Chapter 1 #2
“Let him have a chance to win the lady, if he can! Why not?” The Baron comes to my aid with a fond chuckle.
Just remarried, he is a man himself besotted, and it is perhaps love that offers color to his cheeks—or that of the drink.
He lifts his glass—now refilled with amber liquor—and I incline my head in gratitude.
“It is… perhaps unwise, Your Highness… perhaps a more suitable… choice… is before you…” Lord Carlisle stumbles over his objection.
But his protest is overridden by those in the room who hurry to agree with the Baron. “Let the man play!”
“Let Fortune decide!”
“A future has been made with far less noble blood!”
I am buoyed by the gentlemen’s enthusiasm, but I still hold myself perfectly erect. Only one man’s word is of consequence.
When His Highness regards me again, he is smiling so that the dimple in his left cheek shows. “As you wish, Greyonyx.”
My pulse quickens and I hardly dare believe my own ears.
“Truly, Your Highness? But if I am to be his whist partner, what—”
“I am certain we can find some reward well suited to your liking, Carlisle.” His Majesty gives me a searching look. “But what weighs more heavily on my mind—what do you propose if you lose?”
At long last, I allow the tension in my chest to be exhaled. “That is easily decided, Your Grace.”
“Pray tell, do go on.”
“I will do you the favor of selecting who will inherit the title.”
“Indeed,” the Prince murmurs. It is no secret that the task was foisted upon him by his father in an effort to interest him in his future responsibilities.
But his father either does not know or does not care that such responsibility rankles His Highness.
“Indeed. I accept your terms. Let us begin.”
My partner, once reluctant to play the hand, now takes up his cards with enthusiasm. I study my own with an odd mixture of trepidation and hope. Fortune truly does decide all now, and I know without a shadow of a doubt this will be the most important game I ever play.
Lady Freya
“My love, you shall never believe the latest offer!”
Quite content sitting on the window seat, tilting my book so that I might make good use of the sunlight, I do not trouble myself to look up. Besides, it is nearly certain my lady mother is not speaking to me, but to my father.
“Did you not hear me, Freya?” My mother’s voice grows in urgency. “What are you reading?”
“A novel,” I say, sighing before she can seize the opportunity herself.
“Well.” It is clear by the way her gaze slides up and down me and the way I lounge against the sill that she does not care to be outpaced. “Perhaps you would like to pay attention? This is your future we speak of, after all.”
I duck my head to hide a smile she will certainly find impertinent.
My mother and father have occupied themselves with discussing my marital prospects for the greater part of a year, taking no notice when I lost interest. The only child of a renowned family, I am aware I am considered quite the conquest. The constant stream of attention from the gentlemen of the Beau Monde ceased to amuse me long ago.
It is clear I am no more than an ornament to them—a fine prize to be possessed.
Who wins matters not to me, for in every scenario, I am the loser.
My novels are far more entertaining. Yet, as blind as my mother and father seem to be in this matter, they are good to me, and we have always been close. I shall miss them most terribly when I am married, and I suspect similar thoughts keep them occupied with the status of the match I might make.
I set my book on my lap, careful to keep my page, and look at them expectantly. “Who, Mother? Oh, do tell before you implode from the suspense!”
“You are such an impertinent girl, Freya,” she scolds, but her heart is not in it.
I hide a smile—for that shall only prove her rebuke true—and since it is clear I shan’t be returning to my reading anytime soon, I look at the the two of them.
One day, their plans shall come to fruition—indeed, I can ill afford them not to—and I shan’t have the opportunity nearly as often.
My mother has always been uncommonly beautiful, and time has scarcely touched it.
Her skin is unblemished by wrinkles, and her hair still golden and lush.
With her green eyes bright with excitement and her cheeks flushed pink, it is hard to recall she is not in the bloom of her youth.
The way my father gazes upon her says he too shares the sentiment. He is a dapper gentleman, tall and impeccably dressed in a suit that accentuates his broad shoulders. He has a dark mustachio—my mother teases that he keeps it merely to set the ladies’ tongues to wagging disapprovingly.
