Chapter 10 #2
“Ah, you are far more considerate than I, then. I’ve been attempting to extract the truth since I was eight years old.
They once spent an entire afternoon constructing an elaborate family tree, but I confess the explanation contained so many contradictions and improbable magical accidents that I emerged more confused than when I began. ”
Aurelise smiled despite herself, a soft laugh escaping her lips before she schooled her features back to polite attentiveness.
She cast a curious sidelong glance at him, noting with mild surprise that he appeared genuinely engaged in their exchange, his demeanor more animated than she would have anticipated for what must surely be the ninth near-identical conversation of the afternoon.
Perhaps it was simply the relief of approaching the finish line—with only Lady Ellowa remaining after herself—that had infused his manner with this unexpected vitality.
They came to a stop near a spectacular display of roses—deep crimsons mixed with pale pinks and pristine whites, their petals so perfect they might have been painted rather than grown. The familiar scent wrapped around her like an old friend’s embrace, and for a moment, her nerves settled.
Then she remembered why she was here.
She drew a steadying breath, gathering what little courage she possessed, and began to turn toward him—only to catch a flicker of movement at the base of the nearest rosebush. Her heart lurched. No. Surely not.
But yes—there they were. Thimble, perched boldly on a root, beaming up at her with both tiny thumbs raised in triumph, and Spark beside her, puffing a delicate cloud of glittering smoke that coalesced into a perfectly formed heart.
Horror flooded her. She frantically flicked her fingers in what she hoped passed for a subtle shooing motion, mouthing Go away! with desperate intensity.
“My lady?” the prince prompted. “Is something amiss?”
She whirled to face him with alarming speed, positioning herself squarely between him and the incriminating rosebush, her smile so wide and sudden it bordered on alarming. “Nothing at all! The roses are simply … magnificent, aren’t they?”
A bemused expression crossed his features. “Indeed they are. The royal garden pixies have outdone themselves this Season.”
“Your Highness, I … I feel I must be direct.” She fixed her gaze somewhere in the vicinity of his impeccably arranged cravat, finding it far safer territory than his face.
“I believe it most improbable that you would select me as your bride, but should you, against all reasonable expectation, find yourself inclined toward such a catastrophic decision, I must insist you reconsider. You most assuredly do not wish to choose me.”
There was a beat of silence. “I beg your pardon?” He sounded more intrigued than offended.
“I would be entirely unsuitable,” Aurelise said, forging on despite the heat climbing in her cheeks. “I am ridiculously shy, I dislike large gatherings, I have no talent for sparkling conversation, and I frequently retreat into silence when overwhelmed. These are not qualities becoming a princess.”
“I see,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice without needing to look up. “Any other disqualifying attributes I should be aware of?”
Her blush deepened. “I … well, I am the youngest of the Crown Court Ladies. And—”
“I believe Lady Floravine holds that distinction,” he said mildly. “You will be nineteen by Season’s end, will you not? Whereas Lady Floravine’s birthday does not arrive until midwinter.”
Aurelise hesitated, momentarily derailed by his unexpected knowledge of such specific details.
Her gaze darted up and past his shoulder, and she was momentarily distracted by the sight of a palace attendant standing not too far away.
Close enough to ensure propriety was maintained, yet far enough to provide the illusion of privacy.
“Nevertheless,” she said, refocusing on the prince with renewed determination, “being so young—”
“How does being young disqualify you?” He looked curious.
“Well, it—I am less experienced than most of the others, Your Highness.”
His lips curved into an amused smile. “I don’t believe any of you are experienced in the area of being a High Lord’s Crown Consort.”
“I … I suppose not.” She was floundering now. “But I am likely the only one who might abandon a grand reception and flee into the gardens at the first opportunity. And probably the only one who doesn’t even like—”
She stopped abruptly, mortification washing through her. Stars above, she’d nearly said it aloud.
“The only one who doesn’t even like … me?” The prince sounded thoroughly amused rather than insulted. “How refreshing.”
