Of course. This upset to my entire life—both physically and emotionally—came about simply because Justin would rather fewer people witnessed his own rising from what, under other circumstances, would be his private bed. For a moment, I want to feel sorry for him when I recall that he’s been performing the King’s lever since he was barely fifteen. Likely only days after his parents’ deaths. But only a moment. “If you had mentioned anything of the sort a few days ago, I feel confident in vowing that I could have risen to the occasion.” I want to continue and call him out for creating a problem for the sole purpose of berating me for it, but his odd confession stops me.
He says nothing and avoids my eyes for an uncomfortable stretch. When he speaks at last, he merely says, “Mateus.”
The office doors fly open. I swear the man must have been standing with his ear pressed to the door.
“My gloves and sash.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” The door closes again.
And then we’re alone. Truly this time. No one listening at the door. He circles me, like a predator. It’s his favorite move, but he’s overused it, so it doesn’t make me uneasy anymore. It reminds me that he’s young, like me, and thinks far more of his sexual prowess than he ought. Like every other teen male at court. In this arena, what truly is the difference between the King and other boys?
“You’re a scarlet vision tonight.”
I stiffen, not liking the particular connotation he attaches to the word scarlet. But I turn, presenting His Majesty with a private viewing of my profile, eyelashes resting against my cheeks. It’s time for tonight’s work of theater to begin. “You’re too kind.”
“I’d prefer to be far kinder,” he whispers, his mouth close to my ear as he falls for it completely.
I tilt minutely to the side and let my stays dig into my ribs. You have a job. Forget everything else. His Majesty studies me with a look that speaks very subtly of consternation before he says, “It’s your mouth, isn’t it?”
“Excuse me?” I say, widening my eyes.
“Your lipstick—it…sparkles.”
It’s too easy. I reach up toward my lips as though I had forgotten, stilling my fingers just shy of touching the gloss—that would be a mess. “It is pretty, isn’t it?”
The silence stretches long as he stares at my mouth, and I force myself to smile. To speak.
“Striking,” I press, tilting my head.
Unconsciously he leans toward me, and I can practically hear his heartbeat speed up. It would be fun to toy with him if I weren’t playing a game of life and death. “It’s lovely,” he says.
“It’s something I think we should have at court.”
“Absolutely,” he growls, and draws closer still, bending at first as though inspecting my mouth, but dropping the pretense an instant later as his nose drops near my neck. “Your perfume is exquisite,” he breathes.
“Your mother’s,” I say dryly, hoping the mention of her will cool his ardor.
No luck. He breathes in deeply, and his lips touch the skin just above my décolletage, making my spine feel like someone has dropped crushed ice down my back.
The door bursts open; it’s His Highness’ man, bearing the royal formal ornamentals. I turn away as His Majesty clears his throat and straightens. “Indeed. It’s time, isn’t it?” he asks, pretending to be entirely unaffected as he takes his short gloves from the silver tray balanced on Mateus’s fingertips.
Mateus fusses with the angle of the sash, his hands darting around the King’s arms as he pulls on his gloves. Finally His Highness grows annoyed with the fluttering man and shoves him away. Mateus staggers but manages to keep his footing, then scuttles out the door, apologizing all the while.
His final touches completed, His Highness offers me his arm. On Wednesdays I’m now required to enter the grand assembly in the Hall of Mirrors on his arm like a glowing trophy. Not the kind of trophy one wins for completing a challenge; the kind one stuffs and hangs on the wall after killing it. We’re announced at the doorway of the hall, and the hundred or so nobles pause and turn, then drop into low bows for our royal sovereign.
And me, since I’m by his side; promoted from scandalous fiancée to shiny new almost-Queen.
As the nobles genuflect, I get an unobstructed view of the line of tourists crowded into the roped-off area that runs the entire length of the hall. Our Wednesday-night guests. I’ve always found it amusing to watch while many of the tourists play a game of “when in Rome,” bowing to the monarch of Sonoman-Versailles before straightening and looking around sheepishly. They never seem able to decide whether they’re commoners looking upon a king, or patrons viewing an actor.
