“You’re a scarlet vision tonight.”
I stiffen, not liking the particular connotation he attaches to the word scarlet. But I turn, presenting His Majesty with a private viewing of my profile, eyelashes resting against my cheeks. It’s time for tonight’s work of theater to begin. “You’re too kind.”
“I’d prefer to be far kinder,” he whispers, his mouth close to my ear as he falls for it completely.
I tilt minutely to the side and let my stays dig into my ribs. You have a job. Forget everything else. His Majesty studies me with a look that speaks very subtly of consternation before he says, “It’s your mouth, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?” I say, widening my eyes.
“Your lipstick—it…sparkles.”
It’s too easy. I reach up toward my lips as though I had forgotten, stilling my fingers just shy of touching the gloss—that would be a mess. “It is pretty, isn’t it?”
The silence stretches long as he stares at my mouth, and I force myself to smile. To speak.
“Striking,” I press, tilting my head.
Unconsciously he leans toward me, and I can practically hear his heartbeat speed up. It would be fun to toy with him if I weren’t playing a game of life and death. “It’s lovely,” he says.
“It’s something I think we should have at court.”
“Absolutely,” he growls, and draws closer still, bending at first as though inspecting my mouth, but dropping the pretense an instant later as his nose drops near my neck. “Your perfume is exquisite,” he breathes.
“Your mother’s,” I say dryly, hoping the mention of her will cool his ardor.
No luck. He breathes in deeply, and his lips touch the skin just above my décolletage, making my spine feel like someone has dropped crushed ice down my back.
The door bursts open; it’s His Highness’ man, bearing the royal formal ornamentals. I turn away as His Majesty clears his throat and straightens. “Indeed. It’s time, isn’t it?” he asks, pretending to be entirely unaffected as he takes his short gloves from the silver tray balanced on Mateus’s fingertips.
Mateus fusses with the angle of the sash, his hands darting around the King’s arms as he pulls on his gloves. Finally His Highness grows annoyed with the fluttering man and shoves him away. Mateus staggers but manages to keep his footing, then scuttles out the door, apologizing all the while.
His final touches completed, His Highness offers me his arm. On Wednesdays I’m now required to enter the grand assembly in the Hall of Mirrors on his arm like a glowing trophy. Not the kind of trophy one wins for completing a challenge; the kind one stuffs and hangs on the wall after killing it. We’re announced at the doorway of the hall, and the hundred or so nobles pause and turn, then drop into low bows for our royal sovereign.
And me, since I’m by his side; promoted from scandalous fiancée to shiny new almost-Queen.
As the nobles genuflect, I get an unobstructed view of the line of tourists crowded into the roped-off area that runs the entire length of the hall. Our Wednesday-night guests. I’ve always found it amusing to watch while many of the tourists play a game of “when in Rome,” bowing to the monarch of Sonoman-Versailles before straightening and looking around sheepishly. They never seem able to decide whether they’re commoners looking upon a king, or patrons viewing an actor.
The truth, of course, is that royalty is and has always been performance art. It was probably William, the second King Wyndham, who understood this best. Wednesday exhibitions of the palace were originally limited to museum-style tours, passive observation of the palace residents, and intermittent ceremonial reenactments. The second King’s insight was that our public day could constitute a meaningful revenue stream with the introduction of premium packages. So for a handsome sum, select tourists can attend a lever or watch an evening’s festivities, among other things. They’re even permitted to enjoy the hors d’oeuvres as liveried servers walk by with heavily laden silver trays—a job that, of course, would generally be done by half the number of bots.
The hall is packed with bodies. The King manages to lead me to the center of the crowd, where two couples are so quick to make way that they crash into each other, a lady in blue velvet nearly falling on her face. His Majesty, of course, notices nothing as he turns me to face him, gripping my fingertips possessively all the while. I’m scarcely aware of the music as we dance and he spins me to the outside of the circle, as if to put me between himself and our adoring public.
Hiding behind a lady smaller than him. Typical.