Chapter 41
Over the next three days, the Voss estate received more attention than it had in months—most of it arriving in carefully wrapped boxes bearing the royal seal.
Dara had not expected courtship to involve quite so many deliveries.
The first gifts had already been dealt with. Flowers, tea, sweets, and the hairpiece had arrived before the courtship had settled into anything resembling structure, which meant they belonged to the unfortunate category of things she had accepted before fully appreciating the danger.
The gifts that followed were less easily dismissed.
There were other boxes, other carefully chosen offerings, each one tasteful enough to be irritating, but Dara did not bother cataloging every offense.
The important ones were obvious: a fan of black lacquer and deep green silk, painted with subtle curling vines that shimmered faintly when moved beneath the light, followed by a necklace and earrings set with green stones that caught beautifully against the darkness of her hair and the color of her eyes.
Cai had called it excessive.
Dara had called it politically useful.
Then she had kept all of it.
By the time Lord Percival Dainhurst’s birthday celebration arrived, half of Ambervale had already heard that the Crown Prince was sending gifts to Lady Lynara Voss with unsettling consistency. The rest would no doubt know by morning, which made selecting her attire for the evening very simple.
She wore the earrings, the necklace, and the fan.
Not the hairpiece this time.
That would have been too much.
Probably.
The fan alone was statement enough, folded neatly in one gloved hand as she descended the estate steps toward the waiting carriage—and toward Valerius, who stood beside it ready to escort her to the celebration.
Lord Percival Dainhurst was one of Ambervale’s district managers—a man of respectable lineage, excellent wine cellars, and an unfortunate habit of speaking at length once encouraged.
His birthday celebration had been planned weeks earlier, before the Crown auditors arrived, before her father was removed from office, and before the Crown Prince’s courtship became the most interesting topic available to polite society.
Which meant the evening had transformed from a predictable noble gathering into something far more useful.
A public room.
A watching audience.
And all of them waiting to see what had changed.
The Voss household had prepared a proper gift, of course—a rare cask of aged honey-wine from the family stores and a carved set of polished writing instruments suitable for a man who loved correspondence almost as much as he loved hearing himself speak.
Prince Valerius had brought his own gift as well, a refined silver-and-onyx desk seal commissioned with the Dainhurst crest.
Appropriate.
Expensive.
Not personal enough to invite confusion.
Dara approved.
When their carriage arrived, Lord Dainhurst’s manor was ablaze with light.
Lanterns lined the approach in precise rows, their glow catching on the polished surfaces of carriages already gathered before the entrance.
Music drifted faintly through the open doors, softened by distance but lively enough to suggest dancing had either begun or would soon begin.
Nobles moved across the front steps in silks, velvet, jewels, and embroidered coats, their voices weaving together in a low, bright hum.
Then the carriage stopped, and the hum changed.
Not by much. Just enough.
Valerius stepped down first. The footman opened the door fully, but the Crown Prince offered his hand himself, and Dara placed her gloved fingers in his.
The moment she descended, she felt the shift. Eyes turned. Whispers softened. Several conversations faltered mid-sentence.
Wonderful.
She stepped onto the drive with all the calm grace expected of a noblewoman and none of the discomfort that would have made the moment less useful.
The necklace at her throat caught the lanternlight.
The earrings glimmered. The folded fan rested against her fingers in green and black, unmistakably fine, unmistakably new.
Unmistakably from someone with exceptional taste and far too much influence.
Valerius’s gaze flicked over her once. Not openly. Not enough to be improper. But enough.
“It seems my gifts were not unwelcome,” he said quietly.
Dara looked ahead toward the entrance. “They were suitable.”
His mouth curved slightly. “Suitable.”
“And practical.”
“I’m pleased they met such exacting criteria.”
“They will do.”
That almost made him laugh.
Almost.
He offered his arm, and she accepted it without hesitation. Together, they ascended the steps.
The effect was immediate.
Bows deepened. Curtsies lowered. Even those who had no reason to address her directly became notably more careful in their regard, their eyes darting from the Crown Prince to the jewels at her throat, then to the fan in her hand, then back again with rapidly recalculating expressions.
