocked by his words that I can’t help but wrench my gaze from the queen to stare at Dante. “Excuse me?”
A sly grin plays around his lips. “I mean, look at Her Majesty. Her own breasts seem to defy gravity, the way they sit horizontal like two steamed buns on a platter. How could she not be impressed by what you’ve done with your own?”
His eyes dip down to my décolletage, drinking me in with exaggerated approval. I belatedly steel my expression into one of affront. It’s all I can do to hide the blush that heats my cheeks. Even so, I feel my countenance cracking at the edges, filling with amusement. I playfully swat his arm. “You are being rather crass, Your Highness.”
“I’d like to think I’m simply being honest.” Like some storybook rogue, he slowly drags his tongue over his lower lip, which somehow comes across as both seductive and ridiculous. I nearly burst out laughing.
A throat clears before us and I find the queen’s butler has returned. It’s then I note how my angst has dissipated, melted into a pool of ease during Dante’s vulgar observations. Did he do that on purpose? Distract me because he sensed my growing distress?
“The queen will see you now,” the butler says, gesturing for us to enter the tent.
* * *
Our introductionto the queen goes far more smoothly than I anticipated. She’s civil, if not a little terse, and seems rather fascinated with the false Prince Albert. Considering Albert is the son of the man who once attempted to annihilate the isle and every living creature on it, I’m surprised by her interest. She asks him about automobiles, food, and the latest fashions in Bretton. It reminds me that there have always been fae who find humankind intriguing. It’s why fae learned to shift into seelie form in the first place, eager to resemble their source of fascination.
Once Ilma is satisfied with news from Bretton, she turns her attention to me.
“Miss Amelie Fairfield,” she says, her voice light and airy. Appropriate for the Seelie Queen of the Wind Court. “Queen Evelyn is your sister, correct?”
“Yes, she is,” I say, trying my best to act proud of the fact rather than irked at not being known foremost by my career. But this is good, isn’t it? She might not have agreed to meet me if not for my royal relation to Evie.
“Your sister is quite famous,” she says. “The queen who started and ended a war.”
“Yes, that’s her,” I say, grateful that my involvement in said war is lesser known. If she was aware that my lust for my sister’s fiancé was used to pave the path toward political upheaval, she’d be undoubtedly less warm to me now.
“But you’re somewhat renowned yourself, aren’t you Miss Fairfield?”
My heart leaps into my throat. Was I wrong? Does she know the truth? Evie has always done her best to protect me and hide the more painful details of my past, but…oh no. What if she means my recent scandal?
“I always considered your fashions too fae for my tastes,” the queen says.
“My fashions,” I echo. Relief washes over me.
“I prefer human designs.” She gestures at her immaculate gown. “Especially ones modeled after history. You should do more of that.”
I’m so stunned that she’s talking about my work—not the war, not the scandal—that I almost can’t summon my reply. Finally, I manage, “That’s a lovely idea, Your Majesty.”
She lifts her chin and assesses my ensemble. “Are you wearing one of your own designs now?”
“I am.”
“Hmm.”
