Nor did her disappointment.
Her eyes stung with the promise of tears. She blinked furiously, averting her gaze, unable to watch as the man she loved bound himself to another.
Suddenly, a handkerchief was before her, snowy white and monogrammed with an N. She could only wonder at the letter. Perhaps the handkerchief belonged to one of his paramours.
“For you, Lady Tansy,” the prince said when she hesitated. “Your eyes appear to be watering, my dear. Perhaps you’ve taken on the same illness as the princess. I do hope it isn’t catching.”
She had indeed taken on an illness.
An illness called love.
A hopeless illness for which there was no cure.
She snatched the handkerchief from his waiting hand with far less grace than she ought to have used. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
“You may call me Nando if you like,” he said, keeping his voice low, as if the two of them were alone and engaged in an intimate conversation. “Indeed, I’d prefer it if you would.”
The N suddenly made sense. She supposed his irreverence shouldn’t come as a surprise, given his reputation.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” she repeated crisply, not about to invite informality with him.
Not because she feared she would be susceptible to his advances, but because she wasn’t entirely certain she could trust Prince Ferdinando. He was Maxim’s brother, but he exuded such silken allure that his intentions were impossible to define.
“A lady of substance,” he said quietly. “I might have known.”
She clenched her fingers on the handkerchief, her knuckles aching, and turned to him, curious. “What do you mean?”
“He’s taken an interest in you,” the prince said calmly.
Her cheeks were instantly hot. She cast a worried glance around to see whether Gustavson’s guards were watching. But it seemed that all eyes in the chamber were upon Maxim, Princess Anastasia, and the proxy who had been sent from Boritania in Gustavson’s stead to witness the signing of the betrothal contract.
“I don’t know of whom you speak,” she lied.
“My brother,” Prince Ferdinando elaborated.
She swallowed hard, still clutching the handkerchief tightly as she struggled to keep her expression impassive and blank, returning the prince’s inquisitive stare. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The prince gave her a small smile. “Oh, I think you do, my lady.”
She looked away, disliking the subterfuge. Heaven knew she had been embroiled in far too many deceptions since her arrival in London, and she disliked every one of them. But her gaze settled upon Maxim’s broad back, his bent head. She watched as he passed the quill to Princess Anastasia.
And her heart broke some more.
“It hardly matters,” she muttered to the prince at her side, the words intended as a reminder for herself as well. “He is marrying the princess.”
“Perhaps.”
She shot the prince a look. “There is no uncertainty about it.”
“Will you take a walk with me, Lady Tansy?” he invited, shocking her.
“We are witnessing the ceremony,” she protested.
“No one will mind if we take the air,” he countered, unconcerned. “You are looking frightfully pale. No doubt a turn in the gardens will prove restorative.”
She wasn’t pale; she was sure of it. If anything, her cheeks were on fire.
“It’s raining,” she pointed out.
