It was difficult to imagine that this was the same man Rinka had met on the train in rags. The same man who had said such delightfully naughty things to her just hours earlier. He was the picture of class and grace in white tie, the long coat accentuating his impressive height, the lines of the jacket highlighting his trim, muscular figure. She forgot not only the names she was trying to remember as she looked at him.
She forgot her own name.
He hadn’t seen her yet, and she relished the chance to watch him without his knowledge. It was like being let in on his secret, private world for just a moment, watching him adjust his cufflinks and run a hand through his slicked-back hair.
Then he spotted her. His lips parted and his eyes followed the lines of embroidery on her gown down her body, drinking her in.
It was so open, such a brazen display of his desire and appreciation, that it raised goosebumps on her arms.
“You look ravishing,” he said when he met her at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you sure you want to go to this ball? We could always spend the evening under the stars.”
Gods, it was tempting. But she had a purpose here. The stars would have to wait.
“And waste all of those dance lessons? I, for one, would like to see how you move,” said Rinka. It was true. She was deeply looking forward to watching him move around the dance floor, to the light, teasing touches they would be allowed to share there.
It wouldn’t be enough—not by a long shot—but at this point, she wasn’t sure if she could get enough of him.
“Very well, then,” he said. “You know, I usually hate these things, but I’ll admit I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”
“And why is that?” asked Rinka.
Idris looked at her as if she were being quite obtuse. “Because of you, of course.”
“Because of the opportunity to play our little game?”
Idris shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, of course that. But truthfully, I’m just looking forward to seeing you in the crowd. Watching the way you interact with people—I’m not sure you even notice it, but you light up every room you’re in. Your joy—it’s infectious. I feel guilty for keeping you to myself.”
Rinka didn’t know what to say. “I—thank you.”
They arrived at the queue into the ballroom. There, they were separated, seeing as they were unmarried, and each introduced to the party alone.
“Idris, Prince of Loegria and Wilderise.”
Idris entered the room to quite a few looks from the crowd gathered there, and more than a few looks from the eligible young ladies. Rinka wondered if any of them would be the one he’d marry, and she found herself surprised at the pain the thought gave her.
“Lady Rinka of Paistos.”
Rinka descended the grand staircase to the ballroom, and she felt every eye in the room turn to her. It was truly a magnificent gown to have earned such attention, she thought.
Before she was even off the staircase, an elf gentleman with long, blonde hair had approached her. “Might I ask you for a dance this evening, my lady? I’m Roderas, Duke of Westmark.”
Westmark. Rinka tried to recall what she’d been told about him—was he the one who enjoyed fox hunting? Or perhaps it was falconry.
“It would be my pleasure, your grace,” she said with a curtsy.
“Pencil me in for the second waltz. I’m afraid I’m hopeless with the quadrille.”
It took Rinka mere minutes to fill her card. She left two dances open: the first and the last. Idris hadn’t asked her to, but surely he would once she found him again.
And where had he gone anyway? The room was full to the brim with courtiers, and so many of them wanted to talk to her. This was exactly how she was hoping it would go, but she found that everything was just a bit less fun without him around, as if the room had lost some of its color.
“There you are,” said Idris finally, coming up behind her during a conversation with the Countess of Mossbury and placing his hand on her back. “I hope you’ve saved a dance for me.”
“Two, actually,” said Rinka, and he beamed at her.
“Let’s see which ones.” He took the card from her and steered her away from the countess. “The first waltz—very good. Lots of contact in that one. And the last one—a polka. No, that’s no good. Sorry, Mr. Alfred Herrington. No tango for you this evening.” He scratched off poor Mr. Herrington’s name and replaced it with his own. “Trust me on this.”
“How rude of you,” said Rinka. “What if I happened to like Mr. Herrington?”
