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No, no, no.
Panic swells inside me as the Count straightens, his eyes dropping from my face down the length of my body. That slimy, cold feeling follows his gaze. I don’t care how rich he is, how well-connected and well-titled he is. He shouldn’t be looking at anyone like that when he’s promised to my sister. Especially not me.
His gaze lingers on my chest, and I suddenly hate the fact that this gown is backless. I’m not wearing a bra, and I feel so incredibly naked. Exposed. Oh, I wish I were wearing a thousand layers to cover myself up! My hands itch to cross over my chest, but I hold them straight at my sides, my clutch gripped against my thigh.
Sucking in a breath, I clear my throat. “Lovely to meet you,” I lie. “Maggie tells me you enjoy hunting.”
From the time I was a toddler until now, I’ve been trained to act like a lady. That’s the only thing working right now. It’s keeping my spine straight and my smile from slipping. It’s helping me nod and smile and ask follow-up questions as the Count tells me of his hunting trips and many rifles.
Panic trills inside me as my breath grows shallower.
I don’t like this man. I can’t let Maggie marry him. We’ll figure something else out. We’ll find another husband for her, or me. Kiera can get a scholarship. A loan.
Anything but him. Not Count Gregory.
A trumpet sounds, and everyone in the room hushes at once. We all turn toward the entrance as an expectant whisper ripples through the audience.
The King, Queen, and newborn Prince are arriving.
A sick feeling still churns in my gut, but I shove it aside. My eyes drift over the audience, searching for the Duke of Blythe. Maybe the sight of him will steady me. But as I scan the crowd in the ballroom, I can’t see him anywhere.
All the guests in the room are being ushered into a long line across the room, presumably so the King and Queen can greet us all one by one. I make sure to put as much distance between me and the Count as possible, even though my mother gives me a disapproving glance.
Can she not sense the predatory energy he’s giving off? Does she not have alarm bells ringing in her head from his nearness?
Closing my eyes, I take a spot next to my father. That puts both my mother and father between me and the Count, but it’s still not enough. Nervous energy ripples through the guests as the King and Queen approach, their steps echoing in the long hallway leading to the ballroom.
That’s not why I’m nervous, though. My cheeks feel red. My heart is hammering. My mouth tastes of metal, and I wish I could get out of here.
“I never liked Count Gregory,” a male voice says in my ear. “I don’t blame you for that reaction.”
His voice sounds like warm honey with a hint of spice. Gravel rattles around at the edges, with the depth and resonance that screams male.
I open my eyes, but I already know who it is. The Duke of Blythe stares back at me, his face mere inches from mine.
The pictures didn’t do him justice.
A thousand shades of green with little speckles of gold. A fine, long nose and regal brow. When my eyes drop to his lips, my breath catches. Full and pink, they make me want to lean in and feel them against my own.
“Your Grace,” I stammer, racking my brain for the correct title. Is it Your Grace? Or just Lord Blythe? Sir? Mister? Suddenly, my training doesn’t seem so foolproof.
“You’re blushing.” His eyebrow arches as a smile quirks his lips.
I blush harder, which makes his lips tug even more.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
God, if I could bottle his voice up and sell it, I’d make millions. It sends little thrills rushing through my veins, warming me up from top to bottom. I’d swoon to him reading me a recipe book.
“Ada,” I answer simply.
Before he can say anything, all attention turns to the entrance. The King and Queen have arrived. The King is dressed in his ceremonial uniform, with a gold crown nestled in his hair. His broad, muscular shoulders taper down to a thin waist, and he keeps one hand on his queen’s lower back.
Queen Elle was a commoner not long ago, but you’d never guess it now. Dressed in an emerald gown with a sparkling tiara in her short, dark hair, she looks as regal as any regent who went before her. A member of staff whispers names of attendees to her before she greets them, smiling warmly at each and every person.
In her arms, her first child sleeps soundly. The three of them—the King, Queen, and their heir—make such a perfect image, it makes my heart ache. I can almost feel the love radiating between them.
My sister will never have that. Will I? Or will I be married off to some rich old man who can elevate our family’s standing?