The truth, of course, is that royalty is and has always been performance art. It was probably William, the second King Wyndham, who understood this best. Wednesday exhibitions of the palace were originally limited to museum-style tours, passive observation of the palace residents, and intermittent ceremonial reenactments. The second King’s insight was that our public day could constitute a meaningful revenue stream with the introduction of premium packages. So for a handsome sum, select tourists can attend a lever or watch an evening’s festivities, among other things. They’re even permitted to enjoy the hors d’oeuvres as liveried servers walk by with heavily laden silver trays—a job that, of course, would generally be done by half the number of bots.
The hall is packed with bodies. The King manages to lead me to the center of the crowd, where two couples are so quick to make way that they crash into each other, a lady in blue velvet nearly falling on her face. His Majesty, of course, notices nothing as he turns me to face him, gripping my fingertips possessively all the while. I’m scarcely aware of the music as we dance and he spins me to the outside of the circle, as if to put me between himself and our adoring public.
Hiding behind a lady smaller than him. Typical.
It’s amusing to see in the tourists’ midst a few men in evening coats, women with low-cut gowns of cheap cotton borne up by lumpy, uneven panniers and sparse powdered wigs fashioned into pompadours balanced precariously atop their heads. I suppose to them the resemblance is at least passing, but no woman in all of Sonoman-Versailles would be caught wearing so much as a shift of such shoddy tailoring.
I’m forced to wonder if this is what we look like to them. Can they not tell the difference? Judging from what I’ve observed, both in person and online, quality doesn’t seem to be very important in the rest of the world. I know the words for their clothing: T-shirts, jeans, shorts, polos. I’m not fascinated with the fashions of the rest of the world like some of the ladies are—but we have the Internet. We’re aware that we’re different. But I love our fashions, our culture. Always have. If I succeed in my task—if I can meet Reginald’s price—will I ever be able to dress properly again? A small enough price to pay for my liberty and my life, I suppose, but given my limited range of experience, will my own attempts to dress like them prove as absurd as their attempts to dress like me?
The music ends, and I drop a low bow to his Royal Highness, but before I can walk away, he clamps my fingertips in a bruising grip and gestures to the musicians to play another. Two dances, three. A fourth starts, and still he doesn’t let me go. I can’t simply decide to leave without making a scene, but if he tries for a fifth, I may be forced to beg use of the privy to get away. I’m working hard to gain his approval tonight—I want everyone here to be aware that he desires me—but sometimes my own level of success can be frustrating. I made this happen because it’s what I wanted to happen, I remind myself. I’m finally doing something, and it’s going to help me sell Glitter.
Finally His Majesty leads me off the dance floor and spends too long raising my hands to his lips in front of the gathered nobles, who give a soft patter of applause at his show of gentlemanly affection. Part of it—a goodly part—is simply that: a show. But some of it’s real. I flirt and toy with him, and he’s too simple to do anything but fall for it. Somehow, he’s convinced him
self that the girl who watched him murder in cold blood could actually want him.
“I THOUGHT HE had you in his nasty clutches and was never going to let you go.”
Lord Aaron’s barely jesting comment rings as he and Molli swoop in from both sides, rather like birds of prey. I take his arm on one side and Molli twines our elbows into a friendly link on the other; momentarily, I savor the illusion of protection.
“You look quite lovely,” Molli says lightly. “Is the gown new?”
“No,” I laugh, “old. In fact my mother almost refused to fasten me into it, it’s so far expired.”
“What’s old is new, darling,” Lord Aaron says with a half-grin. “Who in the entire world should understand that better than us?”
I laugh again, a sound carefully practiced to be pleasant to the ear without truly drawing attention. It took ages to learn. “No, no,” Giovanni would say when I practiced. “You’re not a serving wench. You are a secretive siren.” I always thought his emphasis was on siren. Foolish young me.
