The sight of her in that pretty powder-blue dress makes me ache. The fabric catches the candlelight and shimmers like water every time she moves. It clings to her waist before flowing out in waves of silk. Her hair is pinned up, exposing the curve of her neck—the same neck I kissed this morning while she was bent over the breakfast table.
I want to be over there with them. I want to be the one making her laugh while standing close enough to smell her perfume.
Instead, I’m trapped on this throne with Tatiana beside me, watching from above, while the woman I’ve fallen stupidly in love with has to pretend like I don’t exist.
“You’re staring,” Tatiana says.
“I’m observing the guests.”
“You’re staring ather.” She leans closer, her voice dropping. “Half the room has noticed. You look like a man watching his mistress instead of his future wife.”
“I am watching my future wife,” I state.
She laughs, and it’s sarcastic. “It will be interesting to see what happens.”
The waltz ends, and another begins, something faster and more playful. I watch Delphine grab Addison’s hand and pull her toward the dance floor, both of them stumbling slightly as they find their positions. Addison protests, shaking her head, but Delphine insists. Peer pressure wins again.
The dance is a traditional one, with partners rotating through the line. I know exactly where Addison will end up if the rotation continues.
I stand.
“Louis”—Tatiana’s voice is sharp—“what are you doing?”
“Dancing.”
“You can’t just?—”
I’m already descending the platform steps, crossing the ballroom floor toward the forming lines. I slide into the men’s row just as the music shifts, timing my entrance so the rotation will bring her to me.
The first partner is a countess whose name I immediately forget. We circle, bow, exchange. The second is a young woman who blushes furiously when our hands touch. Circle, bow, exchange. The third issomeone’s wife, nervous and overeager, stepping on my feet twice before we separate.
Then the rotation brings me face-to-face with Addison.
She’s breathing hard from the dance, loose strands of hair curling against her flushed cheeks. The champagne has put color in her face, and she’s relaxed. When her hand slides into mine, a buzzing hums through me.
“Your Highness,” she says, and there’s a teasing lilt to her voice.
“Miss Cross.”
We circle each other, following the steps of the dance, but neither of us is paying attention to the choreography. Her eyes are locked on mine through her silver mask, and I can’t stop staring.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper as we move closer.
“You look like you’re about to do something reckless.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Don’t,” she says. “Not yet.”
The music fills the room, and we spin together. My arm is tight around her waist, and her hand rests on my shoulder.
My palms slide lower on her back, pressing her closer than the dance calls for. I can feel the warmth of her through the thin silk of her dress and the curve of her hip beneath my palm.
“People are watching,” she says breathlessly.
“Let them.”
The crowd around us blurs into streaks of color and candlelight, and there’s only her, and the heat between us, and the desperate need to close the distance and claim her mouth in front of everyone.
