“A future has been made with far less noble blood!”
I am buoyed by the gentlemen’s enthusiasm, but I still hold myself perfectly erect. Only one man’s word is of consequence.
When His Highness regards me again, he is smiling so that the dimple in his left cheek shows. “As you wish, Greyonyx.”
My pulse quickens and I hardly dare believe my own ears.
“Truly, Your Highness? But if I am to be his whist partner, what?—”
“I am certain we can find some reward well suited to your liking, Carlisle.” His Majesty gives me a searching look. “But what weighs more heavily on my mind—what do you propose if you lose?”
At long last, I allow the tension in my chest to be exhaled. “That is easily decided, Your Grace.”
“Pray tell, do go on.”
“I will do you the favor of selecting who will inherit the title.”
“Indeed,” the Prince murmurs. It is no secret that the task was foisted upon him by his father in an effort to interest him in his future responsibilities. But his father either does not know or does not care that such responsibility rankles His Highness. “Indeed. I accept your terms. Let us begin.”
My partner, once reluctant to play the hand, now takes up his cards with enthusiasm. I study my own with an odd mixture of trepidation and hope. Fortune truly does decide all now, and I know without a shadow of a doubt this will be the most important game I ever play.
Lady Freya
“My love, you shall never believe the latest offer!”
Quite content sitting on the window seat, tilting my book so that I might make good use of the sunlight, I do not trouble myself to look up. Besides, it is nearly certain my lady mother is not speaking to me, but to my father.
“Did you not hear me, Freya?” My mother’s voice grows in urgency. “Whatareyou reading?”
“A novel,” I say, sighing before she can seize the opportunity herself.
“Well.” It is clear by the way her gaze slides up and down me and the way I lounge against the sill that she does not care to be outpaced. “Perhaps you would like to pay attention? This isyourfuture we speak of, after all.”
I duck my head to hide a smile she will certainly find impertinent. My mother and father have occupied themselves with discussing my marital prospects for the greater part of a year, taking no notice when I lost interest. The only child of a renowned family, I am aware I am considered quite the conquest. The constant stream of attention from the gentlemen of the Beau Monde ceased to amuse me long ago. It is clear I am no more than an ornament to them—a fine prize to be possessed. Who wins matters not to me, for in every scenario, I am the loser.
My novels are far more entertaining. Yet, as blind as my mother and father seem to be in this matter, they are good to me, and we have always been close. I shall miss them most terribly when I am married, and I suspect similar thoughts keep them occupied with the status of the match I might make.
I set my book on my lap, careful to keep my page, and look at them expectantly. “Who, Mother? Oh, do tell before you implode from the suspense!”
“You are such an impertinent girl, Freya,” she scolds, but her heart is not in it.
I hide a smile—for that shall only prove her rebuke true—and since it is clear I shan’t be returning to my reading anytime soon, I look at the the two of them. One day, their plans shall come to fruition—indeed, I can ill afford themnotto—and I shan’t have the opportunity nearly as often. My mother has always been uncommonly beautiful, and time has scarcely touched it. Her skin is unblemished by wrinkles, and her hair still golden and lush. With her green eyes bright with excitement and her cheeks flushed pink, it is hard to recall she is not in the bloom of her youth.
The way my father gazes upon her says he too shares the sentiment. He is a dapper gentleman, tall and impeccably dressed in a suit that accentuates his broad shoulders. He has a dark mustachio—my mother teases that he keeps it merely to set the ladies’ tongues to wagging disapprovingly.
“They must havesomethingto disapprove of, my dear, or whatever will they do with themselves?” he always replies, prompting her to laugh, though she has doubtless heard it dozens of times.
My parents have a love-match—something rarer than a diamond, and far more precious.
My mother’s gaze finds my father as if she seeks to assure herself she has his attention as well before she leans forward. She has always possessed quite the flare for drama. “The Viscount of Malardy!”
My Father beams at her. “Oh, well done!” he cries, as though she herself was proposed to.
“Indeed. You always fancied him, did you not, Freya?”
“I did not,” I return wryly, picking up my book once more. Though my mother is incorrect in her assertion, for I have never exchanged more than two words with the Viscount, I will be relieved when the business of arranging my marriage is concluded. In truth, I can scarcely afford to wait any longer.
“Oh, come now! You did! I am certain of it!”
