It was a small thing, but that initial reaction—stiffening up and wanting to pull away—was an honest response to his touch. That was what he wanted. Honesty. Even if it was an authentic dislike or rejection of him.
Keeping his tone conversational, Ronan said, “At this time of day, my parents will be taking their morning tea in the garden. We’ll head there first. Then, I’ll show you to your room.”
She nodded without speaking and allowed him to hold her hand as they walked down the halls.
He noticed that she looked at her surroundings, studying the walls and artwork as though she wanted to memorize them. Ronan wanted to ask her what she thought of the place where he’d grown up, but he doubted she would answer him truthfully.
Instead, he watched her facial expressions out of the corner of his eye as they made their way through the labyrinthine halls. Though he didn’t know her well, he had watched her when she didn’t realize it and was beginning to understand her better.
The subtle changes in the position of her mouth or eyebrows gave away some of her emotions. There was also her body language. Now that he was touching her, though it was just her hand, Ronan could feel the fine tension in her muscles. He could see the slight pitch of her brows, as though she were fighting a frown. Dominique was nervous about seeing his parents again.
He didn’t blame her. His parents hadn’t made the best impression the first time they’d all met thirty years ago. He doubted their behavior today would improve her opinion of them.
As they approached the door leading to the exit to the walled garden reserved for the king and queen, Ronan released her hand and slid his arm around her waist, tucking her into his side. Her back remained ramrod straight as he opened the door for them, and they stepped out into the bright morning light.
Just ahead, both his parents sat at a small table, an elegant China tea service between them. His mother was drinking her tea and staring at the flowers around them, her mind clearly elsewhere. His father was reading through a stack of papers, his own tea growing cold at his elbow. They sat on opposite sides of the table, their bodies turned slightly away from each other. It was something Ronan had grown accustomed to duringhis childhood—his parents physically in the same room but mentally and emotionally as distant as they could possibly be.
His father didn’t bother to look up when Ronan walked out with Dominique. Likely, he assumed that the door opened to admit a servant. His mother did, her distant gaze skimming over them both before sharpening when she realized it was her son and his fiancée.
She didn’t deign to rise to her feet, merely turned her body toward them. It was a power play. To a less subtle person, to have her remaining seated while they stood would put her in a position of weakness. But Ronan understood his mother better than most. By remaining in her chair, she was making a statement—greeting her son and, by extension, his fiancée, was an act beneath her station. It was their responsibility to come to her and kiss the figurative ring.
Only because he was touching her did Ronan feel the slight resistance in Dominique’s muscles, as though she wanted to take a step back instead of forward. He firmed his hold on her waist, not to keep her by his side, but to remind her that he was there, right beside her.
Considering how pissed he’d been at her this morning, his sudden need to reassure her probably gave Dominique whiplash, but he knew all too well how his parents could affect others.
“Mother. Father,” Ronan greeted as they came to a stop beside the table.
His mother tilted her head back to take them in before she said, “Ronan, lovely to see you.”
While her words were exactly what they should have been, her tone was not. It was flat and obviously insincere. Again, another way to try and manipulate him into dancing attendance. The nobles of the court would have done whatever it took tobring approval to her expression and voice, but Ronan had long since outgrown the desire to please her.
His father took his time looking up from the stack of papers in front of him. When he did, Caden Byrne got to his feet and came over, placing a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. Dominique tried to curtsy, but Ronan held her in place. She was about to be a princess. She didn’t need to curtsy now that they were engaged.
“Son, it’s good to see you.” His eyes, blue like Ronan’s but a few shades lighter, moved to Dominique. “Dominique, it’s been too long.”
As usual, his father said and did all the right things, but they rang hollow somehow.
He took Dominique’s hand, holding it in both of his. “We’re so pleased you’ll be joining the family.”
The look on Bronwyn’s face said that she disagreed, but she finally got to her feet and spoke, “Yes, welcome to the family, Dominique.”
Ronan knew that his parents weren’t pleased about the match, but they couldn’t outright say anything. Not without risking public outcry. A fairy godmother was a boon to any kingdom. Now that he was older, he knew they did more than help nobility find their matches. They often worked with the poorer members of society as well. Birth rates and general happiness of the people improved if they were lucky enough to have a fairy godmother in their midst.
Added to that, Dominique was the latest generation of the most renowned fairy godmother lineage in the fae realm. Their kingdom would be considered extremely lucky to have her as the future queen.
“It’s lovely to see you both again,” Dominique said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“We’ll let you get back to your morning tea,” Ronan said. “We’ll see you at dinner.”
Dominique remained quiet as he guided her back into the castle and through the maze of halls. He stopped in front of the door to her room, releasing her waist.
“This is your room for the weekend. My room adjoins,” he explained, gesturing toward the door to their right.
She nodded, her distant mask firmly affixed to her face.
Suddenly, Ronan felt the overwhelming urge to get away. From her. From his parents. From it all. She was too much like them. That aloof attitude, the chilly responses. The lack of authentic emotion. It grated on his nerves and pissed him off all over again. The words to call off their “farce of an engagement” trembled on the tip of his tongue. He wasn’t sure he could endure a woman so much like his parents for a decade.
Instead, he found himself saying, “I’ll knock on your door a little before seven. The family usually has cocktails and conversation for an hour before dinner. Are you sure you don’t need me to send the court dressmaker to your room? Dinner is cocktail attire tonight.”