“No! I mean, of course not, Your Highness. I mean the—” Aurelise stared desperately at a nearby rose bush. “The palace. I don’t like Solstice Hall. It’s … big.” Her voice trailed off lamely.
“Big,” he repeated, his tone suggesting he was struggling not to laugh. “A keen observation about royal architecture.”
Aurelise wished the earth would take pity on her and swallow her whole. This was worse than any social disaster she’d previously endured, and that was saying quite a lot.
“You can relax, Lady Aurelise,” Prince Ryden said, his expression softening into something that looked remarkably like genuine warmth. “I have no intention of choosing you.”
“Oh.” Relief washed through her, leaving her feeling light-headed from the sudden release of tension. “Truly?”
“Truly.”
“Then—” She hesitated, hardly daring to believe this mortifying conversation might end precisely the way she’d hoped. “Might I be permitted to leave at the earliest convenience? Return to Rowanwood House, perhaps?”
A flicker of surprise crossed Prince Ryden’s features before he tilted his head fractionally, his expression turning thoughtful.
“I could speak with my mother. Arrange something, certainly. However …” He paused, seeming to weigh his words.
“There are certain considerations that might make remaining here the wiser course.”
Her relief evaporated. “What considerations?”
He glanced around momentarily. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you, since the matter concerns your family directly.
You strike me as someone capable of keeping a confidence, and there are no gossip birds within hearing.
” He made a show of checking the nearby hedges, and Aurelise was relieved to see that Thimble and Spark had disappeared.
“The truth is, my mother selected you for your family’s sake, not because she ever considered you a genuine possibility for the role of princess.”
The words should have brought pure relief. They did bring relief—a loosening of the knot that had lived in Aurelise’s chest since the High Lady’s announcement. But beneath that relief, something else stirred. A tiny, irrational prick of … offense?
Which made no sense whatsoever. She agreed with the assessment entirely.
“Your grandmother requested it,” he continued.
“Your family, while undoubtedly still prominent, is in somewhat of a … tenuous position.” He appeared to be choosing his words carefully.
“To exclude you would have reflected negatively on your family and invited more speculation about … a certain Rowanwood.”
Understanding dawned, uneasy and heavy, threading through her like a chill. “Rosavyn,” she murmured.
“Indeed. Should you leave the Crown Court early …” Prince Ryden let the implications hang in the air between them.
She understood immediately. Her early departure would be seen as a slight, either from her toward the Crown or from the Crown toward the Rowanwoods.
Either interpretation would fuel gossip that would inevitably circle back to Rosavyn’s situation, making it even more difficult for her to find a gentleman of suitable standing who might overlook her delayed manifestation in favor of the Rowanwood name and connections.
“But if you truly wish to leave,” Prince Ryden added, “I will arrange it. I won’t force anyone to remain where they’re miserable.”
Aurelise drew in a breath. For herself, she would flee this palace without a backward glance. But for Rosavyn …
“No,” she said quietly. “Thank you, but … I’ll stay.”
“Are you certain? You seemed quite determined to escape just moments ago.”
“Yes.” The word emerged steadier than she felt—an odd mingling of determination and dread tightening her chest. “I’m certain.”
He inclined his head slightly, bending to catch her downcast gaze, his lips curving into a half smile. “Do you at least feel a little more at ease now? You may cease worrying about impressing me.”
Her brows lifted. “I never worried about impressing you.”
Surprise flickered across his features before melting into a grin that was far too pleased for her comfort. “Oho, so you do possess a sense of humor! Your brother was trying to convince me you’re thoroughly dull.”
Aurelise’s mouth fell open, her cheeks flooding with heat. “Which brother?”
His lips curved further. “Evryn.”
“He would never.”
“True,” the prince allowed. “He did not use the word dull, precisely, but the implication was difficult to miss.”
Aurelise narrowed her eyes, tilting her head just slightly, though her blush betrayed her indignation. She studied him for a long moment before replying, her voice level. “He was trying to dissuade your interest in me.”
Something in his smile softened. “You are perceptive, Lady Aurelise.”
“No, I merely trust that none of my siblings would ever—” She stopped abruptly, remembering with a jolt that she had intended to present herself as utterly boring and forgettable.