Dara kept her face serene.
Inside, Lord Percival Dainhurst’s manor had been dressed for celebration in warm gold, cream, and deep burgundy.
Floral arrangements stood along the walls, polished floors gleamed beneath chandelier light, and servants moved quickly through the crowd with trays of wine and small delicacies arranged as though feeding nobles were a military campaign requiring precision and sacrifice.
Lord Dainhurst himself approached them almost immediately.
He was a man in his early fifties, broad through the shoulders, with silver threaded through his dark hair, shrewd dark eyes, and a smile that had clearly been trained over decades to look both generous and important.
Tonight, however, that smile flickered with genuine surprise beneath the weight of royal attendance.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing low. “Lady Lynara. You honor my household this evening.”
Valerius inclined his head. “Lord Dainhurst.”
Dara dipped into a graceful curtsey. “A happy birthday to you, my lord.”
“You are too kind.”
He looked as though he suspected kindness was the least important part of their arrival.
Sensible man.
The Voss gift was presented first, accepted with proper warmth and a pleased murmur over the honey-wine. Then Valerius’s gift was brought forward.
The silver-and-onyx desk seal caught the chandelier light as the case opened.
Dainhurst went still for a fraction of a second. Then bowed even lower. “Your Highness is most generous.”
“A fitting occasion,” Valerius said.
Several nearby nobles heard that.
Good.
Let them.
Dainhurst recovered quickly, gesturing toward the main hall. “Please, allow me to welcome you both inside. The evening has only just begun.”
Dara smiled politely.
That was acceptable.
As they moved farther into the room, she felt the attention follow them like a second train.
There was curiosity in it, and envy, and calculation.
All of it was useful.
A cluster of noblewomen near the far side of the hall quieted as they passed. One of them stared just a moment too long at the necklace before lowering her gaze with a faint smile too careful to be sincere.
Dara saw it.
Valerius saw that she saw it.
Neither commented.
Across the hall, two district officials stood together near a tall arrangement of burgundy flowers, their expressions stiffening as they recognized her. One whispered something to the other, whose mouth flattened before he took a sip of wine.
Ah. Excellent.
Those, she thought, would likely become interesting later.
Valerius leaned very slightly closer, his voice low enough not to carry. “You appear pleased.”
“I enjoy birthdays,” Dara said.
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
She looked at him.
He looked back.
The corner of her mouth lifted by a fraction. “Then perhaps I enjoy efficient social atmospheres.”
“That sounds more likely.”
“Indeed.”
Music swelled from the far end of the hall, and the gathering began to shift toward the open space cleared for dancing.
Couples arranged themselves with practiced grace, and conversations adjusted accordingly—some pausing, some continuing at the edges, some becoming sharper now that the evening had acquired new subjects to dissect.
Valerius’s arm remained beneath her hand, steady and warm through the layers of fabric. Dara did not withdraw. There was no reason to. If everyone wanted to look, then they should have something worth looking at.
Valerius turned slightly toward her. “Will Lady Lynara allow me the first dance?”
The surrounding conversations did not stop, but several slowed. Dara felt it. The question was proper, public, and perhaps expected. And still, from him, in this room, with the entire gathering already measuring the distance between them, it was not small.
She let the pause last just long enough, then inclined her head. “I will.”
His expression did not change much, but she saw the satisfaction in it anyway.
Valerius led her toward the floor, and the crowd parted smoothly. Too smoothly. Before they reached the open space, Dara unfolded the green-and-black fan once, slow and elegant, just enough for the color to flash beneath the chandelier light.
Somewhere nearby, a noblewoman made a very quiet sound of recognition.
Good.
Let them recognize it.
Then Dara closed the fan and passed it to Grace without looking away from the dance floor.
The musicians adjusted, preparing for the next piece. Valerius turned to face her and took her hand, his other hand settling at the proper place near her waist. Correct. Formal. And yet close enough that the entire room seemed to sharpen around them.
Dara lifted her gaze to his.
He looked entirely calm.
Of course he did.
How annoying.
Then the music began, and with half of Ambervale watching, Dara stepped into the dance.