“Indeed it is. Perhaps you should get a breath of fresh air on the balcony,” I suggest blandly. “Alone.”
He’s dressed in a brocaded silk jacket tonight, with crème-colored breeches and jeweled heels that he clicks loudly against the faux-parquet floor, like an especially pompous cicada. His chestnut hair falls down his back in silky curls any girl might envy, and he carries his signature gold walking stick in his left hand: a replica of the one King Louis XIV was evidently never seen without. Our kingdom is based on the elaborate Baroque era of the three Kings Louis, and our present King, Justin Wyndham, does his best to mimic the earliest one as often and accurately as possible—a tendency even the press has noted, and they never pick up on subtlety.
“You do understand that you’re not actually Louis XIV, I hope.” I flip open my fan with a well-practiced flick of my wrist. Sometimes I think he dresses so elaborately to hide his age. Nineteen is surely too young to run both a kingdom and an international company.
“No less than you understand that you are not actually Marie-Antoinette,” he counters, gesturing at my late eighteenth-century attire. Though comparing me to Versailles’s least popular monarch is a cheap shot.
“If you’re going to be insulting, I’ll excuse myself. Your Majesty,” I say, fluttering one hand and bowing exactly low enough to placate him and not a fraction of a centimeter more. “Come, Molli,” I say, clutching her arm close to my side like a lifeline. Then I turn and make my escape.
Almost.
His arm snugs about my waist from behind, fingers gripping so hard I can feel them even through my ribbon-bedecked stomacher, bodice, and corset.
“You look divine,” he whispers, lips close to my cheek, where Molli cannot hear.
I paste on a half-smile because half is the best I can muster. “Your Highness is too kind.” I speak at full volume, highlighting the rudeness of his secret murmurings when we’re in another’s presence.
“Come to the balcony with me. I’ve not had you alone for ages.”
His breath hits my neck and I shiver. Despite the vehemence with which he originally declared that he would never marry me, once he was blackmailed into it, he rather warmed to the idea.
“Molli, look, they’re serving my favorite wine,” I say, gesturing at a table filled with glasses at the far end of the Salon de Vénus. My arms are puckered in goose bumps, and I can feel my stomach rebelling at His Majesty’s nearness. “So if you’ll excuse—”
“Actually, I need to speak with you.”
Damn.
The King glares down at Molli. Her cold fingers tremble on my arm, as they always do in the presence of our monarch.
“Mademoiselle Percy, is it not?” the King says, lifting one of her hands to bow over it. His lips don’t quite touch her glove as he pulls her away from my side. Molli makes a valiant effort to keep her fingers on my arm, but soon she cannot maintain contact without being unforgivably rude.
Which, like so many other things in life, is something my Molli cannot afford.
As soon as the two of us are separated, His Majesty’s solicitous fa?ade disappears and he reclaims his hand, carelessly dropping hers. “You have something to do, I have no doubt,” he says, one eyebrow raised as he straightens the waterfall of lace on his cuff. “Be off with you.” And he slides to step between us.
I see the horror in Molli’s eyes as the King moves, and panic flares in my chest. She’s about to receive the cut direct from the King of Sonoman-Versailles—and for someone in her position, that could amount to social execution. Everything Molli has worked to achieve, swept away like a pup tent in a tornado.
Spoiled, selfish, inconsiderate brat!
“My lord,” I burst out, catching the arm of a fine silk jacket passing by, barely registering the face and body attached to it. My outburst stops His Royal Highness before his back is fully turned on Molli, and I reach blindly for her hand, pulling her toward me and smiling up at the man I’ve near assaulted.
Bonne chance! It’s the Compte de Duarte. He’s at least seventy and hardly a fashionable escort—but he’s wealthy, titled, and reasonably pliant, which will satisfy my present aims.
“Lord Duarte, I fear royal business has called me away from my dearest friend, Mademoiselle Percy. If you would be so kind as to complete my task and escort this fine lady to the”—I hesitate, ever so briefly—“the Guard Room, where I believe they have set up a particularly lovely display of gourmet petits fours.”