Despite the evening’s splendor, I will admit I’m approaching my limit. My stays are chafing and my low-heeled mules are pinching my toes. By this time most nights, I’m tucked into bed with the naughty drawings in my sketchbook.
Lizzie appears, complexion flushed, bodice askew, hazel eyes aglow. “What are you drinking?” She snatches the glass from my hand, sniffs it, then shoves it back at me. “Blech. How can you drink this? I can barely tolerate wine and at least that has a little sweetness.”
“I’ve acquired a taste for unpleasantness in my old age.”
She snickers, then signals a waiter who brings her a glass of champagne. She gulps down half before blurting, “Oh, I’ve so many prospects, Charlotte. I hardly know where to start!”
I’d have trouble interpreting her jumble of names and descriptions even without my liquor-fuzzed senses.
A hush blankets the hall as King James takes his place at the top of the stairs to announce his selection for Favourite. “I hope you have enjoyed yourselves this evening.”
Lizzie’s fingers dig into my upper arm. She wants this. Desperately.
“This has been one of the more difficult Seasons to evaluate. So many elegant young ladies to choose from. And so many worthy of a husband.”
He looks directly at me, his eyes softer than they’ve been all evening, and my heart bulges into my throat.
There’s no way he’s considering me for Favourite. Is there? No, that’s quite impossible. But I wonder … Does he know ofGeorge’s plans to propose? George’s father is distantly related to the royal family through marriage, so I suppose there’s a chance. Did he perhaps?—
“This Season’s Favourite is none other than Miss Elizabeth Fitzroy!”
Lizzie’s squeal nearly deafens me before she rushes off, and Aunt Teddy waddles down the stairs to meet her daughter in front of the King. They both bow, spewing thanks to the man’s golden slippers.
King James cups Lizzie’s chin, gazing down at the beauty he’s anointed for the Season, and whispers something into Lizzie’s ear which has my cousin raising a gloved hand to hide a demure giggle.
I am happy for her.
I think?
Lizzie possesses everything the King looks for in a Favourite—the delicate features of a pure Bretonnic beauty, the innocent charm of youth, an absurdly rich father with the right last name.
And though Lizzie and I share that last name, she is from the correct side of the family, while I … Well, let’s just say that when your mother gets pregnant by a rootless mariner and abandons you to follow him around the globe, society tends to imagine you’ve inherited her wanton rule-flouting. The scandal resulted in a rift wide enough that Granny Maggie, widowed by that point, was compelled to choose sides between her son and her wayward daughter. I often worried that Granny might feel she chose wrong; especially since my mother never returned. But if she had any misgivings or regrets over the years, she never shared them with me. And reassured me quite often of her gratitude for our quiet, wild life in the southlands.
If my grandmother had to anoint a Favourite, what qualities would she prioritize? An appreciation for the arts, a sharp tongue, and the inability to suffer the fools of this world, surely.
I chuckle, deciding Iamhappy for Lizzie as the hubbub over her selection dies down.
The King clears his throat. “There is one more announcement to be made before we take our leave of one another tonight.” He raises his chin, searching the crowd, then finds George at the bottom of the staircase. My breath halts. “Lord Somersby, the stage is yours.”
King James glides down the stairs as George bounds up, taking them two at a time like an over-eager schoolboy.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” he says with a subtle bow, one hand at his waist while the other fiddles in his pocket. With a small box perhaps?
My hands tremble, and my mouth dries out.
“For many of the gentlemen in this room, tonight is a beginning. The gentle emergence of love’s tender sprouts after a long, cold winter. May you nurture them into sturdy oaks by summer’s end.”
God, I’m swooning. George has the heart of a poet. And he’s always fed off an audience.
“I am, fortunately or unfortunately, not one of you. Because for me, love has already taken root. And blossomed into such an undeniable force of nature that I cannot help but be swept away. I could, of course, spend the Season pretending. Entertain fortuitous matches. Act as if my heart were fallow ground. But it would all be a lie.”
George’s dark eyes ensnare mine, and I grasp the cool lip of the fern’s pot to steady myself. To be proposed to in such a romantic and blatantly public manner … well, it’s more than I ever dared dream.
He pulls the navy velvet box from his pocket, and the room is so silent, so enraptured, I hear the creak as he opens it.
“Darling,” he says, staring down at me, “you’ve already made me the happiest man in the room. Let me return the favor by making you the happiest woman in Breton.”
I am about to shout,Yes, when someone behind me nearly knocks me flat in her rush toward the stairs.
