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The strange tension between us snaps back into place. Then again…maybe I’m the only one who feels it.
He maintains his dashing devil-may-care grin, but his tone takes on a serious note. “You’re so bold and bright, Amelie. Don’t let society dim your light, no matter how much you want to earn their respect for your career. You shine bright enough with or without their approval. You’re like a dazzling gemstone amongst unpolished rocks.”
I swallow hard and pretend to take a keen interest in the fae stags that gather at the starting line for the next race. Playing off his compliment with a scoff, I mutter, “More like a blazing fire burning everything in her wake.”
He leans close, bringing his face beneath the brim of my hat. I seize up, certain he’s coming in for a kiss. Is there another photographer watching? But he doesn’t bring his lips to mine, nor to my cheek. Instead, he brings his mouth by my ear, his breath caressing its shell. As he speaks, his deep voice rumbles through my very bones. “Were I not a spy but a man you met by happenstance, I would give anything to be burned by you.”
Heat floods my heart, my chest, my cheeks, pooling like a molten lake low in my belly. I give him a playful shove, and he chuckles as he returns to his previous position at the fence. Meanwhile, I’m left reeling over a sudden realization that—in the split second where I pushed him away—I had a sudden urge to pull him closer instead.
But why? Because of a seductive compliment?
He’s acting, I tell myself. Nothing he says or does is real. Everything is meant to get a rise out of me. To evoke a visual response appropriate for someone in love with her fiancé, all for the sake of our nearby witnesses.
The reminder manages to steady my heart. What it doesn’t do is explain why the rise he got out of me felt so real.
15
The next two days bring only good news via paper. My meeting with the queen makes it into several respected periodicals, and all describe our interaction favorably, including her request for me to design her a dress. Even the scandal sheets treat me well, reporting on my obvious infatuation with my fiancé. These tidbits are accompanied by photographic evidence, either of Dante kissing my hand or whispering in my ear. Neither spark anything less than a tumultuous flutter in my chest when I look at them. I suppose that goes to show just how convincing we were. That’s what I tell myself, at least.
Only one gossip column brought up my prior scandal, but it was only to say no one could doubt the prince and I are anything but a love match, and that anyone would be foolish to think our marriage was contrived just to counteract the unfortunate events at Bartleby’s showcase.
I’ve even secured two new human clients, eager to work with the designer who impressed Queen Ilma. It seems things can only get better, and that my next date with Dante—a gallery exhibit in the Spring Court—will surely gain me an even stronger footing with those I must impress.
But the third day following the derby delivers words on paper that have my heart sinking like a stone.
Dearest Amelie,
I regret to write this with all my heart, but I will not be able to attend tonight’s date. An urgent matter has occurred, one I cannot in good conscience ignore. I wish I could simply turn my back on this matter and stand at your side tonight, but this, unfortunately, must take priority. Due to the location I must travel to, and the issue I must attend, I will have to meet you at the Galaxy Theater for our next date. Please forgive me. I promise you I would rather be with you than where I must be now.
Forever yours,
Albert
Despite the letter being signed by Albert—for appearances’ sake, should I have received it in the presence of company—I know it was penned by Dante. I can almost hear his voice in every word. Regardless of the care taken to hide our ruse, I’m grateful I’m home alone and not at my studio, for if anyone else were to witness the wide grin that stretched my lips upon discovering a correspondence from my false prince only dip into a frown when I read the letter’s contents, I’d have to explain the cause. And I’m not even sure I can explain it to myself. I shouldn’t have felt so giddy at receiving a missive from Dante, nor should my lungs feel so tight like they do now. Anger would make more sense, as we had an agreement. Dante promised to attend my tour. Promised to make it to every event. But no matter how much I try to summon my rage, I feel only crushing disappointment.
I read the letter again, pacing my cottage from the living room to the kitchen and back again, nibbling my thumbnail all the while. The gown I was in the middle of altering when the post arrived stands ignored on its dress form. I was going to wear it tonight, as the dusty rose brocade garment has reached a level of near perfection with the addition of the rare dragon silk lace Foxglove gave me, but now I’m not sure I have the will to complete my task. I can’t go to the gallery alone. Not when Dante and I have made so much progress in the public eye as a couple. Arriving alone will only arouse negative speculation. How dare he put me in such a position! What could be so important that he’d cancel our date?
My next thought is a ludicrous one, but I think it nonetheless.
He’s pulling away. We got too close at the derby, too honest about our pasts, and now he’s retreating.
I shake the thought from my head, reminding myself our relationship is fake. There’s nothing to pull away from. Even if we were a real couple, obsessing over whether a man is in emotional retreat from me is something a younger Amelie would have done. Not the woman I am now. A woman who cares not for love.
I pace back toward the kitchen and read the letter once more, this time with a rational state of mind. I linger over certain parts, assessing what may be hidden between the lines.
An urgent matter has occurred.
…this, unfortunately, must take priority.
I recall the last time he spoke of priority. It was when we first met and I confronted him over his behavior at the Salty Satyr, before I knew he wasn’t the real Albert. When I asked if he cared about forging peace between Faerwyvae and Bretton, he said it was hisutmost priority. It makes sense now, knowing he’s a spy and decoy, tasked with ensuring Albert truly is safe here and that our alliance isn’t a façade. If the words in his letter are true, then the matter that keeps him from attending our date must have to do with his mission. Perhaps he was attacked like he was in the alleyway after our dinner. Perhaps he’s gathered leads on why members of the Durrely Boys targeted us in the first place. The prince—or worse, Dante—could be in true danger.
Shame heats my cheeks, mingling with anxiety over Dante’s well-being. How could I be so selfish? Of course he’d only cancel our date for good reason.
The chastisement does little to alleviate my unexpected disappointment, but it does fuel me with a sudden urge to finish my gown. With renewed vigor, I return to the dress form and assess my creation. I may not be able to wear my gown to tonight’s canceled date, but I can wear it to our next rendezvous. And now that I’m looking at it, I’m starting to think of a few new improvements I can make to the design, ones that will have Dante regretting that he almost missed me wearing it.
Taking up my needle and thread, I shove my lingering worry over Dante’s safety to the back of my mind and proceed to finish what I intend to be my most stunning creation yet.
* * *
