I clench my hands on the spine of my book to stop myself from sighing in frustration. I strive to keep my tone pleasant, and even attempt a smile. “Well, if you are certain, why are you continuing to askme?”
“Stop being so cheeky,” Mother retorts despite my efforts, and this time there is no amusement about her.
“What’s this?” My father is looking at me with tender-eyed concern. “Do you not wish to marry, Freya?”
“Of course she does,” Mother says before I can voice any opinion on my own account. “Freya knows everything we have taught her, the sacrifices we have made to ensure she have only the best education, were all leading to this moment. And now that it is here, you are glad, are you not, dear?”
There is a warning note to her voice, and though I know nothing will come of it, it would be such a pity if she were to ignore my existence for the next fortnight. Especially given that if she has her way, it may very well be my last.
“I am, Mother. I am indeed.”Of course, I shall be far gladder to read in peace without the constant distraction of these trivial conversations.
“You see? I told you, my love—our daughter knows her duty.”
This is true. Every highborn lady grows up hearing all about her duty to king and country—and family, placed only slightly below those—from the moment she can discern language. And for many a poor lady, the lectures on familial obligation begin well before then.
“Even so, I would like to see you a bit more excited, Freya.”
Forcing myself to swallow back my sigh, I regard Mother with a somber expression. “I shan’t like to think about it, Mother. I shall miss you, and Father, too, of course. I think of it every day, how I shan’t be here anymore…” I shift my eyes to the drawing room window and bring a delicately curled fist to my mouth.
“Come, dearest. Perhaps we should allow Freya a few minutes to herself. Perhaps then she will not be tempted to conceal a book in the pocket of her gown at the next ball.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see them exchange exasperated looks before my father rises and holds out a hand for my mother. Her gown rustles softly, and neither of them says anything further until Mother pauses in the doorway.
“Enjoy your book, my dear.”
“Thank you, Mother,” I murmur. Once they have gone, the heat of their gazes off me at last, I return to my novel just as I have been instructed. But I struggle to concentrate on the story in my hands. It is one of adventure, and romance, and was once just the thing to entice my imagination for an entire afternoon and beyond.
But there is a pit in my stomach, a weight that I cannot shake no matter what I do. If not for it, I would attempt to put off my mother and father’s plans for a season, but it is a folly I cannot afford.
Gregor
The shuffling of cards would be overtaken by the sound of my pounding heart if the gentlemen could hear it. The tension in the room is as thick as the curling pipe smoke in the air—made more so, perhaps, by the silence. There are no polite murmurings, nofriendly wagers being called out. Not so much the shift of a chair to disturb the concentration of the men playing.
I wait with the rest of them, my eyes trained on the Prince, willing myself to appear confident and unaffected, however the cards may fall.
His Highness grins as though my thoughts are displayed on my face, despite my wishes. He slides off the top card, pauses dramatically until I fear one of my compatriots may shout at him, and deftly flips it onto the green baize for all of to see.
The card has a cream background speckled with a blue pattern. A man—hair of gold, crowned with a jaunty feather cap. He holds a double-edged blade, and the image is reflected top and bottom of the card. The suit matters not, for a knave of any house would beat out His Majesty’s nine of clubs.
Slowly, I release my breath, and my chest eases.
“Well.” The Prince reaches for the card, picks it up between his royal fingers, and holds it out for the room to see, though surely no man present has missed it.
My chest constricts once more. In truth, I do not have a name for my fear—that some man shall challenge my prize? That the Heir will change his mind? Whatever the reason, the air around me swells with tension to the point that I struggle to pull it into my lungs.
The room is silent. I am acutely aware of my own ragged breathing, which is all my ears detect. My eyes roam, and I am suddenly taken by the gold chain of Lord Carlisle’s pocket watch—for I can not bear to look at his drawn face. My gaze flits to the Baron—there is no censure in his expression, but I cannot meet his eye, either. Instead, I observe his coat. His attire has always been of the finest fashion.
My eyes cannot seem to stay on any object for long, and travel once more, this time to the rich mahogany wall. Affixed to the wall is a sconce, and it flickers with golden light.
“Well.”
The Prince’s voice draws my eye at once, and I feel my throat constrict, though I take great pains that no one present shall see it.
“Well done, Your Grace—Fortune has always favored you, even more than its Prince.” He gives a small, self-mocking smile as he taps the card on the table. “I should have known better than to enter into such a game with you.”
This time when I let out the pent-up air in my breast, I smile at His Highness. I cannot help myself. He has called meYour Graceand the words are better than any music I have ever heard.
“Well played,” Baron Sumtner murmurs, “Your Grace.”