“They must have something to disapprove of, my dear, or whatever will they do with themselves?” he always replies, prompting her to laugh, though she has doubtless heard it dozens of times.
My parents have a love-match—something rarer than a diamond, and far more precious.
My mother’s gaze finds my father as if she seeks to assure herself she has his attention as well before she leans forward. She has always possessed quite the flare for drama. “The Viscount of Malardy!”
My Father beams at her. “Oh, well done!” he cries, as though she herself was proposed to.
“Indeed. You always fancied him, did you not, Freya?”
“I did not,” I return wryly, picking up my book once more.
Though my mother is incorrect in her assertion, for I have never exchanged more than two words with the Viscount, I will be relieved when the business of arranging my marriage is concluded.
In truth, I can scarcely afford to wait any longer.
“Oh, come now! You did! I am certain of it!”
I clench my hands on the spine of my book to stop myself from sighing in frustration. I strive to keep my tone pleasant, and even attempt a smile. “Well, if you are certain, why are you continuing to ask me?”
“Stop being so cheeky,” Mother retorts despite my efforts, and this time there is no amusement about her.
“What’s this?” My father is looking at me with tender-eyed concern. “Do you not wish to marry, Freya?”
“Of course she does,” Mother says before I can voice any opinion on my own account. “Freya knows everything we have taught her, the sacrifices we have made to ensure she have only the best education, were all leading to this moment. And now that it is here, you are glad, are you not, dear?”
There is a warning note to her voice, and though I know nothing will come of it, it would be such a pity if she were to ignore my existence for the next fortnight. Especially given that if she has her way, it may very well be my last.
“I am, Mother. I am indeed.” Of course, I shall be far gladder to read in peace without the constant distraction of these trivial conversations.
“You see? I told you, my love—our daughter knows her duty.”
This is true. Every highborn lady grows up hearing all about her duty to king and country—and family, placed only slightly below those—from the moment she can discern language. And for many a poor lady, the lectures on familial obligation begin well before then.
“Even so, I would like to see you a bit more excited, Freya.”
Forcing myself to swallow back my sigh, I regard Mother with a somber expression.
“I shan’t like to think about it, Mother.
I shall miss you, and Father, too, of course.
I think of it every day, how I shan’t be here anymore…
” I shift my eyes to the drawing room window and bring a delicately curled fist to my mouth.
“Come, dearest. Perhaps we should allow Freya a few minutes to herself. Perhaps then she will not be tempted to conceal a book in the pocket of her gown at the next ball.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see them exchange exasperated looks before my father rises and holds out a hand for my mother. Her gown rustles softly, and neither of them says anything further until Mother pauses in the doorway.
“Enjoy your book, my dear.”
“Thank you, Mother,” I murmur. Once they have gone, the heat of their gazes off me at last, I return to my novel just as I have been instructed.
But I struggle to concentrate on the story in my hands.
It is one of adventure, and romance, and was once just the thing to entice my imagination for an entire afternoon and beyond.
But there is a pit in my stomach, a weight that I cannot shake no matter what I do. If not for it, I would attempt to put off my mother and father’s plans for a season, but it is a folly I cannot afford.
Gregor
The shuffling of cards would be overtaken by the sound of my pounding heart if the gentlemen could hear it.
The tension in the room is as thick as the curling pipe smoke in the air—made more so, perhaps, by the silence.
There are no polite murmurings, no friendly wagers being called out.
Not so much the shift of a chair to disturb the concentration of the men playing.
I wait with the rest of them, my eyes trained on the Prince, willing myself to appear confident and unaffected, however the cards may fall.
His Highness grins as though my thoughts are displayed on my face, despite my wishes. He slides off the top card, pauses dramatically until I fear one of my compatriots may shout at him, and deftly flips it onto the green baize for all of to see.
The card has a cream background speckled with a blue pattern. A man—hair of gold, crowned with a jaunty feather cap. He holds a double-edged blade, and the image is reflected top and bottom of the card. The suit matters not, for a knave of any house would beat out His Majesty’s nine of clubs.
Slowly, I release my breath, and my chest eases.
“Well.” The Prince reaches for the card, picks it up between his royal fingers, and holds it out for the room to see, though surely no man present has missed it.