She wasn’t wearing leggings. “If you’d like to draw me, Prince Renelm, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”
Elm sat deeper into his chair. He knew enough of life at court to know when he was being propositioned. It felt familiar, like a book he’d read many times. Which was why he’d been taking the contraceptive tonic since he was seventeen. They were alone, and unlikely to be interrupted. There didn’t have to be a bed, but if she wanted one, there were plenty of empty guest rooms—so long as it wasn’t his bed. If she wasn’t already wet, he would get her there before he’d let her touch him. And even when he did let her touch him, he wouldn’t let her take his clothes off. He’d do that himself. Or he’d leave them on, loosening only his belt and trousers. He felt safer that way.
He’d put his mouth against her ear and ask what she liked. She’d be reticent to say—or maybe not—but she wouldn’t look him in the eye. He’d please her with his fingers or mouth. Maybe he’d give all of himself, working on her until she met her release, finding his own somewhere along the way or not at all, all the while knowing, behind the swell of his desire—the tight, rising exhilaration—an empty feeling waited. An aloneness.
After, despite the emptiness, Elm would help her dress. Cheeks red, mouth swollen from kissing, she’d finally meet his gaze. When he was younger, he fancied that’s when women saw him. Not the Prince, not Renelm—but Elm. Elm, who wanted to be liked, to be seen. Petulant, reticent Elm.
But he knew better now. And it humiliated him that he’d ever thought the women he’d bedded had seen the real him. They hadn’t. Mostly because he hadn’t let them. He’d reached into the deepest part of a woman to find himself, when all he really wanted was for someone to look at him. To admit they knew what had happened to him as a boy and still hold him, unflinching, in their gaze.
The way Ione had last night.
His grip tightened on the crumpled portrait in his hand. “You don’t have to do this, Miss Larch.” He rested his face against his palm, keeping his eyes on Maribeth’s face, away from her bare leg. “It’ll come to no good.”
Her smile faded.
Elm might have dismissed her outright, but the nervousness stamped across her face made him wonder if this had even been her idea. Perhaps she had a meddling mother. Or a grasping father, like Tyrn Hawthorn. “You’re very beautiful.” He forced lightness into his voice. “But you should know, these feasts are the King’s doing. Not mine.”
Maribeth’s grip loosened on her dress, the fabric slipping back over her leg. She tried to smile. “And if I merely wanted my picture drawn?”
Elm offered his own smile. “Did you?”
“No, I suppose not.” She cleared her throat. “A folly on several accounts, for I imagine the King has picked someone out for you already, just as he chose Miss Hawthorn for the High Prince.” She gave a rushed bow, then quit the library. “Good afternoon, Majesty.”
The stylus slipped through Elm’s fingers. He sat up too quickly, his sketchbook spilling onto the floor. He didn’t remember his father choosing Ione for Hauth—because the King hadn’t chosen her. There’d been an agreement with Tyrn. A Nightmare Card for a marriage contract.
A barter.
Elm rose from his chair, tucking Ione’s portrait into his pocket, and headed for the stairs.
He found the man he was looking for on the first landing, announcing families on their way to the great hall for dinner. “Baldwyn.”
The King’s steward jumped, his rounded spectacles falling askew. Baldwyn Viburnum had always reminded Elm of a kitchen rat, with his coarse, thinning black hair. His nose was short and narrow, and the spectacles that sat on its bridge were often smudged. Snide, without a whit of humor, Baldwyn was as pleasant to speak to as the inside of a chamber pot. He’d always been cruel to Emory.
Elm despised him.
Baldwyn straightened his spectacles and ran a hand over his hair. “Prince Renelm. Are you going down to dinner? It’s the first feast in your honor.”
“No, listen—”
Behind them, families waited to be announced. Which was utter nonsense. These fools had attended dozens of dinners together. If they didn’t know each other’s names by now, another screech from Baldwyn wasn’t going to do the trick.
But it was tradition. And Elm was fairly certain Baldwyn would rather throw himself down the stairs than offend tradition. “Announcing,” he boomed, “Lord and Lady Juniper and their daughter, Miss Isla Juniper.”
The Junipers bowed to Elm, the daughter taking an extended glance, and went down the stairs.
“I need to look at the King’s contracts,” he said to Baldwyn, keeping his voice low. “His marriage contracts in the last month.”
“Any particular reason, sire?”
Elm fixed his mouth with a false smile. “If I’m expected to wed, I’d like to understand the business end of things.”
Baldwyn opened his mouth to respond, but another family came up behind Elm. “Announcing Sir Chestnut and his son, Harold.”
The Chestnuts bowed. Elm greeted them with a flick of his wrist and kept his eyes on Baldwyn. “Well, little man? Where can I find the contracts?”
“I keep them in the record chamber off the library, sire.”
“Brilliant.” Elm turned to leave—
“It’s locked, Prince Renelm.”
Elm heaved a sigh. “As to that. What did Ravyn do with the keys when he left?”
“You mean your keys, Highness?”
“Yes. My bloody keys.”
Baldwyn cleared his throat as another family came up. “Announcing—”
Elm put a finger in his face. “The keys.”
Baldwyn blinked down at his finger, momentarily cross-eyed. “I—the Captain left them with Physician Willow. But that’s not a Physician’s job, and Captain Yew had no business—”
“You’re testing me, steward.”
Baldwyn reached for his belt, brass clanging. Elm held out his hand, clamping his fingers around the iron ring that housed dozens of keys. “Much obliged.”
He pushed through the families crowding the landing, never minding that they were all watching him. But the glee of embarrassing Baldwyn dissipated the moment Elm got to the record chamber. He hadn’t thought to ask which key opened it.
Ten minutes later, he was still locked out. “Clever indeed,” he muttered though his teeth. Ravyn would have known which key was right. Well, bloody good for Ravyn. Must be nice, having all that control, never shouldering a father’s disappointment, never making a complete ass of yourself with a woman in the cellar—
A small brass key slid into place, and the lock clicked open. Elm kissed the key and immediately regretted it, remembering too late the ring had been fastened to Baldwyn’s belt.
He crept into the chamber. There were cabinets—stacks of drawers—filled with parchment bearing the King’s seal. He discovered property deeds and knighthoods. Detailed histories of Providence Cards and who owned them.