*
RICHARD pretended to be bored. Next to him, Rene chattered about something with Lorameh and Lady Karin, Rene’s cousin. Soon the dancing would start.
He hadn’t spoken to Charlotte for nine days. Nine days of no contact. George’s birds didn’t really count. Nine days of brooding and sleeping alone, just him and his thoughts, and his thoughts had turned pretty dark. He wanted to see her. He wanted to tell her he loved her and hear that she loved him in return. The moment his mouth didn’t have to make small talk, thoughts of her intruded into his mind. He imagined a life with her. He imagined a life without her. Perhaps he was going crazy.
Brennan walked out into the open expanse of the terrace.
Richard had to fight from grinding his teeth. Being in Brennan’s presence was becoming harder and harder, both because he hated the man and because Brennan’s good fortune brought his own shortcomings into focus. The man who had been given literally every advantage in life, while he himself was given none, used all his resources and talents to profit from the misery of others. He couldn’t wait to bring Brennan down.
“I guess Robert is the sacrificial lamb on the Rioga’s altar,” Rene quipped.
“I wonder who his partner is,” Lorameh said.
“Angelia?” Lady Karin suggested.
“She wishes.” Lorameh laughed.
The music began.
“I do hope he won’t be stood up,” Rene said with mock concern.
The crowd parted, and Charlotte walked out.
The world came to a screeching halt. Her dress flared about her with every step, the diaphanous layers of blue-green fabric thin like gossamer, suggesting the contours of her body, then obscuring them. She didn’t walk, she glided.
“Divine. Who is she?” Lorameh asked from somewhere far.
“Lady de Ney al-te Ran,” Rene said. “Exquisite, no? And such a name.”
“Oh no,” Lady Karin said. “She mustn’t have expected to be asked to dance. Her heels are too high.”
His memory told him that Charlotte couldn’t be as tall as Brennan during the Rioga: he was a man and of royal blood. It would be a critical social blunder. Most people watching her knew it. She had to know it as well.
Without breaking her stride, Charlotte stepped out of her shoes. She didn’t slow down; she didn’t give any indication of what she had done. She simply kept gliding forward, leaving two high-heeled shoes behind her. Sophie scooped them up and melted into the crowd.
Lady Karin gasped. Someone to the left clapped, then someone to the right, and Charlotte curtsied before Brennan to the sound of appreciative applause.
Brennan bowed, offering her his hand. She placed her hand onto his palm.
Sharp pain stabbed Richard between his ribs on the left side. Suddenly, the air grew viscous. He struggled to breathe.
Brennan rose to his full height and rested his arm around Charlotte’s, touching her back.
He was touching her.
The music broke into a fast rhythm, and the two of them spun into the dance, Charlotte’s dress streaming around Brennan like water currents around a rock.
His hands were on her. His fingers were touching her skin. She was touching him. Her hand rested in his. She was smiling. She looked like she was enjoying it. She looked at Brennan, and her face glowed with admiration.
A wave of ice rolled over Richard’s skin and evaporated, burned off by all-consuming anger. He was watching Charlotte and Brennan turn and turn on the dance floor, helpless to do anything about it.
“They look so beautiful together,” Lady Karin said.
“You’ve got to hate the man,” Rene said. “Royal blood, rich, smart, good fighter. You’d think fate would disfigure him just out of the sense of fairness, but no, the bastard is handsome, and the moment a sophisticated, enchanting woman enters society, he snatches her up before any of us even trade two words with her.”
That’s right. Brennan was handsome, rich, with royal pedigree. And who was Richard? A penniless swamp rat with a sword and a stolen face.
In his mind, Richard stepped out onto the dance floor. He held his own sword in his hand, not Casside’s weak rapier. He cut in between them, spun in a burst of magic and steel, and Brennan’s head rolled off his shoulders onto the floor.
Charlotte gasped. He walked over to her . . .
The music ended, and he heard his own heartbeat, too loud, like the toll of some giant bell. Brennan was bowing. Charlotte curtsied. Brennan straightened. The emotion on his face was unmistakable: it was the primal need of a man who had found a woman he had to have.
People applauded. It sounded like a storm to Richard’s ears. She never said she loved him. She gave him her body in the cabin, perhaps in a moment of weakness, but she never promised anything to him. And if she had, promises were often broken.
Brennan led Charlotte over to the Grand Thane and the Marchesa. She curtsied again, a deep, graceful bow. The Marchesa said something. Charlotte replied. Brennan grinned, displaying even teeth.
The crowd turned into a smudge of faces, the voices blended into a loud hum, and Brennan’s face and those gleaming teeth came into sharp focus.
Richard pictured driving the blade of his sword into Brennan’s eye. Everything within him wanted Brennan’s blood. He stood poised on the edge of his blade, fighting to keep his balance.
“Casside, are you unwell?” Lorameh asked, looking at him very carefully. “You haven’t said a word.”
Answer, you fool. Say something.
He forced his lips to move. “I have a headache. I think I shall retire.”
“It’s the flowers,” Lorameh said. “That much perfume and pollen mixing together, it’s a wonder the lot of us haven’t collapsed from breathing it in. Let’s get a drink, my friend.”
Richard willed himself to move, but his feet remained rooted to the floor.