She clutched the shirt to her chest, her lids growing heavy at the heady scent of him, a mix of woodsmoke and pine, like the first flush of winter.
He was still staring at her, and she had the absurd fear that he could hear the sudden rattle of her heart. ‘If you want me for your training exercises, you need only ask,’ he said, quietly. ‘It’s no trouble.’
She stalled in the doorway, half thinking about taking him up on his offer just so she could see more of him, so they could continue to share in that simmering passion for all things wild and unfettered, to talk more about the beast in the mountain, but then a scurrying servant carrying a vase of lilies bumbled past her. And she remembered—
‘I’ll leave you to your wedding preparations, Your Majesty,’ she said, vaguely gesturing towards the stately ballroom. ‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’
He surprised her with a snort. ‘This unseemly chaos has nothing to do with my wedding, Iversen. It’s for tonight’s welcome ball.’
‘Oh.’ She slammed her teeth into her bottom lip to keep from smiling in relief.‘My mistake.’
He frowned. ‘Hasn’t anyone mentioned the ball to you?’
‘I don’t see why they would.’ She shrugged, as she stepped back into the corridor. ‘I hope it all goes well, Your Majesty.’
‘You’ll see for yourself.’ He braced his hands on the door frame as he leaned out after her. ‘I expect you to be there.’
And then he was gone. Greta stood alone in the hallway, the stir of her relief quickly turning to panic. The king was insisting she attend his ball.
And she did not have a single dress to her name.
CHAPTER 17
Alarik
Alarik stood in the heart of the ballroom of Grinstad Palace, wearing an ivory frock coat and a menacing scowl. Beside him, stood the dowager queen Valeska in a trailing lavender gown and a diamond-encrusted tiara. Alarik was already regretting choosing his father’s crown for the occasion. The gilded branches were digging into his scalp and making his head pound.
Or perhaps that was the welcome ball itself, the importance of tonight weighing heavily on his shoulders. The first members of the Halgard delegation had already arrived in regalia that proudly displayed the exorbitant wealth of their kingdom. The princess’s court had dressed in an array of magnificent gowns. Autumnal hues of amber and gold and sage and ochre, their ringleted hair adorned with vines of fresh flowers. Their guards were dressed no less finely, in fitted olive-green frock coats emblazoned with the silvered crest of Halgard and carrying ceremonial swords with ornate pommels and long, narrow blades.
They mingled gladly with the Gevran nobility, who had come in traditional outfits of leather and fur and velvet, and were clustering around the edges of the room,sampling canapes from gold-leaf platters. There were all sorts of delicacies on offer, including mini sausages rolled in a fluffy pastry crust, cheese tartlets drizzled in honey, sage and anchovy fritters, and pork belly slathered in chilli and marmalade. Grand ice sculptures of howling wolves marked each serving table, spouting frostfizz into tiers of goblets.
There were pillar candles everywhere and even more hanging from the ceiling, casting a romantic glow about the ballroom, which was expertly complemented by countless vases of midnight lilies. Unlike the previous balls at Grinstad, the king’s beasts were not on display tonight. For one thing, Alarik didn’t want to distract them from their training, and for another, he thought it wise not to frighten off the entire Halgard delegation so soon upon arrival.
Word of tonight’s ball would soon reach King Nilas, and if proceedings did not go smoothly, he might decide to rescind his offer of assistance in the oncoming war. Only Borvil, Alarik’s beloved ice bear, had been brought inside for the occasion. Still sleepy from hibernation, he was snoozing contentedly on the dais beside the king’s throne.
Alarik sighed as more revellers poured into the ballroom. He was already weary from small talk, his cheeks strained from forced smiling. A servant darted past with a tray of wine glasses and his fingers twitched to take one.
His mother’s hand came to his arm. ‘Not until the welcoming is done.’
‘It’s one glass.’Then maybe six more.
‘You must be the picture of elegance and refinement tonight.’
He glared sidelong at her. She was smiling serenely,waggling her fingers at one of her many cousins, a bearded giant with a thick tangle of hair.
‘Our guests are still arriving. Try not to frighten them off with that hideous grimace, Alarik. Once the music begins, you can revel and dance all you like with your beloved.’
Alarik blew a wayward strand out of his eye. He didn’t want to revel and dance. He wanted to down three glasses of frostfizz, a fistful of canapes and take his bad mood out into the cold night air where he could be as far away from his simpering court as possible.
‘I hate pleasantries.’
‘You have made that more than clear, son.’
‘And people,’ he added, churlishly.
‘Notallpeople,’ she said, tossing another smile at an approaching guest.
No, he supposed not. Alarik didn’t hate his mother or his sister, who he missed desperately tonight. If Anika were here, she’d commandeer the entire evening and do all this hideous diplomatic chit-chat for him. Alarik hadn’t hated his father either – he had worshipped him every day until he drowned. And every day since. He had adored Ansel, his idealistic younger brother who had been the best thing about his family, until he died. And Alarik didn’t hate Captain Vine or his cousin, Elias. He actively sought out their company, in fact, enjoying their verbal sparring just as much as the physical.
