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Lance could teach her all about rebellion. He could teach her to be avery bad girl, and part of her coveted that with a secret desire she’d locked away deep inside of her.
But what was she doing, staring at him like a lovesick puppy? He hadn’t looked at her, not once. It was no wonder, really. Her own fiancé had shown no interest. Lance Astill? She wasn’t at all like the beauties who usually adorned his arm: tall, all slender limbs and perfectly tamed gleaming hair. The type of elegant, worldly women who wandered up to hopelessly naïve girls in ballrooms and told them what the world was really like, sending their carefully stitched-together fantasies crashing down. She could fool herself any way she liked, but the reality would remain the same.
You’ll never have his heart.
She tore her eyes away from him. They sat at a table with people her parents knew from some of the older titled families here, where she was the only person under fifty. A few of them watched her with interest. Of course they might simply think she’d been staring at the top table, perhaps grieving over what they thought she’d lost.
As far as she was concerned she was the winner on this day.
‘Look at her, wearing black,’ her mother said, glaring at the top table once more. There were a few murmurs of assent. ‘What was she thinking?’
The lack of respect for their new Queen shocked Sara. She ignored it. Her parents were obviously still smarting because their daughter wasn’t sitting there now. As for the rest of the aristocracy at this table, she wasn’t sure why any of it mattered. The world had changed and they needed to change with it. In Sara’s view, the dress was a masterpiece of royal wedding finery, even if it wasn’t virginal white. Sara mused that Annalise had given a lot of thought to the colour. Her choice was a devastating one.
‘Her Majesty’s been forced to marry when she’s still in mourning. I think the colour is beautiful and respectful. Anyhow,you’rewearing black.’
And so was she. It seemed fitting. Proper, even.
‘That’s different. It’s her wedding day. She should be celebrating.’
‘When her family has only lately been placed in a grave?’
Her mother crossed herself, then sniffed. ‘She’s Queen. Appearances must be maintained. And I thought at least you’d be bridesmaid. A deliberate slight. You would have done better.’
Sara was glad she wasn’t bridesmaid. Then she’d have to be next to Lance. Would have to dance with him when the time came. The thought of his arms around her, her body pressed up against all that height and hard muscle... She put her hand to her chest as her heart fluttered beneath it. Took a sip of water to cool the flame that had lit deep inside her at the mere thought.
That man was too much for her.
‘I told you, it wasn’t like that.’ Annalise had believed too that Sara was upset. She’d told Sara she hadn’t wanted her imagined grief paraded before the world. It wasn’t a slight of any kind but an act of deep kindness and friendship.
Some music started, the lilting strains of a string ensemble. The Queen stood, and so did the rest of the room. Then Annalise and her husband walked to the dance floor and a waltz began. Sara loved the waltz, one of the many dances she’d learned during her royal training. The structure, the rise and fall of it.
‘Don’t worry,’ her mother whispered, shrewd eyes on some unattractive man at another table as they all sat once more. ‘Your time will come. Sooner than you may think.’
Sara didn’t like the scheming tone. It set her heart beating fast in a way that wasn’t at all pleasant. Instead, she indulged in watching the new King and Queen sweep across the dance floor, thanking the universe that it wasn’t her at this moment, all the while wishing she was in another man’s arms.
She turned away from the scene. There was nothing to be gained from hoping for things that would never be. She blinked back threatened tears as a shadow fell across her.
‘Lady Sara.’
The low burr of that voice caressed like velvet over her skin. A woman who’d spent her life training to be Queen didn’t fall off her chair. But Sara almost did, having to grip the seat of the elaborately swathed piece of furniture in tight fingers to steady herself.
Rebellion had found her.
The whole table turned towards Lance. He was glorious, his throbbing physical energy barely constrained by his formal dress. The height of aristocratic perfection. And when she looked at him she didn’t see the barely tamed man he tried to present but someone swashbuckling, swinging from the rigging of ships, cutlass in hand, duelling at dawn or riding a joust. Her silly, childish fantasies getting her into trouble again, but right now she didn’t care one little bit. He cast his gaze across the table, jaw hard, eyes narrowed in a look of disdain so singeing it was a wonder the people around him didn’t simply self-immolate and shrivel to ashes.
Then he held out his hand, palm up.
‘Would you care to dance?’
She stared at it for a moment as the whispers hissed around the table, her heart thumping in a frantic rhythm. All she could do was look up at him, at his stern face and quirked eyebrow, and grab this tiny moment for herself.
He tucked her arm in his own and led her to the dance floor, where the new Queen and King still seemed to be waging their own silent battle. Lance seemed to be fighting his own. Nothing about him was soft today. His jaw was hard, eyes scanning the crowd sharp as cut glass, a tension rippling through him that trembled through her too. He slipped his arm round her, she placed her hand on his shoulder, the heat of him burning into her palm through the layers of fine wool. It was enough to cause her first steps to falter, until the sheer force of him led her into the dance. And whilst all eyes should have been on the newly wed royals, they were on her. Like shards of glass spiking her skin. So she stiffened her spine, raised her head as she’d been trained to do and gave them something to talk about.
‘You look beautiful,’ Lance murmured. ‘Although shouldn’t you be out of mourning?’
His hold on her was relaxed. He moved as if he were born to dance, not a step out of place. The push and pull as he led her round the floor. She wanted to close her eyes, relax and allow him to sweep her away from this place.
‘Isn’t today supposed to be all about the bride?’
