He shakes his head and points to a line forming on the other side of the dance floor. At least a dozen similar-looking aristocratic young women stand there, waiting for a chance to dance with the king. It’s already clear they can’t get near Hansen. “Every woman in Mont wants a turn with him,” Shadow says. “So which one is the one?”
“Does it matter? Once he sees you looking like that, I have a feeling he’ll let you skip to the front of the queue,” Cal says.
Shadow looks at him out of the corner of her eye.
“What?” he says.
“Nothing,” she answers.
“Tell me,” he insists.
“You are full of compliments tonight.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No, it’s just . . . you’ve never noticed before. How I look.”
How could I not? Every man in here does. “That’s not true,” he says. “It’s just that you look different this evening.”
“Just different?” But there is a teasing lilt to her tone and not the hostility from the other day.
“You look very pretty,” he admits finally.
“I’ll accept it,” she says with a smug smile.
A nobleman in an outfit like Cal’s comes toward them. “Uh-oh. Here we go,” Shadow mutters to Cal.
The man holds out his hand to Shadow. “May I have this dance?”
She accepts his hand. He leads her to the dance floor. She looks back at Cal with a pleading expression. He puts his hands up. What can I do? he mouths. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head at him just as the nobleman swings her around and sweeps her away into the crowd.
Cal moves to the edges of the room and stays in the shadows, as far from the dance floor as he can while still observing the guests. His gaze sweeps the room and settles on two men in the opposite corner, deep in conversation. He follows their gaze toward King Hansen. He must get closer to them, but it’s almost impossible to concentrate on them when he’s so distracted.
Shadow twirls by, holding her skirt up so that it billows out even farther, led by another member of Montrice’s lesser nobility. This one appears to be respecting her space, at least. She is smiling politely but keeps looking around the room. Another nobleman cuts in. She isn’t going to have a moment alone at this rate—they all want her attention, however brief. And who can blame them? She’s practically glowing tonight.
Her face is fresh, natural, and she holds herself with a charming forthrightness. No one would ever guess she’s a beekeeper’s ward, let alone an apprentice assassin.
Shadow glides by again, with a new dance partner. More are waiting at the sidelines, itching to step in. They all think they’re wooing the titled heiress to a substantial foreign estate. Cal’s amused at the thought of them finding out who she really is.
The vizier spots Cal and rushes over to him, his loyal footman close behind. “Lord Holton! I have found you at last. Here, come with me. You must dance with the finest ladies of Montrice! I know, I know, you said you are already betrothed, but you never know, do you? And there’s nothing wrong with having some fun, is there?”
Cal resists, trying to beg the vizier off, make him go away. “Grand Vizier, you are too kind, but I have just arrived and would like to get my bearings.”
Although if he’s being honest, the only person he wants to dance with is Shadow. The vizier is correct, there are many beautiful young ladies attending the ball, but he only sees one.
The room feels suffocating, spinning. It’s too hot and there are too many people; too many faces appraising him, ready and willing to pounce. He’s hardly been here a week and he’s overwhelmed with all of it, especially the petty intrigues and social demands. He wishes he were back in the mountains with Shadow. Even when they argued or struggled, at least he felt alive. In control of himself. He doesn’t feel that way now. He feels empty. He needs to finish the task that has been ordered of him: Uncover the conspiracy and continue his search for the scrolls. He’s not here for parties and feasting and social intrigue, and he’s not here to fall in love either.
But it’s far too late for that.
He is mad for her, anyone could see that—does she? Does she feel the same way? The way she kissed him in the duke’s study . . . and her jealousy that he had kissed the duchess . . . the way they held each other those cold nights in the mountains, that one night at the inn . . . it gives him a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, she shares his feelings.
All the more reason to make quick work of why he is in Montrice in the first place. After he uncovers the conspirator and returns the scrolls to the queen, he will be released from his father’s vow. He will be free.
Free to speak the truth of his heart. Free to be with her, to pledge his troth, free to make a family at last. Perhaps she would reconsider her desires as well. Perhaps he could persuade her to stay with him. The thought is so sweet that he is filled with ache and longing.
He will do whatever it takes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Caledon
CAL SENSES AN OPENING AS the music fades to silence. He slides past one of the hopeful suitors and offers his hand to Shadow. “May I have this dance?”
Smiling, she accepts. The orchestra begins to play again, a fast and merry tune. They twirl across the marble dance floor, looping around all the others in perfect harmony, until finally the rest of the couples begin migrating to the edges, toward the watching crowd, giving Cal and Shadow room to show off their new skills.
“Keep in mind, you’re my brother,” Shadow whispers to him.
“Thanks for reminding me. I almost forgot,” he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “That would certainly give them something to gossip about, wouldn’t it?”
Shadow stifles a laugh.
The sound of it almost makes him want to kiss her again, right then and there, but he is a man of restraint. The song comes to its end. All the guests clap for the orchestra. “I suppose I have to let someone else dance with you now?” he asks, although it’s the last thing he wants to do.
Shadow shakes her head with a smile. “Let’s not.”
A footman is making rounds. As he passes, Cal reaches out and takes two glasses of champagne. He hands one to Shadow. “To not.”
“I don’t want to dance,” she says. “But I would like to see more of the palace.”
“Let’s promenade,” he decides. “Perhaps we might stumble upon something interesting.”
Guests are lingering at the grand hallway, admiring the portraits of King Hansen’s ancestors and the suits of armor worn by past monarchs, including a smaller set that Shadow immediately approaches. It’s roughly her size. The portrait behind it shows a girl of about fifteen or sixteen years, looking back directly at the viewer, wearing a simple cream tunic dress under chain mail. Shadow reads the plaque underneath: PRINCESS ALESSIA OF MONTRICE, DAUGHTER OF THE FIRST KING.