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“Is he considering staying in England to live?”
“Does he prefer women who purse their lips like this or like this?”
“How many balls does he throw a week?”
“Must I learn Italian if I marry him?”
“Do Italians drink tea?”
“How many servants would I have if I were Queen?”
“Is the prince a good dancer?”
“Does he like pudding?”
It was enough to make Ammalia wish to scream.
The ball would begin at any moment, and she was supposed to be arranging her brother’s dances with the prettiest of all the young ladies present.
Cynthia did not take part in the questioning. She simply gazed at Ammalia from the corner of her eye or from beneath her long lashes, and then blushed becomingly every time Ammalia caught her at it.
That was enough to make Ammalia wish to throw Cynthia over her shoulder and charge out of the house to the carriage, knocking over the mother and the two sisters like so many bowling pins.
“Come,” Ammalia commanded, interrupting the endless litany of questions. “We can continue this conversation—” Such as it was. “—in the carriage.”
“In the royal carriage?” squealed Stasia. “We can ride with you?”
“If we all fit,” Ammalia said quellingly. “You may have to sit on each other’s laps.”
“I’ll sit on the driver’s lap if I must,” Stasia said gamely, linking her arm with her sister. “Don’t dawdle so, Dorothea.”
Dorothea sent a triumphant glance over her sister’s shoulder toward their mother. “See? I told you Stasia wasn’t queen material. A queen would never sit on her driver’s lap. I would never behave so indecorously. The prince should marry me.”
“As long as he marries one of you.” Lady Tremaine shooed them both ahead with her gloved hand. “Go on, we haven’t got all night for him to fall in love with you.”
As long as he didn’t marry Cynthia…
Once Ammalia had entered the carriage, Lady Tremaine should have been next—there was an order of precedence to such things, in Italy as well as in England—but Ammalia pretended no awareness of such a custom, in order to ensure Cynthia sat by her side.
After all, once the uncommon beauty arrived at the ball… Ammalia should be lucky to steal a sideways glance, much less a spare moment of Cynthia’s time.
“Doesn’t your sister look marvelous?” Ammalia asked the other two, who had conspicuously refrained from commenting upon Cynthia’s stunning transformation.
“Step-sister,” said Stasia.
“I’m still prettier,” said Dorothea, then cast a nervous glance at Lady Tremaine. “Aren’t I, Mother?”
“Even a toad is prettier than a scullion,” Lady Tremaine assured her daughter, without so much as a glance in Cynthia’s direction.
Porca miseria, Ammalia could not allow Cynthia to return to a life of thankless servitude with these people. But while Ammalia might be princess to a population of half a million Parmenzans back home, she did not have the authority to govern Cynthia’s choices or command a better home life for her here.
At least she’d given her the shoes. With luck, tonight’s momentary escape would be enough for Cynthia to take stock of her unhappy surroundings and sell as many of the gemstones as it took to finance her much-deserved independence.
“Wait a minute.” Dorothea spun to face Ammalia. “The Prince intends to dance with all three of us, not just the scullion, right?”
Ammalia smiled tightly. Her brother had indicated no such intention, because he hadn’t even known of their existence. But as far as Ammalia was concerned, he owed her that much, in exchange for suffering through their company without breaking down in tears or shaking some sense into them. After all, Ammalia was supposed to be in the ballroom at this moment, lining up the prettiest young ladies for Zurri to dance with.
“Yes, of course,” she promised an elated Stasia and Dorothea. “He is absolutely agog with anticipation to dance with each of you. In fact, he has specifically requested to dance with both of you the minute we arrive.”
