Page 20 of The Poison Princess and the Lord of Misrule

I tilt my head. “What’s that?”

“The Lord of Misrule celebration,” she says. “And there will be dancing.”

A smirk tips my mouth. “Bad dancing,” I say. “Which, as a jester, should be perfect for the occasion.”

She laughs, and I swear to the angels above, it’s the most magical sound. I glance at the floor, willing my features not to betray me. “What’s this Lord of Misrule?”

Sera sits straighter, tucking her silky hair behind her ear. “During the celebration, the court jester—that is, from what I understand of this court—the king’s court jester, Prineus, gets to sit in the king’s throne as the mock king and preside over the court and turn it upside down, making it unruly. It’s a reversal of social order, where folly reigns.” She considers this a moment. “The jester gets to rule for this evening only, mocking the king and other courtiers without consequence. It’s all done in jest, of course.”

“Sounds precarious,” I say, but the idea of it sparks something sinister within me, just thinking of the chance to humiliate the king.

“Without consequence,” Sera reiterates. “And since there will already be a fool presiding over the festivities, that means everyone else will be expected to dance. Appropriately.” Her smile is knowing. “You can’t attend a royal celebration and refuse, Ren.”

Gods, I want her to say my name again. I want to hearit murmured from her on a breathless cry. I give my head a shake, clearing my thoughts. “Tell me more,” I say, fascinated to hear her speak on anything so much.

She licks her soft lips, then uncrosses her legs—and I’m a heathen for my terrible, damning thoughts. “No, I believe I have a better idea,” she says.

There’s a shift in her expression, almost mischievous, and the sight makes my pulse race. She’s always so measured. So controlled. The little devious twist of her mouth about does me in.

“Stand up,” she instructs.

I cock an eyebrow, but do as commanded, rising to my feet before her. The bells on my hat jingle on the bench with the movement, and I feel suddenly, absurdly aware of my ridiculous outfit.

Sera stands and moves toward me, stopping at a distance that is technically respectable and all the same devastating. Just out of reach, but near enough to close the gap of distance.

“Give me your hand,” she orders.

My mouth goes dry. “What are?—”

“I’m going to teach you to dance.” She extends her hand, palm up, her dark eyes fixed on mine. “Unless you’d prefer the entire court to watch you fumble through a waltz. And for the court jester to take aim on you to mock.”

My mouth tips up into a smirk. “You’re a little cunning thing,” I say. “I had no idea,Your Highness.”

Her fingers curl slightly, beckoning. And it makes me want to do terrible things.

“Your hand, Jest.”

The nickname strokes a need deep inside, and I’m suddenly unable to deny her anything. Her hand is small in mine. Delicate, smooth. I’m desperate to lace my fingers with hers—and I wonder what she’s thinking, if the feel of my rough fingers is doing to her what the feel of her, soft and pliable, is doing to me.

Her slender fingers close around my hand, and the contact moves through me like a current, charged and crackling hot. I watch as she positions us with the practiced ease of a princess who’s been trained in dance her whole life.

“Now this hand,” she says, guiding my other hand to her waist, “goes here.”

Devils below, I stop breathing.

Her waist is narrow beneath the thin fabric of her gown, and I can feel the warmth of her body radiating through the silk. My hand is tense on her waist, straining not to move, for my fingers not to explore. She’s close enough that I can smell the garden on her skin—earth and green things and that dark, sweet undernote of poison.

“Now,” she says, and her voice is steady despite the flush I see creeping up her neck, pink and pretty against her pale skin. “It’s really simple. Just follow me. Step where I step. Don’t think about your feet.”

Fucking hells—as if I can think about anything right now.The feel and press of her making me go out of my mind. From my taller advantage, with her this close, the cut of her bodice robs me of the air in my lungs, sends my thoughts straight to the gutter. The enticing way her delicate breasts push above, swelling with cleavage—I immediately divert my gaze.

I swallow hard, my throat muscles working. “If not my feet, then what should I think about, Princess?”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “My body,” she says.

Gods, help me.

“I meant, where my body is in relation to yours.” A flicker of a smile teases her mouth, and I swear she’s a sprite sent to torment me on purpose.