When the celebration’s finally underway, I smile and chat merrily with our guests, accepting congratulations on Father’s behalf and ensuring everyone’s cups and bellies are full. The hall is full of laughter, and the trill of a flute signals the next dance.
Prince Dietan reigns in all his resplendent glory in the center of the fete, drawing listeners around him as he tells them of his travels. “So, there I was, a plate of oysters in one hand and the duchess’s dog in the other, locked on the balcony in a hurricane.” He pauses, grinning, for everyone to laugh. He’s probably told this story so many times, he knows exactly when to expect it. “As you can imagine, I couldn’t exactly go running to the duke now, could I?” More raucous laughter. “So, I’m trying to kick down the door, when who should come to my rescue? The one and only Lord Jared.”
Cheers rise as everyone lifts their mugs to the groom-to-be. “Lord Jared!”
Dietan’s charisma and his ability to navigate conversations is like watching a skilled swordsman duel. He knows when to make a joke, when to commend someone to make them smile, how to deflect a clumsy remark.
But it all seems so hollow to me, like he’s had years to practice putting on the act of the merry prince. I remember his desperation, his pleas, his fear in the healer’s cottage. But the night isn’t about him. I make a point to always keep at least twenty paces away from him, busying myself in the periphery of his orbit.
Tonight is for Ophelia and Jared.
One of Evandale’s many traditions is to personally feed the happy couple, to usher in prosperity and good fortune. The two of them, blushing equally hard, are seated at the high table as they are spoon-fed food by various villagers. No matter which way they turn their heads, they are met with a forkful of pot pie or jam or crumble.
I try to focus on them, but at the same time I can’t stop glancing Dietan’s way every so often, catching a lift in his voice that unconsciously draws my attention toward him. His very presence annoys me. I still can’t shake what he said about hoping to find a woman to keep him on his toes.
With any luck, today will be the last day I’ll have to hear that low, baritone voice, and then I’ll be free of him once and for all.
Just as I’m cutting up a cake that’s been baked into a tower, covered in buttermilk frosting, and decorated with edible wildflowers, I hear that all-too-familiar voice at my shoulder.
“You’re keeping busy. Don’t you ever take a break?”
My knife hovers above the cake, but I don’t turn around. His voice alone makes energy course through my veins. I will my hand not to tremble from adrenaline as I slowly slice the cake and divide the pieces onto plates.
“It’s my job, Your Highness.”
“I told you, stop calling me that. Just Dietan.”
“Nope. Sorry, Your Worship, but we keep to custom here. Just because we’re in Nowhereland doesn’t mean we don’t have manners.”
He grins. “Your Worship. I kind of like it. Hey, join the party, will you?”
“Not unless you want to do the dishes.” Said dirty dishes are already soaking in a giant tub outside, full of rainwater and suds. If I don’t tend to it soon, I’ll be up all night after the party.
“Sure, why not?” He shrugs. “I’ll help.”
“Oh, please. As if you’ve ever washed a dish in your life!”
He grins wider. “You got me there. I’ll have my men do it. Come on, don’t you ever take a moment for yourself?”
I laugh as I grab a stack of clean plates. Dietan’s leaning against the wall, looking at me, his arms folded across his chest and his long legs crossed at the ankles. Why is he staring?Infuriating man.I refuse to meet his eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be off finding some woman who will keep you on your toes?” I ask.
“What makes you think I haven’t found her already?”
“Well, my other sister seems to be involved with your general Marcus, so I believe she’s already taken.” I eye the two, who are whispering head-to-head in the corner. I wonder if I shouldn’t have said that. Sonja could still be a princess.
Dietan’s green-blue eyes sparkle, and it’s frustrating how they look exactly like summer sunshine. “I’m not talking about your sister.”
I frown. If he’s shown any interest in another woman, I haven’t noticed it, which means that his intentions are superficial at best and indifferent at worst. Will he tell this mystery woman his secret? Or will she live out her days not knowing who her husband truly is? I feel sorry for whoever he does choose.
Dietan closes the gap between us, and I step back in surprise.
He’s so close now, I can smell his cologne, and it makes my head swim. Goddess, why does he smell so good? It’s overwhelming, making it impossible to think straight. I’m hit by a flash of memory of when he rescued me from the marquis—how his shoulder felt, pressed against my face, how his scent wrapped around me like a promise of safety. My chest tightens, a confusing mix of longing and regret twisting inside me.
“Hey, uh, don’t walk away. I need to ask you something,” he says.
“If it’s about biscuits—or kings—it can wait until after my sister’s party,” I snap defensively, continuing to back away. Ophelia doesn’t deserve us making a scene tonight.
