“You’re an excellent dancer,” Leland murmurs near my ear. His head bends, his lips only a breath away, his closeness tickling my exposed skin. “You tolerate my lanky body so well.” His tone is self-deprecating, but I smile behind the mask.
“You’re too harsh on yourself. Word of your dancing skill reached me long ago.” He sends me into a heart-thudding twirl before drawing me back in. “Did you think I’d choose a husband who couldn’t share one of my favorite pastimes?”
He chuckles before spinning me again. “No, we cannot have Princess Genevieve standing by the wall because her flat-footed husband cannot dance properly.”
“We must certainly avoid that disaster.” As he pulls me close, I wish I felt something more—a spark, a flutter—anything beyond this quiet sense of contentment. Leland makes me laugh, he dances beautifully, and yet I feel no romantic stirring for my future husband.
It’s all simply… fine. I know there is a chance romance might come later. It will, in time—I’m sure of it. Until then, we’ll make do with friendship.
As the music fades, the court and guests descend onto the floor, partners lining up for the first dance with the court.
“Shall we?” Leland asks, and I agree. It’s true, I love dancing. I love the feeling of being swept away by my partner, and knowing that Leland is a good dancer makes it easy to partner with him again.
This song is just as lively as the last, and Leland pulls me close enough to border on indecency—which isn’t difficult to do in Queen Penelope’s court. But we aren’t the only ones. Other couples are already quite close, emboldened by the semblance of anonymity. As we dance, we talk and laugh together. The more time I spend with Leland, the more certain I become that I can make this work, even if our marriage is destined to be founded on friendship and little else.
After our second dance, Leland helps me find another glass of sparkling wine, and Lord Ambrose—one of my mother’s councilors—asks me to dance. I accept, even though I know he’s not the most talented of partners.
Leland assures me that he’d like to dance with me again before our engagement is announced, then leaves to ask Astoria to dance. Unlike me, Astoria prefers to observe the balls from the edges of the room, and I’m surprised to see her gloved hand in his.
The dance with Lord Ambrose is a slower tune, which spares my feet from being trampled too many times, butonce is quite enough.
After that, I dance with several dignitaries and lords until Astoria pulls me aside, insisting I have a drink and something to eat.
“You’ll exhaust yourself if you continue like that, and they still haven’t even announced your engagement!”
I take small sips of lemonade and bites of a savory dish.
“What do you think of Prince Leland?” I ask. She’s danced with him twice, and I hope she’s formed an opinion.
Astoria looks thoughtful as she gazes at the dancers. “He seems to fit your requirements for a husband. His experience helping his sister rule Icelantica will be invaluable, and he appears to be a man with a charming disposition.”
I purse my lips. “But?”
Astoria shrugs, and if I could see her whole face, I know she’d be giving me that exasperated look she always does when she thinks I’m overthinking. “But what? You’ve been clear about what you want in a husband. I think he’ll do well enough.”
My shoulders slump slightly before I catch myself and stand straight. “I like him. He’s kind. It’s just… I don’t feel any romantic inclinations toward him yet. And I worry.”
“Give it time,” my sensible little sister replies. “You’ve only just met, and you shouldn’t put unnecessary pressure on yourself. I understand your reasons—your gift, the time constraints. You want to feelsomethingfor him before he’s overtaken by your gift, but forcing the matter won’t help.”
I take a deep breath. “You’re right. It’s just that I need this to work with him. Everything depends on this union being a success.”
Astoria shakes her head, probably already weary of my worries. As the music slows, I notice a man approaching us. In the dim light of the ballroom, it takes me a moment to realize who it is.
It’s Mr. Morris Blackwell—and my traitorous heart leaps when he takes my hand and asks me to dance.
5
Genevieve
Ihold my breath for the first count of the dance, trying to calm my nerves as I feel Mr. Blackwell’s hand slide down my waist. Lower, lower still—so low that it makes me give the tiniest squeak. But despite the quiet chuckle that tells me he heard, he doesn’t move his hand higher. Instead, I see his full lips tilt into a smirk.
To make matters worse, Mr. Blackwell isn’t wearing gloves, and the scrape of his calloused hand against my lace bodice sends a tingle down my spine. It’s odd that a man of such wealth has the build of someone accustomed to manual labor. Not for the first time, I wonder how he came into his fortune. Of course, it would be rude to ask, so I stifle my curiosity. His other hand remains on the gloved part of my upper arm, a small relief that I don’t have to worry about my curse overtaking him. But the gentle press of his fingers and the roughness of his callouses through the silk of my gloves heat my blood. There’s an intimacy between us that is startling, and yet I cannot bring myselfto ask for more space. It’s as though my own curse is finally working its way through my body—and it’s happening with the wrong man.
He leads me across the floor with graceful movements that seem incongruous with his large, muscular frame and those roughened hands. The candelabras cast him in a soft glow, and for a moment it feels as though the rest of the dancers fade away, leaving only us and the music.
“Mr. Blackwell, you’re an excellent dancer,” I remark, trying to break the silence hanging between us. His eyes are fixed on my face before drifting lower.
He pulls me closer, and I can feel the heat of his body against mine. My heart quickens as he leans nearer. Although the resemblance to Kieran is there, it’s his distinct features that undo me—the precise tailoring of his suit emphasizing his strong build, the proud jawline visible beneath the raven-feather mask. He’s a gorgeous man, and I’ve quite forgotten myself when he lifts me, spinning me before catching me effortlessly. Honestly, his form should be a thing of study. Observe: the perfect male specimen.