While the prince’s assurance that she was not a genuine contender should have freed her from this charade, caution suggested maintaining the strategy she and her sisters had crafted.
“Well. Yes. I am. Quite terribly dull, in fact.”
Prince Ryden’s ink-blue eyes glittered with mirth. “And a lamentable liar, it would seem.”
Her mouth fell open again. “Is this your famed charm at work, Your Highness? Insulting ladies to their faces?”
The grin he gave her was pure mischief. Disarmingly handsome and entirely aware of it. “I thought we had agreed I’m not going to choose you,” he said lightly. “What need have I to charm you?”
Aurelise drew back slightly, studying him with new consideration.
Then, with a soft huff of laughter, half amused, half exasperated, she turned toward the roses, presenting him with her profile as she surveyed the pristine blooms. To her immense relief, there was no sign of her meddlesome companions among the foliage.
“Yes,” she said. “In answer to your earlier question, I am feeling more at ease now.” She reached out one gloved finger to trace the delicate curve of a blush pink rose, its petals unfurling in perfect symmetry.
“You were right,” she added quietly. “The royal garden pixies have indeed outdone themselves this Season to coax such beauty to life.”
The idea brought to mind Lady Olivienne and her glenwhisper magic—that rare gift that breathed vitality into growing things, awakening in them a brilliance and vigor that ordinary nature couldn’t often achieve on its own.
Aurelise wondered what spectacular demonstration the woman had presented at the Opening Ball.
She had missed it entirely, consumed by anxiety over her own imminent performance.
The memory of that night sent her thoughts drifting to R and their letter exchange leading up to the event. His absurd strategy for surviving conversational lulls.
Emboldened by the thought of his likely amusement, Aurelise looked back over her shoulder and caught Prince Ryden’s gaze. Smothering a smile at the utter ridiculousness of the question, she asked, “Do you think plants have opinions about us?”
A startled laugh escaped him, softening his features for a moment before a faint furrow appeared between his brows. “It’s funny you should say that, because …” He trailed off, head tilting as he gave her the strangest look.
Ah, there it was. The expression of polite alarm belonging to someone now wondering whether she had taken complete leave of her senses, precisely as R had predicted.
Evidently, the prince fell into the latter category of R’s theory: the sort of person who, upon concluding that she was quite mad, would wish to remove himself from her company at the earliest opportunity.
Despite the warmth of embarrassment rising in her cheeks, Aurelise couldn’t quite suppress her smile as she turned back to the roses.
R’s ridiculous advice had proven effective.
I see no flaws in this plan, he had written.
Indeed, he had been entirely correct. She would write tonight and tell him so.
She reached out to cup her palm beneath a particularly perfect bloom, tilting it gently toward her as a quiet laugh caught in the back of her throat. “Elderly chaperones,” she murmured, recalling another of R’s comments that had always amused her.
Several heartbeats passed in gentle stillness, the faint rustle of leaves and the soft trill of birds filling the pause, before the prince’s voice broke it, low and oddly unsteady. “What … did you say?”
“The roses,” Aurelise clarified, deciding he likely thought her completely mad by now. She glanced back at him, cheeks still warm, her chin dipping as a shy smile curved her lips. “They disapprove of uncovered ankles, you know. And dancing too close to one’s partner.”
He stared at her, his gaze growing intent, flicking across her face as though searching for something while the furrow between his brows deepened.
The rhythm of his breathing changed—quicker, uneven—and she could have sworn his eyes had darkened.
The air itself seemed to tremble, a faint shimmer rippling between them.
“Your Highness?” she asked tentatively. Oh, good stars, what had she done? Had she truly managed to offend him with her silly comments? “Are you … are you all right? Did I—”
He took a hasty step backward, turning his face away. “No, it is—not you. Forgive me, Lady … Lady Aurelise. I’ve just remembered something. Somewhere … somewhere I must be. Please excuse me.”
And without another glance in her direction, he strode away, leaving Aurelise alone among the roses, quite bewildered by what had just transpired.