“Or galloping.”
“Or galloping,” I repeat.
She acknowledges my promise with a nod. “Here’s one more. It’s a tricky one. You shouldn’t hold your arms too stiffly or too loosely.”
“How am I supposed to hold them then?”
“In a natural manner.”
“Riiight.”
“Don’t approach a man and don’t beckon one,” she continues. “Don’t go to the refreshments table on your own. Wait until a man approaches you to entertain you, escort you where you need to go, or fetch you a drink.”
“Can I go to the restroom on my own?”
“Yes, you are permitted to bend the etiquette for that one.”
“Thank God,” I exhale.
“You aren’t supposed to refuse to dance with a gentleman,” Gigi carries on. “If you do refuse, be sure to accept no further invitations for the same dance.”
“Got it.”
We turn a corner. I can hear laughter and music from the other end of the hallway.
“As a rule of thumb, be as passive as you possibly can, and you’ll be OK,” Gigi says, patting my arm.
We walk in through a wide double door. I wait demurely while the liveried butlers announce, “Her Royal Highness Princess Eugénie of the House Valois-Montevor.” They continue with a much shorter, “Lady Lucie Laborde.”
As soon as we’re in, we’re surrounded by a flock of Gigi’s admirers, who bring us drinks, make conversation, and jostle each other for the privilege of standing closer to her.
Max is nowhere in sight, but then again, there are too many people and too much sparkle here to spot anyone outsideof one’s immediate group. Everything around me glitters from the tiaras on the married women’s heads and the pendants and earrings worn by the unmarried women to the silverware, crystal glasses, and the polished chandeliers. Everything.
A few minutes later, the first dance begins. Gigi is whisked away by one of her suitors. I still can’t see Max, but I imagine he has approached his first partner and led her to the dance floor. A few days ago he explained to me that all his dances for this ball were booked. Not just booked but booked and paid for. This ball is a charity fundraiser, and Max is Mount Evor’s hottest bachelor, even if he isn’t a crown prince.
Speaking of whom…
Theodor approaches me. “Lady Lucie.”
“Your Highness,” I say, curtsying.
Even when he bows, he’s still beefy and towers over me. And he’s formidable. I wonder for a split second if he’ll ask me to grant him the next dance, but instead he launches into inconsequential small talk that clashes with everything I’ve learned—and overheard—about him so far.
“Max finally handed in his detailed report about the retrieval of the key,” he says suddenly.
“Erm…”
“You played a more prominent, more proactive role than I initially thought. You displayed both bravery and initiative.”
I stare at him, not knowing what to say.
He shifts, visibly uncomfortable, but plows ahead to finish his piece. “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For… distrusting and bad-mouthing you.”
Wow.I’m so flabbergasted it takes me a few long seconds to find my tongue. “Apology accepted.”
