Chapter 21 Duel Me, Maybe? #3
The duel began in earnest, both men circling each other with exaggerated footwork, their dramatic swipes and parries sending delighted murmurs through the crowd.
The spectacle quickly escalated into something out of a period drama, complete with playful taunts and near-acrobatic maneuvers. Guests pressed back against the walls, creating an impromptu arena in the center of the living room.
Sebastian, grinning wildly, called out, “I see you’ve been practicing.”
Alexander effortlessly dodged a thrust. “I can see you haven’t.”
Across the room, Emilia pushed through the crowd for a better view, her expression shifting from confusion to fascination as she watched the two men fence.
The crowd erupted in laughter and applause.
The duel culminated in a final flourish—Alexander swiftly disarming Sebastian with a deft maneuver, sending his foil clattering across the floor.
The ladies in the crowd practically swooned.
Sebastian clutched his chest in mock agony, staggering back as if mortally wounded.
Alexander, ever composed, rolled his eyes, handed the foil back to Sebastian, and turned—only to find Emilia watching from the front of the crowd, arms crossed, amusement flickering across her features.
“Satisfied?” he asked dryly.
Emilia, fighting a laugh, took a slow sip of her drink. “Oh, immensely,” she said, grinning. “Though I have to ask—how did you know you wouldn’t actually skewer each other?”
Alexander smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Because we used to fence all the time in school. Sebastian used to be a lot better at it.”
Sebastian, still dramatically draped over the couch, groaned. “I’m still better. I just—” He waved a lazy hand. “—allow my guests to win. It’s called hospitality.”
Emilia gave Alexander a playful look . “Maybe he did let you win.”
Alexander snorted. “No, trust me, he never passes up the chance to show off.”
Sebastian got up. “Well, obviously. What else is the point of having talent?”
Emilia laughed outright, shaking her head. “This is the most absurd thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Alexander’s gaze lingered on her for half a second longer than it should have. “Stick around,” he murmured. “It only gets worse.”
As the evening wore on and the drinks started disappearing with increasing frequency, the music shifted. The DJ transitioned to a sultry Latin number, its infectious salsa rhythm pulsing through the walls. It was the kind of song that made people dance—whether they wanted to or not.
Unfortunately, Alexander absolutely did not want to.
He stood near the edge of the dance floor, arms crossed, exuding the reluctant grace of a man who had endured years of forced ballroom dances and saw no reason to subject himself to any further dance related torture.
Emilia, on the other hand, had other plans. She appeared in front of him, grinning, mischief already glinting in her eyes. “Come on, Your Highness,” she coaxed, offering her hand. “Dance with me.”
Alexander arched a brow. “No.”
“No?” she echoed, tilting her head in mock disbelief.
“No,” he confirmed, taking a deliberate sip of his drink.
Sebastian, who had been watching with the kind of delighted anticipation reserved for reality television drama, leaned in. “Oh, this is fun. Do go on.”
Emilia ignored him and stepped closer to Alexander, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of her perfume. “So that’s it? The Crown Prince of Caledonia doesn’t dance?”
“I’ve danced at every official engagement required of me,” Alexander replied smoothly. “I see no reason to—”
“Oh, no reason,” she interrupted, smiling mischievously. “Or no ability?”
Sebastian whistled. “Oh-ho-ho. That’s bold.”
Alexander set down his drink with deliberate precision, his eyes never leaving Emilia’s. “I assure you, Miss Carter,” he said, his voice rich with warning, “if I wanted to dance, I would.”
Emilia crossed her arms, entirely unfazed. “So prove it.”
Sebastian choked on his whiskey.
Alexander stared at her, exasperated. “That’s not how this works.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Coward.”
Sebastian gasped, delighted horror spreading across his features. “Well, that escalated quickly.”
Emilia maintained her stance, still grinning. “I mean, I get it. You’re probably the type who only dances when it’s stiff royal waltzes, painfully rehearsed and completely devoid of fun—”
That did it.
Alexander’s jaw tightened, something flashing in his eyes—competitive irritation mingled with something darker, something more dangerous. Without another word, he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor.
Emilia barely had time to react before she was moving, spun effortlessly into the music. Alexander caught her waist, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of her dress, guiding her with annoyingly perfect ease. Suddenly, she was the one trying to keep up.
“No fun, huh?” he said, smirking down at her.
Emilia was, to her horror, a little breathless. “Alright. You have… some rhythm.”
Alexander’s smirk deepened, a rare glimpse of unguarded amusement. “Some?”
Then, because he was clearly out to prove a point, he dipped her—not a polite, reserved dip, but a reckless, full-motion, heart-stopping dip—before pulling her back up just in time for the beat to drop.
Emilia’s breath caught, her hand instinctively gripping his shoulder tighter.
“You look surprised,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear it over the music.
“You’re better than I expected,” she admitted.
“Obviously.”
She rolled her eyes. “God, I take it back.”
Alexander chuckled—before spinning her effortlessly, the room blurring for a second before she landed back against him.
His grip at her waist was firm, his other hand warm where it clasped hers.
His expression was infuriatingly smug, but his eyes—his eyes weren’t detached or unreadable or full of that royal restraint.
They were locked onto hers. And once again Emilia felt a spark between them.
The music surrounded them, the beat matching the rhythm of her pulse. For once, the world beyond them—the party, the guests, seemed to fade away.
Sebastian, still watching from the sidelines, let out a slow whistle. “Well, well, well,” he mused, taking a sip of his drink. “Alexander successfully flirting. Miracles do happen.”