Her mind spun away onto the same thoughts that had disturbed her rest the night before. “Will he ask for my hand?” she whispered, gazing earnestly into the face of a marble statue standing in a bed of perennials. It was an odd statue, a depiction of her great, great, many-times-great grandfather, King Abundiantus V. Carved in white stone, he stood with one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting upon his breast, fingering a pair of incongruous spectacles on a chain. His marble face scowled severely down upon Una as though to say there were far more important things to consider on a spring morning than love and romance.
Una did not believe she and her great-grandsire would have seen eye to eye on many subjects.
She moved on down the garden path.
Surely Gervais would ask for her hand. He could not have come to Parumvir for any other purpose. “But what if he doesn’t like me?” Her face wrinkled with worry. “He’s such a favorite with all the ladies by everyone’s account. He could have his choice of any woman! Why should he consider me?”
She kicked a stone out of the path and watched it skitter off into the lawn. “I am a princess. He’ll consider me for that reason if nothing else. But would he think of me otherwise?”
Music drifted to her ears. Una paused and looked around. The soft strumming of a stringed instrument floated down the path from the garden higher up the hill, nearer the palace. It was called the Rose Garden, though no roses had bloomed there in over twenty years. Today, instead, it bloomed with peonies and clematis, a poem of color. Una turned, gathering her skirts, and retraced her steps. As she entered the Rose Garden, she heard a voice, a deep voice, smooth and rich, singing:
“Oh, my love is like the blue, blue moon
Floating on the rim of June!
Oh, my love is like a white, white dove
Soaring in the sky above!”
Una put a hand to her head and wished to heaven that she had waited and let Nurse style her hair before she went out that morning. Too late now, so she went on, following the lovely voice.
“Oh, my love is like a sweet, sweet song
That never seems too long!”
She turned a corner in the path and saw an arbor festooned in clematis, under which stood Prince Gervais. He strummed an elegant lute, and his eyes locked with hers the moment she stepped into view. He smiled, and she feared her heart had stopped for good this time.
“Oh, my love is like a fine, fine wine
If only she’d be mine!”
He played a few more chords, then placed his hand on the strings to silence their humming.
“Don’t stop,” Una said. “That was lovely.”
“Do you like it?” Gervais asked. He strummed another chord. “It is a song of the great Eanrin of Rudiobus, dedicated to his one true love, the fair Gleamdren, cousin to the queen. By tradition, it is a song meant to be sung only to – ” he set the lute aside and bowed to her – “a woman of rare beauty.”
Red blotches burst forth in wild cavorting across her nose. Una turned away, one hand pressed to her heart, and looked about for the gardeners. The nearest worked several plots away and had their backs discreetly turned. She thought desperately, hoping some witty or clever remark would suggest itself, but the backs of the gardeners presented her with no inspiration. “I . . . I hope you are enjoying your visit in Parumvir,” she managed.
Prince Gervais stepped up beside her, and she could feel his gaze on the side of her face. “Princess Una,” he said, his voice low and soft, “did you know that your eyes shine like the stars?”
Where the star analogy might have come from so early in the morning, Una couldn’t guess, but that hardly mattered at such a moment. She bit her lip and forced a nervous smile. “Oh?”
“Could I lie to one such as you?” He chuckled softly at the thought. “The first moment I gazed into the limpid blue depths of your eyes,” he said, “I knew I might drown there and die a happy man.”
Some small part of her deep inside winced that he’d gotten her eye color wrong. But Una silenced that thought and glanced up into the not-very-handsome but so-very-fascinating face of Beauclair’s prince. “I think I . . . I think I’d rather you didn’t die,” she admitted bravely.
“Truly, Princess Una?” Gervais lifted a hand and reached out as though he might touch her cheek, but restrained himself at the last moment.
“I think so,” she said. Why must she suddenly wish so badly that the gardeners would turn around?
“Princess,” Gervais murmured. “Una, I was wondering if I might . . . speak with your father?”
Una blinked. “My father?”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “I suppose so. I mean, I see no reason why you might not. You’re his guest after all. . . . ”
Gervais cleared his throat and moved a fraction of an inch closer. “I meant about a delicate subject.”
“Delicate?”
“Yes.” He reached out and took her hand. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “Do you understand me, Una?”
“Oh!” she gasped, then inwardly kicked herself when the next word from her mouth was a resounding, “Uh!”