In truth I have no idea what’s happening in the Guard Room, but this nobleman would never consider returning to correct his future Queen. Now Molli—a young lady of little social standing—will be paraded through no fewer than five salons, plus the length of the Hall of Mirrors, on the arm of high nobility. Excellent. The compte bows to me with a smile and offers his arm to Molli.
Perhaps His Highness will think twice before trying to give a friend of mine the cut direct again, I think victoriously, watching a pleasantly flushed Molli depart with the Compte de Duarte—who looks only too pleased to have an excuse to escort such a pretty young thing, with no threat of harping from his shrewish wife.
But His Majesty seems not to have noticed the incident at all. So typical of him—nearly destroys a young woman’s social standing and he remains abominably unaware. Instead, he offers his own arm to me. I see little choice but to take it.
We head toward the very balcony I suggested and—maddeningly—the crowd parts for His Highness as the Red Sea is said to have parted for Moses.
A row of delicate Jacobean chaises lines the perimeter of the small balcony, and when His Royal Repugnance gestures, I sit right in the middle of one, letting my panniers do their work. The word comes from a French name for baskets slung on either side of a pack animal, and though the comparison is hardly complimentary, it’s apt. Baskets under my skirts extend the curve of my hips up to half a meter on either side of me, making the satin pouf out just enough that he can’t sit beside me without crushing the fabric. Not something a gentleman of breeding would ever do.
Strangle a woman half his size during their amorous tryst? Yes. Crush her dress in public? Never.
Not that anyone else knows that. The cover-up was quite thorough. “An aneurysm,” the physician—bribed by my mother—proclaimed as the cause of Sierra Jamison’s death. “A terrible tragedy.” But I know the truth. Justin Wyndham, fourth King of Sonoman-Versailles—raised to demand everything his little stone heart desired—handled his plaything too roughly and broke her.
And now he’s moved on to me. I lower my eyelids so he can see the shimmering plum powder one of M.A.R.I.E.’s bots spread across them tonight, along with the sooty black liner and dusting of gold on my eyelashes. Lavish cosmetics are one of my favorite relics of our faux-Baroque society. Petty, perhaps, but one thing I have learned about Justin Wyndham during our short relationship is that he prefers his women striking, sensual, and subservient. For a few seconds, I look like everything I know he wants.
And he cannot have me. Not yet.
There are a handful of other nobles on the balcony, but a pointed glare and the noisy clearing of His Highness’ throat has them quickly scurrying away. Curse them. My heart speeds with each person’s exit until the King and I are very much alone.
I peer up at his profile as he continues to glare the nobles out of his space. His glossy brown hair always seems to fall in annoying perfection. I remember seeing him when I first moved to the castle, during one of the rare times I was allowed in the public rooms before my official début. He was fifteen at the time, tall already and just starting to broaden, and I and every other tween girl fancied ourselves half in love. Even now the unbiased part of my mind can’t deny how attractive he is. He makes me feel false—all the grace and aesthetic appeal my mother purchased for me are his by right of excellent genetics.
That thought makes the silence feel awkward, and I force myself to speak. “What do you want, Justin?” I say, determined to claim the first point.
He stiffens. “I’ve told you, you may use my given name when you are my wife, or my lover.” He grins and I feel like prey. “Whichever comes first.”
I look away and say nothing. It seems pointless to address him so formally when we’re both teens, and engaged besides. But the King is so touchy about the strangest things, and I enjoy perturbing him.
“It’s time you moved into the Queen’s Bedchamber,” the King says.
Even with my covertly trained poise and control, I can’t hide a cringe. “It most certainly is not,” I snap, before reclaiming my composure. “We’re not yet married, my lord.”
“Marriage is hardly necessary for you to move to someone else’s bed,” he drawls.
It takes everything I have not to react to his blatant insult. Not to rise and strike him—slap his face, spit on his lapels, strangle him with the cravat tied so perfectly around his neck.
But he continues in a nasal, lofty voice. “We’ve deemed your parents unfit to be your guardians and require that you take up residence in the Queen’s Rooms immediately.”
I despise it when he slips into the royal We. “That’s impossible.” Certainly it feels that way. It must be. Move into quarters specifically designed to accommodate nightly visits from the King?
“I’m not to lay a finger on you,” His Highness continues as though I hadn’t spoken. “Your mother was quite insistent.”
“You’ve spoken to my mother about this?” I shouldn’t continue to feel a pang of heartbreak every time I hear of yet another layer of my mother’s betrayal, but I suppose a child’s hope never completely dies.