“I have grand news,” I say, pulling Molli and Lord Aaron along with me as I stroll down the Hall of Mirrors, red satin train trailing on the ground behind me. “For all the tradition and protocol he’s broken in the process, His Royal Highness has indeed given me the Queen’s Rooms. All of them. So I’ve decided to have a tea party in the Salle du Sacre.”
Even if I weren’t expected to hold some kind of housewarming fête, I would want to so the court could stop whispering about it behind hands and fans and gossip about it openly instead. In addition, I’m going to use it to launch my new cosmetics line.
“The Coronation Room?” Lord Aaron asks, eyes big. It is a bold move, but if I’m ever going to meet Reginald’s fee, I’m going to have to become accustomed to boldness.
“Indeed.”
“What do you have planned for the party?” Molli asks.
It’s a reasonable question—one that’s about décor and food, not illicit-drug-laced cosmetics. “I haven’t gotten that far.”
“No time like the present,” Lord Aaron says, always up for party planning.
“Very well, whom should I invite?” I ask with a grin.
“That depends,” Lord Aaron says seriously. “What’s the purpose of the tea?”
He would never believe it if I were to tell him the truth—not even him. “To make as many people jealous as possible.” Technically true.
“Then put Lady Cynthea at the top of the list,” Molli blurts.
“She’s already there.”
We snicker, our gazes sliding to Lady Cyn, who’s posing for the cameras in her admittedly exquisite gown. I’m wondering if she understands the difference between sightseers and paparazzi when she catches us looking and, never one to resist even the most lamentable of challenges, lights up like an LED before excusing herself and stepping toward two of her friends for a brief tête-à-tête. The threesome then turn and come at us, Lady Cyn in the lead, her bronze dress making her look rather like the figurehead of a grand ship.
“Molli, Lord Aaron,” she says with a smile that shows a deep dimple in one cheek. A quick hesitation. “Danica.”
“Cynthea,” I say, dropping a curtsy as well as the requisite Lady, and suppress a smile at her not-quite-concealed grimace. Lady Cynthea Lefurgey is the daughter of a royal duke—though she’ll only become Your Grace if she achieves similar high office for herself. The first time she found it socially expedient to address me as Your Grace, I thought she might choke on her tongue. She can’t always get away with it, but she goes out of her way to call me by only my given name as often as humanly possible—to emphasize that in spite of everything, I remain technically untitled.
“You know Lady Nuala and Lady Giselle, yes?”
“Indeed,” I say, inclining my head. Daughters of high nobility, of course; nothing but the best for Lady Cyn.
I have to stare hard at them for nearly ten seconds before they exchange glances and drop into shallow curtsies. As Lady Nuala rises, she fakes catching her slipper on her dress quite dreadfully and tips her hands forward so half a glass of wine splashes onto my chest.
The liquid pools between my breasts, surely coating the cylinder of Glitter nestled there, and I can feel the drops working their way downward and sopping into my underclothes. Insult by proxy. I should have seen this coming. Lady Cyn, as my rival, can’t be seen stooping so low—decidedly bourgeoise—but her friends are another thing entirely.
“Quick, Lord Aaron, a handkerchief. Perhaps we can hide Lady Nuala’s error,” I hiss, plenty loud enough for the trio to hear me.
A burgeoning smirk freezes on Lady Cyn’s face.
“Thank goodness my dress is red, Nuala,” I say patronizingly, dropping her title. “How humiliating for it to be known that you staggered so ungracefully. Not to mention ruining my gown. I know poise has always been a challenge for you.”
I blot the handkerchief across my skin, but it’s Lady Nuala’s face that’s flushing. There must be a clumsy moment in her past of which I am unaware.
“Allowances must be made for the stress of our Wednesdays. Besides, I do so respect your mother, the countess.” I could not for my life have come up with the name of Lady Nuala’s mother, but somehow my memory serves up her rank.
