“That does not mean?—”
“Has it occurred to you, Greyonyx, that perhaps she desires no man? A lady can be a living jewel, and just as cold and cutting if you get too close. You would do well to consider that.”
My gaze has found her on the dance floor, and I watch as she performs the steps of a minuet. She is precise and graceful in every move and curtsey.
“Perhaps you are better at playing cards,” the Prince suggests, though his customary merrymaking tone takes out some of the sting. “Choose a woman—any woman. You have a title and looks pleasing enough to make a good life for yourself whoever you choose.”
“Is that what you intend to do, sir?” I ask, not once looking away from my lady as she dips and sways.
He groans good-naturedly. “When my parents finally force me to wed—and I feel that day swiftly approaches—that is precisely what I shall do. Better that than to be tormented by passion that is unrequited.”
I incline my head. “Perhaps so. And yet… I shall have to try. Until she is wed, the chase is not over.”
“Hmm. You must do as your heart bids you, I suppose. Thank Heaven my position means I cannot trouble with such things.”
“Thank Heaven,” I echo warily. “I hope Fortune allows me to be present when your time comes so that I may offer you such wisdom, should the need arise.”
The Prince laughs softly and claps my shoulder. “Stick to cards, Greyonyx. I fear you will be no better at wisdom than you are at professing love.” With that, he slips away.
I hardly notice. Despite the Prince’s mocking words, I have no such notions of a love-match. Desire for the Lady Freya is a pain that has long beat in my breast, and I must be free of it.
Lady Freya
“Another dance, my lady?”
“Oh, thank you, my lord, but I need a respite.” I clutch my breast dramatically, even though I am not in earnest. I love dancing. I do not love the idle gossip, the polite niceties that must be observed, or the hairstyles that make my head pound, but I would dance my slippers threadbare.
“We will have the last dance, then?” he inquires.
I force myself to smile and nod my agreement. Then I bob a curtsey before hurrying to the balcony for much-desired fresh air. As I slide outside, my skin instantly soothed by the cooling caress of evening, I exhale, trying to regain my composure. I was beginning to feel far too hot in the ballroom. Some of it was likely due to the focused attention of my dance partner. Now that my father has agreed to our betrothal, the man seems intent upon talking me to death.
This is no easy feat, given that he and I have already exhausted our three topics of conversation—weather, what balls we will attend for the remainder of the season, and which foods we hope will be provided tonight. He is far from being an unattractive man, but when I study him, taking in his dark eyes and tanned face, I feel…nothing.
Not nothing. I feel bored and vexed at being charged with his entertainment.
But I must resign myself. After all, this will be my life now—I shall be bored, but entertaining nonetheless. He is handsome, charming, and composed—all the things I have been taught to admire. I merely do not desire him, but that matters not. Ladies rarely know desire in their marriage.
“I thought I was the only one who sought solace out here.”
I jerk around to see a man leaning against the column. The moonlight and the wall sconces flanking the doorway serve to illuminate his figure. I gasp and press my hand to my rapidly beating heart before I recognize him to be Gregor, the new duke of Fairwynd.
“Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to frighten you.”
“I’m not frightened,” I return automatically, before I have even stopped to weigh my own words.
“Ah, merely startled then.” His lips curve into a smile that does odd things to me.
My heart, which should be settling now that I know there is nothing to fear, picks up speed like a horse commanded to canter.How strange. I glance over my shoulder at the tall paned doors. The music and gay chatter floats out toward me.
“I should go back inside?—”
"Surely not. You have only just arrived.”
Heat surges to my cheeks. He is right, of course, and I am horrified to realize what a ninny I sound like. But I cannot help it. I’ve retreated here to find solitude and repose, yet somehow,despite the breeze of the early evening, the air has become stifling.
“You look as though you need the fresh air,” he observes, his dark eyes assessing me so that the heat of his regard moves across my skin like a caress.
I have never felt anything like it, and a shiver steals over me.
