I gaze at her. In the soft lighting of the Grand Hall, without her blazer and with her hair styled differently, there's something almost familiar about her profile. Something beyond her official photo. Something I can’t quite pinpoint, but it’s familiar.
I shake the thought away. I've met thousands of people at events like this over the years. They all start to blur together.
I smile at the sea of faces watching us, and Fabiana stiffens at my side.
My instinct is to give her a reassuring squeeze, but she’d probably see it as a declaration of war. So instead, I capture her gaze with mine. “You’ve got this,” I tell her, surprising even myself at how protective I sound.
“Thank you,” she replies softly, and something shifts in my chest.
She might be the woman I’ve despised all these years. She might be a journalist here to do a job. But right now, she’s a lot like a deer in headlights.
I get it. Being in this room may be second nature to me, but to her, it’s probably pretty intimidating.
A waiter offers us drinks on a silver tray, and I snag two flutes of champagne, offering her one.
She takes it with a tense smile.
“Go on. Take a decent slug. You’ll feel better when you do. Take it from a professional champagne drinker.”
She takes one sip, and then another. “You’re right. Much better.” Her shoulders relax a notch. “Why are you suddenly being nice to me?”
I almost choke on my drink. “What do you mean?”
“One minute you’re acting all suspicious about me looking at a music box, and then next you’re offering me a tip on how to get through tonight.” She holds her glass aloft. “It was a good tip, by the way.”
The thing is I’m not sure how to handle this woman. On the one hand, she’s clever and witty and utterly gorgeous, the kind of woman I want to get to know a whole lot better. On the other hand, she’s my enemy.
A man whose dinner jacket is straining at the seams approaches us and bows to me.
It’s Lord Blackwood. The universe has a twisted sense of humor, presenting me with one of Father's most groveling hangers-on just when I'm trying to navigate my complicated feelings for Fabiana.
"Good evening, Your Royal Highness," he simpers in a reedy voice that doesn’t match his frame.
"It's nice to see you, Cyril," I reply. As a member of the royal family, lying gracefully is part of my job description.
His beady eyes swivel to Fabiana, like a predator spotting fresh prey. “And who is this gorgeous creature on your arm tonight, sir?” he asks, his eyes roving over her in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
“Allow me to introduce Ms. Fabiana Fontaine. Ms. Fontaine, this is Lord Blackwood,” I say.
She unhooks her arm from mine, extending her hand with the kind of confidence that, despite her obvious nervousness of being in this room, tells me she's capable of handling leering aristocrats. “It's nice to meet you, Lord Blackwood.”
Blackwood blinks like an owl. "Fabiana Fontaine? As intheFabiana Fontaine? The gossip columnist?"
“I prefer the term 'royal correspondent,' Lord Blackwood,” she replies with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I have to admire her composure.
“I'm sure you do,” he says. He’s still gawking at her as though he could eat her right up. He pulls on my sleeve, and I turn to him. “Granted, she’s a pretty young thing, but why, pray tell, are you entertaining this woman, sir? Don’t you know who she is?”
Something hot flares in my chest. He’s speaking about her as if she's an object, not standing right here, listening to every word he says.
“Ms. Fontaine is here to document my life for the next month, Cyril. She’s a guest here.” I hear the edge in my own voice. I've just publicly defended the woman who's spent years making my life difficult.
If someone had told me last week that I would be defending Fabiana Fontaine to a member of the aristocracy, I would have laughed in their face.
That’s not something I ever thought I would "But she's—" Blackwood starts, and I already know I don't want to hear the rest.
I open my mouth to respond when Fabiana jumps in. “The enemy?” she offers, and as her eyes flash to mine, my lips twitch.
