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Evie’s words echo through my head, steadying me.There isn’t anything wrong with being saved.
Dante’s words join hers:You may not need saving, but you are worthy of it nonetheless.
“Good Almighty, Miss Fairfield,” Albert hisses. “Are you out of your mind?”
I ignore him and quirk a brow at the Master of Ceremonies. When I recall how much of my expression is hidden behind my domino mask, I gesture an impatient hand at him.
The man shakes his head, face pale beneath his black half-mask, and addresses the ballroom. “Prince Albert of Bretton and Miss Amelie Fairfield.”
Albert flinches as I take his arm, but thankfully he doesn’t shake me off. Instead, he trembles a little as he escorts me down the stairs. It seems in all of Dante’s efforts to impersonate the prince, he failed to fully portray his cowardice.
Once we reach the bottom of the stairs, the music begins again. While some continue to gape at my flaming dress, most have the decency to look away and feign indifference.
Albert adjusts his tie, then his mask, as if he wishes to be free of both. “I think I liked it better when my dear friend Dante was in the spotlight,” he says under his breath, a note of panic in his voice. “People don’t look at me in quite the same way here as they do back home. I think you might have upset someone. Did you really need to make such a spectacle?”
I glance down at my gown as if I can’t fathom his concern. “Has no one told you I’m a fashion designer? Making a statement is expected of me.”
“Fashion designer, yes. Scary fae creature, no. From the way Dante spoke about you, I expected you to be civil.”
A sad smile twists my lips at his mention of Dante. While I doubt I was alwayscivilwith the spy, especially during our first encounter, it warms my heart to think he spoke highly of me. Then again, Dante was likely playing matchmaker, in part. He expected Albert to be capable of falling in love with me.
He will love you, Amelie. He will love you just like—
Oh, how wrong he was.
“Shall we dance?” I ask since he hasn’t.
His eyes fall to the flames illuminating the lace at my neckline. His mask fails to hide his cringe. “Will…will I get burned?”
“No, the flames are harmless,” I say, weaving my still-bare fingers through the gentle blaze. “Merely warm.” When his expression remains hesitant, I retrieve my gloves from my purse and put them back on.
It satisfies him enough to say, “Very well.”
We take our place with the other dancers and start into a waltz. His grip is limp, both at the middle of my back and beneath my hand. The other pairs keep their distance, and the couple next to us looks at my gown with outright hostility.
“Good Almighty, I need a drink,” Albert mutters, not bothering to hide his eagerness for our dance to end.
I suppose I share his feelings, which means it’s time to say what I must.
“Your Highness, there’s something I must tell you.”
He glances at me before hastily looking away. “Dante told me about the kiss, and I already know about your scandal. Oh, and your ground rules. I am fully aware of what our arrangement means, so fret not. I neither expect nor want more from you.”
Yet another string of words that would have sounded like music to my ears had we met weeks ago. Steeling my nerves, I make my confession. “Albert, I…I regret to inform you, but…I cannot marry you.”
His eyes go wide behind his mask. “Pardon?”
“I cannot in good conscience go through with our marriage arrangement.”
He stops in place, and a pair of dancers nearly collides with us. For several seconds, he does nothing but stare at me. I expect anger, or at least an act of wounded pride. So I’m quite surprised when he opens his mouth…and laughs.
He halts the sound with his fist, but it doesn’t hide his mirth. “Oh, thank the Almighty, Miss Fairfield. You couldn’t have delivered better news.”
I’m torn between a smile and a frown. “You aren’t upset?”
“Upset?” He scoffs. “No, I’m not upset. I couldn’t be more relieved. I never wanted—” His mouth snaps shut. “Wait, no. This is all wrong. I can’t go home. My father…you do understand he’ll kill me, right? This marriage was meant to be my punishment for wrecking his favorite automobile last fall. If he considers me responsible for destroying peace with Faerwyvae…” He closes his eyes as a troubled look crosses his face.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” I say, but my words are lost on him. With a vacant expression, he wanders away from me, muttering to himself. He disappears into the crowd. In his absence, I wish I’d followed after him. Not to try and speak with him, but to avoid the scandalized stares that lock onto me now. Those nearby whisper behind gloves and silk fans. Several assess me with unabashed sneers.
