15. Chapter 15
15
BEATRICE
The crowd blurred as my rescuer helped me regain my footing, straighten, and turn. The hand at my waist shifted to grasp my forearm. I had to tip my head back to look into narrowed eyes nearly hidden by the thickest lashes I’d ever seen.
Time stopped. The crowd pressing in around us seemed to fade away. Orchestral music even swelled in the background. Everything about the moment was perfect.
Especially him.
Okay, perfect aside from the pomaded hair.
We’re talking a hard-angled jawline, and adorable creases framing his perfect smile. Broad-shouldered, rangy build. He looked younger than me, but that didn’t matter. If anything, it increased my self-confidence.
“I do hate the crush of a crowd, don’t you?” He spoke for my ears only.
I couldn’t help but return his smile. “A crush like this makes one fondly recall life’s moments of solitude,” I purred. “Although . . . perhaps one wouldn’t wish for complete solitude.”
His chuckle gave me brain buzz and belly butterflies. “Decidedly not!” he murmured.
Who could have guessed that I, boring Beatrice, could not only behave like a cougar but also engage in repartee while mesmerized by copper-gold eyes with hints of green?
All too soon he blinked and released my arm, his forehead scrunching as he scanned my face. “I feel as if . . . Have we . . . Have we met before?”
“I don’t believe so. I’m Miss Beatrice de Callen from Biscarosse.” To my surprise, my voice sounded as happy as I felt. I generally clammed up around handsome men, but something about this one set me at ease.
His eyes went wide. “Beatrice?” he echoed. His mouth opened and closed more than once before he spoke on a happy sigh: “Ah! Yes. Well. I am honored to meet you, Miss . . . de Callen, was it?”
I nodded.
“I am Niel Oberle.” Without meeting my gaze again, he made a slight, crisp bow. “May I have the honor of dancing with you tonight?”
Although his tone was casual, the hint of urgency in his voice puzzled me. “I should like that very much.” Why not indulge in a foolish little crush for the span of one dream? What could it hurt?
Mr. Oberle indicated the silk bag attached to my wrist, and for the first time I noticed a card and pencil dangling on its string. “May I?”
“Oh, yes!” I extended my hand.
The pencil and card looked tiny in his gloved hands. While he wrote, I covertly studied him again. I couldn’t distinguish the color of his gelled hair, but he was satisfyingly tall.
In another moment he’d finished. “I dared to mark two dances and hope for more.” He briefly reclaimed my gaze. “Miss de Callen.”
I responded with a smile and glimpsed a flash of pleasure in his eyes before he vanished into the crowd, which appeared to reanimate as he passed through. How odd! I’d heard of people who believed the world stopped during a crucial event, but I’d never taken the saying literally.
Until then.
The throng around me flowed in the direction Mr. Oberle had headed, so I followed along. Focused as I was on not getting smothered in the press of humanity, I took little notice of my surroundings. The crush bottlenecked at a doorway, yet I found myself flowing through between two other young ladies. I remained in step with them until we’d progressed far enough into the ballroom that the swarm dispersed and I was no longer in danger of being run down from behind. I found an empty patch of tiled floor against a pillar and paused to take stock of my surroundings.
The ballroom itself was fabulous—high frescoed ceilings, fluted pillars, bright lights, sparkling mirrors, and a gleaming floor laid in fabulous patterns. Even so, the people commanded my attention. I was surrounded by fascinating faces, and the clothing was incredible! I soaked in the atmosphere of jazzy music but couldn’t quite locate the musicians.
Men wearing livery began to clear the dance floor, ordering guests around. I and a few other young women obediently moved to an area lined with chairs, although only a few older people were seated. A girl nearby quietly squealed, “There he is, the King!”
Curious, I followed everyone’s gaze to a group of people on a raised platform. “Which one?” I couldn’t help asking.
Every young lady within earshot turned to give me a surprised glance, and a sharp-featured matron shot me a censorious stare before speaking coldly: “On the dais, of course, with his back to us, next to the Queen Mother.”
