“You’re glaring.”
“I’m not glaring. I’m observing.”
Solomon rolled his eyes. “You’re glaring observantly, then.”
A footman with a tray of champagne materialised at Viggo’s elbow. Viggo took a glass more for something to do with his hands than any desire to drink. The last thing he needed tonight was dulled reflexes.
The ballroom they eventually entered was the definition of sumptuous, with ceilings painted in elaborate frescoes depicting what Viggo assumed were important moments in Belgian history and gilt and crystal everywhere he looked. A string orchestra played something refined and forgettable in one corner. The chamber quickly crowded with nobles and dignitaries already engaging in the peculiar dance of nobles socialising—all false smiles and hidden agendas.
Viggo hated every moment of it.
“Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Rufus said through a fixed smile.
“I am enjoying myself.”
Rufus shot him a warning glance. “You look like you’re contemplating murder.”
“That’s my enjoying myself face.”
Solomon snorted into his champagne.
Ginny swept past them in an opulent green gown, her arm linked with that of a silver-haired Belgian count who was gazing at her with besotted admiration. She laughed at something he’d said with convincing delight.
Solomon sobered beside Viggo.
“Where’s Shaw?” Rufus muttered.
Viggo swept the room with his gaze. “Over there.”
Shaw had cornered what appeared to be a Belgian court mage near the refreshment table. Viggo could hear snatches of their conversation—something about “crystalline resonance patterns” and “thaumic field variations”—and watched the court mage’s expression shift from polite interest to genuine enthusiasm to what might have been alarm as Shaw’s questions grew increasingly technical.
“Should we rescue him?” Solomon asked.
“Give her five more minutes,” Viggo murmured. “She might learn something useful.”
“Or make the poor man faint from shock,” Rufus grumbled.
“Well, at least she’s not asking him about his sexual habits,” Solomon said laconically.
Rufus choked on his drink.
A stir near the entrance drew Viggo’s attention a short while later. A young woman accompanied by a retinue of ladies-in-waiting had entered the ballroom. The subtle shift in the crowd’s energy told him she was someone of importance.
She was striking rather than beautiful, with honey-brown hair arranged in an elaborate style and pale hazel eyes. Her gown was the blue of a winter sky, tasteful rather than ostentatious, and she moved through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being watched.
Fairbridge appeared next to Viggo.
“Princess Eloïse of Belgium,” he murmured. “Niece of the King.”
Viggo filed this information away as the princess made her way through the room, pausing to exchange pleasantries with various guests. It took but a moment for him to notice that there was something deliberate about her path. He followed the line of her approach and realised she was working her way toward Princess Victoria and the cluster of German dignitaries.
And Evander.
The princess reached the duke just as the orchestra struck up a waltz. Whatever she said made Victoria smile and Evander bow formally. A moment later, he was leading Princess Eloïse onto the dance floor.
Something hot and sharp twisted in Viggo’s chest.
He watched them move together through the opening steps of the dance, Evander’s hand resting properly at the princess’s waist, their movements perfectly synchronised. She was saying something that made him smile—that rare, genuine smile that Viggo had come to think of as his—and inclining her head close to his ear.
