Ass. Pompous ass.
My cheeks hurt from maintaining a smile that’s fighting to become a sneer. As the duke drones on, courtiers drift toward me, including Lisande.
Despite her impeccable appearance—she’s never anything less than luxuriously outfitted—her face is blotchy and her eyes are red-rimmed. She gulps from a silver goblet and snarls each time the friend propping her up tries to take it. She’s well on her way to rip-roaring drunk. And so obviously heartbroken that, for a moment, I cannot help feeling sorry for her. Maybe she really does love him. Maybe she doesn’t want to lose him. Would it be easier to empathize with her if she tried to murder me for love instead of power?
A part of me wants to reassure her that I want nothing to do with Torvil. That I will be doing everything I can to ensure hedoesn’twin me during the Hunt. That she can have him.
But she doesn’t deserve that reassurance. And it would be too dangerous to give right now, in any case.
Upon the platform, the end of the duke’s speech is nowhere in sight. And when, at length, he steers the topic back toward my candidacy, he manages to make even that about himself.
“… recognized the sheer talent she possessed. Only I could have done so. And naturally, such talent must be harnessed to showcase my greatness.” He snaps once more, and two servants return to the platform to unwrap the portrait.
The crowd applauds, and the base of my skull tingles.
You can come in whenever you’d like, you know, I say into thediamrhán.There’s no need to keep knocking. You’re rather polite for a man who gagged me and denied me orgasms yesterday.
Lachlan snickers into my mind.I just like to give you a fair warning. You know, in case you’re thinking about me and don’t want me to know.
It takes a monumental effort on my part to not surface my natural response.
Which is that I’m always thinking about him.
Did you have some reason for knocking, Sir Cathal, or did you just pop in to tell me to fix my face lest everyone read how much I despise my future betrothed?
Your face is perfect, he says with a hint of mirth that transforms into something softer.That portrait is magnificent, Charlotte. A true work of art. It’s far too good for him.
We both know he’s talking about something else. But my cowardice must be catching because he says nothing else before slipping from my mind.
“Miss Fitzroy?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Torvil looms above me, a single hand reaching down. God, how long has he been standing there?
“Join me up here, won’t you?”
I do as he asks, trying not to recoil from his touch as he pulls me onto the platform to face the sea of courtiers—his privileged few. The only fae who’ve been invited to partake in these festivities, which are meant to be a communal celebration of abundance. There is too much food, too much wine, too much, too much, too much for the paltry sum upon these grounds.
This could have fed Mr. Stafford and his family, Garred and the children at the Eyrie, for months.
Bile rises up my throat, and I remind myself that my presence here is a necessary evil. That to have any chance to fix things means accepting this abominable man’s proposal, means preening for his horrid courtiers, means genuflecting to his bootlicking knights, and?—
Okay,nowyou need to fix your face, Lachlan murmurs.Your smile is so wide, I can see your molars. Looks very natural.
I swallow a laugh, then soften my features.
Better.
“What is the purpose of a queen?” Torvil muses. “It’s to uplift her husband. To solidify his power. To amplify his legacy. With Charlotte by my side, the celestial kingdom will be gifted evidence of each one of my future great deeds as king.” He gets down on one knee, twirling the ring around my finger. “Miss Charlotte Fitzroy, you may betroth yourself to me. And I will claim you during the Wild Hunt.”
Heat sears my flesh as the ring flares, lighting up the crescent moon between the glowing seven-pointed star and dark crossed arrows.
Lisande’s wailing sob is drowned out by erupting cheers, Lachlan’s and Aowen’s included. I know they are cheering for my triumph and not the duke.
“Food! Royal food!” Vesper’s squeaky chant adds a spot of warmth to my otherwise cold chest.
I may have won the privilege of another sunrise, but at what risk to the good people of this world?
“A toast!” the valet shouts. “A toast to the happy couple!”