“Thank you.” The field of possibilities narrowed to a tall man speaking with a woman wearing a tiara.
“He will dance with Lady Arabella to open the ball, of course.” A glum voice spoke from somewhere behind me. “Everyone says those two are in love.”
“I’ve heard that’s all rubbish,” another voice snapped. “She’s years older than he is. I’m not giving up hope.”
“I expect Arabella wants him to pursue her instead of taking her for granted.” A girl with kohl-lined eyes turned to glare at the other hopefuls. “ I hope he chooses the Princess of Waardenburg.”
“It’ll never happen. I still think this whole bride-selection rumor is for publicity, to make the Royal Family popular again.”
Losing track of the voices, I studied the young king. His height and build looked suspiciously familiar. Could it be . . .? Maybe, but I couldn’t be sure from that distance. Still, this was my dream, so why not? When he turned to address a servant and made a sweeping gesture with one arm while turning my direction, no doubt remained: the King of Adelboden was the man I’d boldly flirted with in the hall. I almost laughed out loud.
Even as I smiled, his gaze skimmed over me, then snapped back and locked on mine. His face lit up, and he grasped the footman’s arm, turned him toward me, then smiled and waved at me. At least a dozen girls waved back, not including me. The servant’s frown deepened. The girls around me began to whisper, speculating.
When the King bent to speak into the servant’s ear, the man pulled away to give him a startled look, then frowned, scrutinizing the cluster of girls around me. Several waved again, squealed, or jumped up and down. When the footman’s gaze landed on me, he blinked twice, then spoke to the King, who nodded.
As a susurration passed through the dozens of girls around me, I relaxed. This wasn’t my reality: I could dance and talk with a king and have a lovely time with no repercussions whatsoever. Even if I tripped over my feet and made a fool of myself, I would just wake up and shrug it all off.
So, when the footman approached me and the other girls shuffled aside, I laid my hand on his forearm, gave him my name, smiled with proper decorum, and accompanied him to the dais to meet the Queen Mother. I had never before noticed how hard and fast my heart could pound with no physical exertion. But as long as I kept reminding myself to enjoy the dream, I would be fine.
When the charming king descended the steps to meet me halfway, took my hand in his, and bowed gracefully over it, the proper courtesies of meeting royalty that Hortense and Geneva had drummed into my head returned to me . . . although I couldn’t quite meet his gaze. His grasp on my hand increased my courage as I climbed the dais steps beside him, keeping my skirt out of the way. I was only dimly aware of watching eyes while he introduced me to the Queen Mother, who welcomed me with polished civility. Although I sensed her surprise at her son’s choice, she concealed it well, and I felt no distress. I even pulled off a graceful curtsy. What did it matter anyway? I would never have to meet her again.
Then we turned to face the crowd, and he leaned slightly closer to whisper, “We’re about to be announced.”
I looked up, briefly met his gaze, and felt confidence flow into me as I surveyed the colorful crowd in this amazing ballroom. Even Eddi would have approved of me. She might not consider my dream king handsome enough, but I had no complaints. The buzz of energy and attraction I’d felt when he rescued me from trampling seemed even stronger as I returned his warm grasp on my hand.
A man who had to be the Master of Ceremonies declared, “His Majesty the King has chosen his first dance partner of the evening, Miss Beatrice de Callen of Biscarosse.” The crowd’s cheer was perfunctory, but why should I care? My partner led me down the steps and into the center of the dance floor. For the first time I truly felt the number of critical eyes aimed at me and started to freeze up. But when he . . . Siegfried? Um. Yeah. That name would take some getting used to. “Niel” was better. When he gently took me by the hand and waist, my gaze flew to his face, and again, as soon as our eyes met, my stage fright vanished.
He swept me into the waltz, and my feet felt lighter than fairy dust. When other dancers joined in around us, I scarcely noticed them. He and I danced as one, as if we’d practiced together for years, our eyes locked in fascination.
“Is this one of the dances you marked on my card?” I asked.
