“You’re the only hope I have.”
I cross the room in anxious pacing. “My family never thought I’d make a match, even at the best of times. I’m awkward and mouthy and not a beauty, not like my sister or the other girls in the competition. How am I supposed to make a prince fall in love with me?”
“You don’t see yourself very clearly, do you?”
I stop, finally still, but he’s been looking at me the whole time.“You really were just trying to help Lydia that night?” I ask.
He blinks slowly, then nods. “She looked like she needed a friend.”
“What about the night you ran me over—did I look like I needed a friend too?”
You know, you’rereally quitepretty.
He laughs like I’ve made a joke. “That was different.”
An awkward silence stretches between us, and he crosses the room to me.
“I’m scared,” I say. It feels worth telling him the truth.
Emmett places both hands on my shoulders, the warm weight of them steadying.
His voice is low and serious, but his eyes flicker like coals in the fire. “If you let me help you, Ivy Benton, you could be queen.”
Chapter Twelve
The other girls and I spend the next day at etiquette lessons, but I can barely focus, with Emmett’s conversation from last night playing in my head.
That evening, we’re summoned to the queen’s private apartments for dinner.
She sits at the end of the table in a gown of green silk so dark it’s almost black, a pearl tiara settled atop her dark hair. Behind her is a roaring fireplace, casting the room in oppressive warmth. There’s a chandelier covered in live gardenias and white orchids. I spot an iridescent green beetle crawling for cover between the petals.
“Ladies, do come in.” Her cool voice calls us as we skitter into the room like a flock of birds.
Faith and I haven’t spoken since yesterday. She’s avoided making all eye contact with me, but she’s seated next to me now.
The queen pulls out this morning’s newspaper and places it on the table.
“It seems you have already made quite the splash.”
I peer around Faith’s shoulder to get a better look. In bold black letters is the headlineTHE SIX.
The queen picks up the paper and begins to read. “‘The lovely young ladies impressed at Count Twombley’s ball, marking their first appearance in polite society as official suitors of the Prince of Wales.’”
The door to the dining room swings open, and Bram comes striding in, his muddy boots leaving footprints on the carpet.
“Mother.” He leans down and gives Queen Mor a kiss on the cheek. Then he turns and gives us a short bow. “Ladies, I apologize for my tardiness.”
“How was the shooting, darling?” Queen Mor asks, a warmth to her voice I’ve never heard.
Bram plops down in the empty chair next to her. “Terrible, but I must admit I am always a little relieved when the birds escape with their lives.”
A parade of white-gloved footmen come into the dining room to serve us, but the queen sits alone at the head of the table, without a plate in front of her.
We eat in awkward silence for a few minutes, except Bram, who appears unfazed. He wears a gold ring on each finger, and they click against his wineglass as he takes a sip.
The queen looks over at us and twists her mouth into an unsettling smile. In the candlelight, her moonlight-pale skin appears almost luminescent. “As a mother, I prioritize my son’s happiness above all else.”
“Oh, that’s embarrassing,” Bram says good-naturedly. “I beg of you, please don’t make me sound like a coddled mama’s boy.”
