“Please don’t, Your Majesty. I don’t want to talk about that.”
His eyes return to mine, and his expression softens. A corner of his mouth quirks into a halfhearted grin. “First of all, enough with that Your Majesty nonsense. Call me Elliot. I learned today that first names are considered quite an honor.” A smile tugs my lips at the jest in his voice. “Second of all, do you mind if we talk about something else?”
I furrow my brow. “Like what?”
“Anything,” he says with a shrug. “I can’t sleep.”
“Neither could I.”
“Well, then.” He straightens his posture with a hint of lighthearted mockery and offers me his arm. “This is another thing I learned tonight, thanks to your comprehensive list of dinner etiquette.”
I place my hand at the crook of his elbow, and we begin to walk, our steps slow and leisurely. “I’m pleased to discover you read it. Speaking of, how did the rest of the dinner go?”
His lips twist with a scowl. “It was the most unenjoyable thing I’ve ever been forced to endure.”
“But you endured it? Everyone made it out alive?”
“Barely. I followed your list. Finished dinner, adjourned to the parlor. I took my place by the fire, and most of the talking was done at me, more than with me, which I suppose I should be grateful for.”
“And Imogen?” I can’t say her name without another churn of my stomach. “Were you able to regain her favor?”
“She seemed to light up as soon as you left the dining hall. Hardly a moment passed before she recommenced with batting her lashes at me. I could barely stand to look at her after how vile she acted before you left.”
I shrug. “Well, now you see why I chose her for our scheme. I wouldn’t select just anyone to trick into sacrificing their greatest treasure.”
“No, I can certainly see why she is the one. All the guests were despicable, of course, but she more than the rest, followed by her mother. How many times must one touch another’s forearm when speaking?” He grimaces.
I let out a laugh but sober from it quickly. “You shouldn’t have defended me with Imogen, Elliot. You mustn’t come to my defense next time it happens.”
“Are you telling me I should expect more disrespect from her?”
“Not to you, which is all that matters. You must woo her, remember?”
He scoffs and looks away. “Woo her. Ha! Shouldn’t she be trying to impress me? Not…mocking my staff?”
“She probably thinks her cruelty is impressive. There are many stories about fae who value such a trait.”
“Cruelty is only admirable when it’s either humorous or deserved.”
“Is that so? And how do you know I don’t deserve her cruelty?” I mean it to come out cajoling, but he must sense the way my heart clenches hard in my chest.
He stops and faces me, tone firm. “You don’t.” Then, after a pause, he asks, “What did she mean, anyway? About the viscount?”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. Clearly, it’s something. If you want my promise that I won’t confront Imogen next time she says something vile, then you damn well better let me in on what exactly she lords over you. Perhaps I can steer the conversation better with that knowledge in mind.”
I study his face for a few moments, surprised at the sincerity I find there. Perhaps if he knew the truth, he’d understand. Just like everyone else who’s heard about it—my father, my former friends in Bretton, my older sister Marnie—he’ll deem me at fault for the mess. Then maybe he’ll be more amiable with Imogen.
I lift my chin. “If I tell you, promise you won’t scold me or school me in the importance of feminine virtue. I’ve had enough of those conversations to last a lifetime.”
“Why the freezing hell would I give a snow troll’s ass about feminine virtue?”
“Fine,” I grumble, then begin walking again. Elliot keeps pace at my side, our shoulders brushing now and then. With a deep breath, I begin. “As you know, I was raised in Isola. But after my mother died, Father moved us from there to the capital city in Bretton. There we lived for five years, and my sisters and I entered society as each of us came of age. After my eldest sister was married, it was my turn to secure a husband. So began the games of courtship, culminating in my meeting with the viscount.” My voice trembles on the last word.
I sense Elliot’s eyes on me but can’t bring myself to meet them.
Steeling my nerves, I try to imagine I’m simply narrating a story, something not about me but one of the fictional governesses in my books. This helps me continue with far less attachment to my words. “The Viscount of Brekshire—Oswald—pursued me more than any other man, and it didn’t take long for me to return his affections. We were in love, and he promised marriage would follow. There was just one complication.”
