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Watching her brother make Cynthia his wife would break Ammalia’s heart. No… That wasn’t quite true. Who Zurri did or did not fall in love with was beside the point. What was destined to rend her in two was watching Cynthia fall for Zurri.
Like every other woman before her.
Chapter Ten
Cynthia glared at the man before her in vexation.
This must be the prince. She vaguely recognized him as person in the carriage next to Princess Ammalia during the parade, but she hadn’t paid much attention to him then and wished she needn’t pay any attention to him now.
Oh, he was perfectly attractive and all that. Tall, black-haired, well-built—the masculine version of Ammalia.
Cynthia preferred the female version.
“You look ravishing,” said the prince, lifting her fingers to his lips as he sketched a sweeping bow. “My sister has chosen well.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t choosing for you,” Cynthia muttered.
“Of course she brought you for me.” He looked bewildered. “Everything in this assembly room is for me.”
Cynthia bit back a snort of derision. Was the dripping candle wax for him? The stray spiderwebs? But she was being petty and unreasonable. This ball was in his name. Most females present had donned their very best out of an explicit desire to catch Prince Azzurro’s eye.
She was the odd one who didn’t fit the mold. Bitterly resentful that attracting the prince’s attention meant losing Ammalia’s.
Cynthia said quickly, “You needn’t dance with me if you don’t wish to.”
Ammalia’s eyebrows shot up.
“Of course I do,” Prince Azzurro assured her. “Tonight and every night, for the rest of our lives.”
For the rest of their… Oh no. He was speaking as though they were already betrothed!
“I really think—” she began.
He pulled her up and out of her comfortable armchair before she could complete her thought.
Cynthia stumbled. Prince Azzurro caught her. And swirled her into his waiting embrace in a move so smooth and graceful, Cynthia would swear he’d spent a lifetime practicing it.
The onlookers closest to them oohed.
Most of the crowd, minus four notable exceptions. Princess Ammalia, who was inspecting her fingernails as though the state of her cuticles was far more interesting than anything or anyone in this ballroom.
And Cynthia’s step-family, who had elbowed their way forward. All three of them were staring daggers at her, despite Stasia and Dorothea having just had their turn with the prince scant minutes earlier. Their jealous suffering was tangible.
A novel turn of events that was gratifying enough to spur Cynthia into smiling at the prince and responding, “In that case, I accept this dance with pleasure.”
“I never doubted,” said the prince, and led her onto the smooth parquet.
Cynthia regretted her compliance at once. Not because the prince was a poor dancer. He was uncommonly graceful, and could have doubled as a dance-master himself. Perhaps he hadn’t even practiced the sweep-her-into-his-arms maneuver from earlier. He might just be naturally talented at such nonsense.
The real reason Cynthia didn’t want to dance with the prince was not because of the proximity or the movements, but because of the prince. His single, unforgivable, insurmountable fault was that he was not and would never be Princess Ammalia.
That, and he made Cynthia’s skin crawl.
“Once we’re married,” he said as they danced, “I shall throw balls like this every night. I will install you in a golden throne atop a dais so that everyone can gaze upon your beauty, but allow none of the spectators close enough to touch. Only I shall dance with my future queen.”
Wonderful. When he looked at her, he saw a possession that he could not wait to put on a shelf and trot out for special occasions. He didn’t want a wife. He wanted a new acquisition to show off.
Marrying the prince would be a disaster. Being close enough to see her true desire whilst Ammalia remained forever untouchable would be nothing short of torture.
