He must sense my shift in mood, for he lowers his voice, tone gentle. “What I mean is you must have seen this smirk in action before. I want to see it.”
I breathe away the memories that threaten to invade this moment, lock them back where they belong in the recesses of my mind. “Oh, fine,” I say. “Now, look away for a few seconds. When you meet my gaze, watch what I do.”
He does as told, rolling his eyes as he turns around, then slowly finds my gaze again.
When our eyes meet, I allow them to lock.One, two, three.Then, letting just a corner of my mouth lift, I slowly turn my head, breaking eye contact at the last second possible. I look around the room, then drop the act and return to face him. “See?”
His expression is blank, eyes fixated on my lips. Then they slowly rise to meet mine, and once again, he holds my gaze for far too long. I lift my brows as a silent cue, and he sighs. Quirking his mouth in something that looks closer to a snarl than a smirk, he breaks eye contact and looks away.
I’m forced to hide my laughter behind a cough. “It needs practice, but you got my hint at least. For now, I suggest you play the stoic gentleman and simply look away.”
“Care to leave my parlor yet?” he says through his teeth.
“I will take my leave,” I say. “But first, I want to call you something other than Your Majesty.”
“Your Majesty will do. Goodnight.”
“Come, now. If I am to hide from Imogen that you’re the king, I can’t introduce you as such. You need a proper name. One that makes you sound like a refined gentleman.”
“I have a name.”
“But you do not remember it.”
He stalks toward the hearth, pacing before it, brow wrinkled. “I’ve tried so hard to recall it. Sometimes I think it’s there, right on the edge of my mind. I can almost hear it ringing in my ears. Something like…Floyd…Farris…Varis…Elvis…”
I bark a laugh. “Elvis?”
He growls and shakes his head. “Freeze off.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, smothering my laughter. “Can I give you a name then?”
“I doubt you’ll take no for an answer.”
“That’s true.” I take a few steps closer, squinting at him while I try to find a name that matches his face. Not the wild mane of hair or frizzy beard, but the man beneath all that. The one with wine-colored eyes who likes to brood by the fire. “Elliot Rochester,” I finally say.
“What kind of name is that?”
“Rochester is the name of my favorite brooding hero from one of my most beloved novels,The Governess and the CursedPalace. And Elliot…well, Elliot just seems to suit you.”
He shuffles over to his chair and returns to his seat with a huff. “Fine.”
I cross the parlor and stop at the door, looking back at him as he drapes a blanket over his lap and pulls his chair closer to the fire. With the memory of laughter still tingling my lips, I can’t help but think perhaps the wolf king isn’t the worst after all. Maybe he does have a chance at wooing Imogen Coleman. “Goodnight, Elliot Rochester.”
“It’s Your Majesty,” he grumbles. But as I enter the hall, I’m almost positive I hear him mutter, “Goodnight, Gemma Bellefleur.”
16
All sense of ease, triumph, and hope I may have felt last night disappears as soon as the sun rises. I wake with a start, bolting upright in my new bed and my new room with nothing but dread filling every inch of my being.
I know what must be done. It is my own scheme that makes me do it. And yet, the thought of returning to town makes my knees quake.
Throwing off my covers, I force myself out of bed. My bare feet meet the chilly flagstones, and I make a mental note to add several rugs to my list of essential purchases for the manor. I cast a glance at the hearth, finding it has cooled to embers overnight. When I returned from the parlor last night, I was surprised to find a fire had been made and my bedding changed. My sodden boots had been left by the fire and my wet clothes taken away, hopefully to be washed. Even though I’ve yet to appoint anyone but the cook to an official position, it seems someone has started taking initiative.
I wrinkle my brow at my boots. They are likely dry and warm from being left by the fire, but my feet still ache from running in them yesterday. Thinking better of it, I turn to the wardrobe instead. Last night, I inspected the bottom drawer and found some nightdresses and thick hose, which I now wear. This time, I rifle through the drawer above it and retrieve a pair of wool gloves, a fur caplet, and a soft, close-fitting, fur-trimmed hat. The fur on both the caplet and hat is a rich brown, softer than any fur I’ve ever felt before. I must admit, the king’s ambassador has excellent taste.
Setting aside my new findings, I open the wardrobe and investigate the shelf above the dresses. There I find three pairs of boots. All are far more durable than mine are, made from supple black leather and lined with fur. The soles are wide and textured for traction. I try one on, doubting they’ll fit, but I find they are close enough. The ambassador, it seems, has long narrow feet, making them just slightly too long for me. I fetch a second pair of hose from the drawer, which will hopefully help me fill the extra space in the boots, and then take out the same dark green dress and gray cloak I wore yesterday. As I pull the dress over my head, I feel a rush of panic at the thought that my unusual style of clothing could draw even more attention than I like. Luckily, the cloak will cover most of the dress, leaving nothing but the hem of my skirt visible. The caplet, hat, and gloves are modern enough.
Fully dressed and feeling much like an armored soldier ready for war, I do what I do every time I prepare to leave home and enter town—I go to the window. Unlike my view from the townhouse, here I see nothing but mountains and trees. All at once, my anxiety dissolves beneath my awe as I take in the frosted treetops, the gently falling snow, the pale sky brightening beneath the rising sun. Then, just like yesterday, my attention snags on something in the garden.