Lady Nuala stammers an apology, and when I turn to get Lord Aaron’s confirmation that the stain isn’t visible, I see her shoot an angry glare at Lady Cyn. “Come,” I say, tucking Lady Nuala’s arm into my elbow while gesturing for Lord Aaron to join our chain on Molli’s other side, “Let’s stroll for a bit, and no one will be any the wiser.”
I lead off, and our walking four abreast leaves Lady Cyn and Lady Giselle no choice but to follow us like sad hangers-on.
When Lady Cyn finally speaks, she has to pipe up from behind me. “I hear your circumstances have improved of late. Much good may it do you. The bedroom of Marie-Antoinette herself. Tell me,” she says, getting just close enough that I can hear her but no one outside our group can, “do you think the woman is spinning in her grave to have a commoner sleeping in her bed?”
My move to the Queen’s Rooms must have been a blow, but Lady Cyn won’t accept anything as permanent until the ink of our duly notarized signatures has dried on the marriage contract. So she’s waging a war to push me off a throne I’ve yet to sit on, and to set her own backside there instead.
She’s welcome to it.
I pause and turn halfway so I can look at her over my shoulder, holding her friend tightly in place at my side. “I like to think she’d be happy that her place is being filled by someone deserving,” I reply. “It could so easily have gone another way.”
I watch with satisfaction when two pink circles show on Lady Cyn’s cheeks, though her expression remains fixed.
It’s become a bit of a court-wide joke how obviously Lady Cyn is throwing herself at the King—aiming to get him to break his betrothal. But beyond their very public trysting—which she’s certain must be such an embarrassment to me—she’s no closer to the throne than she was the night the King and I were bound by blood.
“But since you mention it”—I continue walking and force Lady Cyn to keep up if she wants to hear—“Molli and I were just discussing my upcoming social. I’m hosting a tea party next week to warm my new quarters. Yours was the first name we thought of, of course.”
“Of course,” Lady Cyn echoes. Because who in the world would not want her at their party?
I can feel Molli’s arm—still linked with mine—trembling as she holds back laughter.
“Send me a com with the details. I’ll see if I can fit it in.”
Meaning she’ll clear her entire schedule if need be.
I spin and let go of the very uncomfortable Lady Nuala so I can face the group fully. “All three of you, of course.” I lean forward and whisper. “Truly, I won’t hold tonight’s unfortunate mistake against you. I’m not that sort.”
Lady Nuala dips another shallow curtsy and murmurs something I can’t qui
te understand. Both Lady Nuala and Lady Giselle were in that group of bullies who surrounded me when Lady Cyn warned me away from the King over a year ago. I don’t deny the satisfaction of revenging myself publicly for their cowardly private intimidation.
“You must tell me,” Lady Cyn says, and I hear hesitation in her voice, “what this…thing is that you’re doing here.” She gestures vaguely—faking disinterest—at the sparkles on my lips.
“Isn’t it glorious?” I say, preening shamelessly. “His Majesty has always been attracted to things that glitter.”
“I see. Well, don’t worry,” she says, her smile hard. “You’ll acquire real jewels soon, I’m sure. Wouldn’t want our Queen to appear as though she came from nowhere, would we?”
“I don’t know about that,” I say, scorning her weak verbal assault. “His Majesty was so enraptured by my mouth that he…said so specifically.”
A well-timed pause is sometimes the sharpest of weapons. Lady Cyn’s jaw literally drops, and I congratulate myself on shattering her careful self-control. I bring Molli and Lord Aaron back to my sides as I turn away from their group and make as if to continue our stroll.
After two steps I pause and look back over my shoulder, my companions accommodating me brilliantly, as though we’d planned the encounter to the smallest detail. I tip my head coquettishly. “I’ve had the lipstick specially made, so the Society people can have no objection. I suspect it will soon be all the rage. I’ll have some samples to share at my party—I’m certain you’ll want to be in on the latest fashion.”
“Of course,” Lady Cyn says, her lips thin.
“And we all want to please our King, don’t we?”