Naturally, I’m delighted to play along.
Desmond pulls out my chair and before I sit, I press a kiss to his cheek. “How have you been, Des? I missed you terribly.”
My effusiveness doesn’t throw him in the slightest. He flattens my hand against his face as he sits. “I missed you, too, of course.” He kisses the center of my palm, and though he is by far the less objectionable of my two potential husbands, I cannot help a small shiver of revulsion.
This is … not ideal.
My gaze strays to Lachlan, who’s on the opposite side of the table next to Aowen and a brunette knight whose name I can never remember. The knight leans over Aowen, sharing a joke with Lachlan, who tips his head back, laughing loudly. It’s a forced bray. Very unlike him.
Perhaps I am not the only one faking.
I turn back to Desmond. “Why have you come? We would have seen each other tomorrow in Tír na Strelle.”
“We wouldn’t, actually.” His smile is enigmatic as he taps a knife against his glass. The chatter fades to a whispering hush.Desmond addresses Torvil before proceeding. “May I have the floor, Your Grace?”
Torvil demurs with an upturned palm. “What’s mine is yours, old friend.” His eyes flick to me.
I want to scream. Leap from this table and declare that I belong to no one but myself. That I’ve changed my mind. That if this is what it means to be a queen, then I want none of it in any world.
I don’t, of course. I swallow my anger, bury it in my chest with the embers of those other repressed emotions threatening to set me ablaze.
Desmond’s chair creaks as he rises. The courtiers wear mixed expressions of wariness and respect. Desmond is, after all, a duke of the celestial kingdom. Who knows who their master will be in half a year’s time?
Desmond clears his throat, lifting his glass. “I have wonderful news. For all of us. Duke Cernunnos has agreed to host Miss Fitzoy!”
Excited gasps ripple down the table.
Torvil stands, clapping, “How in the name of Danu did you manage it?” he asks through a broad, tight grin. Furious that this feather landed in Desmond’s cap instead of his.
Desmond’s gaze glances off his sister. “Everyone has a price, Torvil. Surely you know that better than anyone.”
Aowen pales, but Desmond does not elaborate. A knot cinches my gut.
It doesn’t loosen for the rest of dinner, and I am only half-listening as Desmond and Torvil chat through reports from their territories. Desmond is far better informed of the goings-on in Tír na Strelle than Torvil is about Tír na Lune. Several times, I catch Torvil referencing “recent” incidents that happened months ago. And I am quite certain a few of his contributions are word-for-word recitations from editorials in the Sky Gazette.
Both men are ignoring me. They haven’t asked my opinion on a single topic, and when I do try to contribute, one or the other talks over me.
Those embers burn hotter with each course.
After an interminable amount of time, dessert is served. I devour my chocolate ganache, licking the spoon clean while silently hexing arrogant men.
When Torvil places his own spoon down, signaling that the table may take their leave, Aowen launches out of her seat and through the door.
Lachlan’s head whips around to follow her progress.
What happened?I ask.
Truthfully, I have no idea.
Go check on her. Please.
But you’re?—
I’m fine. Bored to tears and more than ready to flee both my suitors, but I doubt I’m in any real danger while Desmond is here.
Lachlan’s torso is angled toward the door despite his white-knuckled grip on the back of his chair.
We still do not know who attempted to poison you last night.I am not comfortable leaving you.
