Aris was a prince. Blythe had seen firsthand the power he held over others, and the way people clung to his every word. He had gotten her and Byron a visit with her father on no notice. If he could do that, then she could only imagine what else he could manage.
“What’s wrong, love?” Aris cast her a look from over his shoulder, eyes glittering. “Afraid I’ll ruin you?”
She wasn’t afraid. Not of him, at least. And so she clenched her fists, sent William a firm look to tell him to remain exactly where he was, and followed Prince Aris inside and to a parlor warmed by the largest hearth she’d ever seen, several times her height. He motioned for her to take a seat on a plush leather sofa and sat across from her.
A tray of tea was already on the table between them, filled with light sandwiches and pastries, and to her surprise, a second porcelain teacup.
Her skin prickled as he poured steaming tea into the cup and handed it to her. Blythe didn’t drink it immediately but made a show of adding a splash of milk. She kept her eyes on him all the while, waiting until he took the first drink before she tested a small sip.
Black tea. Simple, and without a trace of belladonna. She exhaled a relieved breath as steaming tendrils spread across her skin. It wasn’t that she expected the prince to try to poison her, but one could never be too careful with whom they trusted.
Aris cast her the most peculiar look before he leaned back on the couch and folded one leg over the other. The smallest sliver of his ankle was visible, and Blythe did her best not to pay it any attention. It was strange how scandalous such a small slice of skin could seem when it was just the two of them.
The tea was warm in her hands, and she used the heat of it to reel herself in as she straightened and began, “I apologize for an unprompted visit. I was hoping that I might speak to you about—”
“About your father.” Blythe flinched as Prince Aris tapped his spoon along the side of the cup, the clanging too loud for such a quiet space. “I’m no fool, Miss Hawthorne. It can be no coincidence that you’ve decided to pay me a visit the day of his sentence.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line and set her cup on its saucer. “I know you never had the opportunity to meet my father, but I believe you’d quite like him. He’s had a rough year, but I assure you he’s innocent. He just needs an advocate.”
“You assure me, do you?” Prince Aris spoke with such amusement that Blythe had to dig a nail into her palm to remind herself not to react. “No offense, Miss Hawthorne, but I hardly know either of you. Even if your father is the wonderful man you claim, I’m sure you can see what inserting myself into this situation could do to my reputation should your assurances prove false.”
She’d expected this was coming. What reason would a prince have to assist two strangers? It was a fool’s errand to come to Wisteria, but she’d had to try.
She had seen Aris take only a sip or two, and yet he’d already poured more tea and stirred in another sugar cube. Blythe’s world was crumbling around her, fraying and burning at the edges, and he was taking his tea without a care in the world.
“Reconsider,” she said, not a question but a plea. “I know he means nothing to you, Your Highness, but he means everything to me. I beg you to reconsider.”
The veins in his forearm pulsed as he took another sip from a teacup that was laughably small in his hands, looking this time as though he didn’t care for its flavor. He opened his mouth to respond. To tell her no, surely. But Blythe didn’t give him the chance. She stood, damning all embarrassment or propriety, and put everything she had on the line.
“You came here looking for a wife.” She didn’t dare allow her voice to break, even with the emotion churning within her. There’d be time for it later, once she was alone in her room and all her options had been explored. “In return for helping my father, take me.”
It was as though the hearth itself stilled as the palace grew quiet, its crackling silenced for the single breath it took for Prince Aris to throw his head back and laugh. It wasn’t a cruel sound so much as surprised, but Blythe could feel the heat of shame spreading through her all the same.
“I’m perfectly eligible,” she defended. “My family has money and status, and I know how to maintain a household. I’m certain I could learn to maintain a palace as well. I’m not the best with stitching, I admit, but I can play the pianoforte and the harp, and I’m not at all bad with a paintbrush. I’m also great company for outings and can be immensely more charming than I’ve afforded you the luxury of experiencing.”
Prince Aris let her speak until she was blue in the face, all but needing to gasp for air as she continued listing her merits. He propped his chin in his hand, making no motion for her to stop.
“I’m one of the season’s most eligible. You can read about it in the papers. All you have to do is help clear my father’s name,” she said once she’d exhausted every good quality she could think of. Most of them, admittedly, were an overplay of the truth. While Marjorie had taught her the ins and outs of being a woman suitable to her status, Blythe had always believed she’d make a piss-poor wife. Not that he needed to know that.
“You do sound most impressive.” The prince cleared his throat, and his amusement along with it. “Perhaps all that was true when those papers were written, but after the Lord Wakefield scandal, your eligibility is doubtful to say the least.” His eyes trailed over her from head to toe, not so much leering as assessing. Yet when he spoke again, his voice sounded almost like a purr. “As flattered as I am, love, I cannot marry you. Though I might be willing to help you, for a price.”
Blythe’s blood ran cold, and she was unable to hide the sheer desperation stirring within her as she said, “Name it.”
And so he did. “I cannot marry you, but I could marry your cousin.”
Dread sank its claws into her. “Signa isn’t an option.”
“I understand you care for her—”
“You’re wrong.” Blythe hadn’t intended for the words to be so harsh, yet she did not shy away from them. “I do not care one bit for Signa Farrow.”
Aris leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You two were thick as thieves the last time I saw you together.”
Blythe knew she shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Knew that if she tried to tell anyone the truth, they’d never believe her. She wanted to keep it tucked deep within her until she had sorted through her own feelings and knew what to do with them. She had every intention of doing just that and tried to tear her gaze from Aris. Yet her neck ached the moment she glanced away, her movements slow and stiff.
She set a hand against her neck, massaging it, but the stiffness refused to leave until she looked back at him. It was as though her gaze was being pinned forward. As though something demanded that her attention stay with the prince.
“What changed, Miss Hawthorne?” His words echoed, as though the two of them sat a great distance apart. Her eyes locked to his, mesmerized by the depth of their gold. She blinked, and the entire room filled with the color, casting Aris in a hazy glow.
“You’d never believe me if I told you.” Blythe spoke without any sense of her lips moving. She couldn’t control herself, unable to look away as Aris whispered, “You’ve no idea the impossibilities I believe.”
She couldn’t say no. Blythe sat rigid in her seat, mind numbed and with only a vague understanding that this conversation was happening. She was coherent. She was there. But she had no control over herself as the words were coaxed from her. “I watched her kill a foal… and then I watched as she brought it back to life. She did the same thing to my brother, though he was left for dead.”