I narrow my eyes and return her forthright gaze.
Who is this woman?
Chapter Six
Aren
Iknewit. That man from last night is the prince.
I had my suspicions, but I didn’t think the prince would be foolish enough to walk around Evandale without protection or to stumble into the Raven’s Beak alone. With those polished boots and coiffed hair, I’d assumed he was a member of the prince’s entourage, some fancy lord who’d never seen a hard day’s work. He had blisters at the thumb like a soldier, but there wasn’t a speck of dirt or grime on his hands—the hands of a man used to a life of comfort.
I couldn’t help but watch him. His was the only face I hadn’t seen before. While he hid his golden hair beneath a cap, silky strands fell on his forehead. He was lean but muscled, so he couldn’t be a bureaucrat relegated to hours behind a desk. His blue-green eyes were hooded—haunted, even. I was confused that no one else noticed him. That’s when I realized he was good at hiding.
The moment Dietan—PrinceDietan—walked in the doors of the Raven’s Beak, I knew exactly what he was: a liar. And I don’t have time for liars.
I lean a hip against the edge of the stage and force myself not to fidget as he speaks with my sisters again. He’s far too annoyingly handsome for his own good. I was right—what kind of prince would he be if he wasn’t handsome?
At least he’s flirting with my sisters. My plan is working. If either Ophelia or Sonja captures his eye, they’ll both be set, and my father, too. My life will finally be my own. But why would a prince hide his identity? Should I be worried for my girls?Dario, my ass.
I narrow my eyes. What the hell was he up to, sneaking around last night in that crappy disguise? Why did he ask me about Veteria? A prince seeking a healer so far from court doesn’t sit right. Maybe he’s sick, or… Maybe he’s secretly impotent and is searching for a cure. Maybe that’s why he’s not courting one of those inbred princesses in the capital. Aren’t they all his cousins anyway?
When Sonja finishes whatever she’s saying, the prince glances my way, and a zing of excitement shoots through me, like I’ve been named harvest queen or something equally ridiculous.What the hell?Maybe I’m the one who’s sick.
Dietan comes to the edge of the stage and addresses me directly. “Your sisters’ dresses are beautiful.”
I can feel the marquis’s unapproving eyes on me. I reel my thoughts back in and force my shoulders to relax as I dip into a stiff curtsy. Dietan didn’t say my sisters were beautiful, though—only that their clothes were.Interesting.
He raises a golden eyebrow. “And how does a barmaid afford such luxurious material?”
Some compliment, asshole.“Anyone who works hard and budgets well can afford it, Your Highness,” I reply.
The crowd inhales collectively. I half expect him to reach down and strike me, like the marquis did once. But to my surprise, the prince only laughs. “I’m afraid you’ve got me there. I don’t know anything about work of any kind.”
He keeps his gaze locked on mine as he leaps from the stage and approaches me. He’s much taller than I expected, and it’s irritatingly gratifying, the way he towers over me. Ugh, why do I feel sowomanlylooking up at him?
“You’re not in line to meet me,” he says, ignoring the queue of impatient girls glaring at me. “Why didn’t you make yourself a beautiful dress as well? Don’t you want to be considered for marriage?”
“To you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” he asks mildly.
I know I should keep my big mouth shut, but we’re already way past any sense of decorum. Besides, he started this. I scowl as I take in his shiny boots, velvet coat, and epaulets—the attire of a proper prince, instead of a shadowy stranger in the night.
Honestly, I like the man from last night much better, but my sisters deserve a prince, and I won’t turn them over to the care of a man unworthy of them, no matter how wealthy or titled. The idea of marrying him myself is absurd, but this is a chance to find out what kind of man he is.
“You wanna know what’s wrong with you?” I ask. “You’re a man.”
“Last time I checked.”
“Men looking for wives just want a servant they don’t have to pay.”
“But you would be a princess. I have many servants in my employ.”
He’s got a point. “Why do you want a wife, then?” I ask.
“The usual reasons princes get married. Unite the kingdoms, guarantee the line of succession, continue the dynasty, that sort of thing.”
Right. I suppose a princess could do worse than this stupidly handsome prince—but he’s definitely hiding something. “Yeah, except marriage is for chumps,” I say.