“No. And at first, I thought I would never find you again in that crowd. I ordered the footman to look for a tall, stunning brunette in green. If that didn’t work, I would have called you by name, but then . . .” He shrugged lightly. “There you were.”
“Here I am.”
“I confess I’m not usually one to enjoy dancing.” His voice was just loud enough for me to hear. “But tonight is an exception. You’re making me look good.”
“I was just thinking you make me look good,” I admitted. A logical voice in my head reminded me that genuine romantic feelings at this point would be ridiculous in any world. Yet the attraction between us felt . . . real.
His gaze turned serious, and he tipped his head close to mine to ask, “Please tell me, Miss de Callen, how are you here? I know—” Breaking off, he glanced toward the dais and frowned. “Ah, this dance is about to end. Please answer my question at our next dance, which cannot come too soon for me.” When his gaze returned to mine, I felt a rush of heat that no doubt turned my face pink. “I believe I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Miss de Callen.”
Coming from him, even that cliché pleased me. “Beatrice. Please call me Beatrice.”
His eyes twinkled between those lashes. “Beatrice. Then you must call me Niel.” His hand gently squeezed mine before the song ended, and we stepped apart. Instantly, I missed his touch, and the slight crease between his brows told me he felt the same.
No matter how I tried to convince myself that, apart from his royal title, Niel was just a nice-looking younger man with an unfair dose of magnetism, my heart kept insisting this was something . . . real.
I sneaked another look, and he caught me in the act. A knowing smile crinkled his eyes before I averted my gaze. Almost immediately, several men approached me to request dances. Because anyone the King chose as his first dance partner must be important, right? Bemused by the novelty of being in high demand, I limited them each to one dance and offered my card and pencil. The next few dances flashed past, with my partners asking polite questions that I answered with proper vagueness. I asked a few questions in return, but their answers floated in one ear and out the other.
One sharp-eyed fellow was less polite. After a chilly silence lasting several minutes, he asked, “Where and when did you first meet the King?”
“Here at the palace, not long ago,” I answered with a demure smile.
His pale brows lowered, yet he maintained a veneer of courtesy. Focusing on his white bowtie and shiny black lapels, I added, “Actually, he rescued me when I was nearly trampled in a crowd. So gallant and kind!”
I could almost see the surprise and follow-on questions tumbling through his mind, but that dance ended, and I turned to a new partner before he could quiz me further. Just as we began a polka, I peered over my new partner’s shoulder and encountered Niel’s intent gaze. In the instant our eyes met, a tightness in my gut loosened, and I saw his gaze soften and his mouth curl into a private smile. He was biding his time before our next dance as surely as I was.
He claimed me as soon as that dance ended, almost before my partner released my hand. Unfortunately, the two-step was quick and loud, which made conversation difficult. While spinning me in close, Niel said, “I should have paid closer attention to your dance card. I didn’t realize—” I spun back out, so he finished during the next spin—“this dance would be so lively. But it has its perquisites.”
I laughed up at him, thoroughly enjoying the close holds of the dance and the lively rhythm of the old-fashioned music. Despite his professed dislike of dancing, he led with such practiced ease that I was almost sorry when he asked, “Would you step into the garden with me? I greatly wish to speak with you in private.”
I nodded. Whoever had signed my card for the next dance would have to wait for another. This dream or fantasy or whatever might end at any moment, and more than anything I wanted to talk with Niel. To figure out why he . . . why I . . . Well, just why !
And if he were to request a kiss . . .
Arabella
For the record, I was not, never had been, and never would be romantically attached to my prodigy cousin, and at the time of Niel’s coronation ball, I was still pining after Kapono. However, the whispers, the pitying looks, and the outraged claims of offense on my behalf did get under my skin. While Niel danced with the mysterious girl in green, the Queen Mother, my third cousin once removed, drew me aside to assure me that her son’s choice of partner for the first dance at his Coronation Ball meant nothing at all.
Neither of us believed a word she said, but I knew it was kindly meant. We both knew that her son had never, not even once, indicated the slightest romantic interest in me or anyone else. Until now.