It’s been a long night. A night which I intended to spend getting gloriously drunk to forget about all the shitty things that have happened today.
I feel myself go pale. God, I’ve been so wrapped up with the chaos on my own plate, I didn’t realize his might be overflowing, too. That, in all likelihood, this surly stranger’s loss far surpasses my own.
To me, the king and queen were figureheads.
To him…
Were they family?
“I’m sorry,” I say softly.
He recoils as though I’ve slapped him. “Excuse me?”
“The fire… the king and queen… Crown Prince Henry…” My voice is a whisper. “I’m sorry for your loss. For what you must be going through, right now.”
His eyes hold mine for a long moment. I might as well be staring at two cerulean shields — he’s totally unreadable. I should probably look away, but I don’t. The space between us starts to simmer again, strange currents charging the air, zinging back and forth from him to me. When he finally breaks the silence, there’s gravel in his voice.
“Are you done?”
“Done?”
“With your questions.”
“Not nearly.”
“Too bad.” He looks away sharply. “Time to face the firing squad.”
I must make a sound of distress, because his smirk returns.
“The metaphorical firing squad.” He pauses. “Then again, when Octavia sees that hair of yours…”
“Who’s Octavia?” I squeak, but he’s already walking toward the guards, who are waiting for us at the steps leading up to the front door. “Who are you? Who’s in there?Wait!”
“Sorry, love. The Q&A portion of the evening is over.”
“But you’ve barely told me anything!”
“Next time, ask better questions.”
I let out a grumble. I have no choice but to scamper after him, tugging down my mini-skirt and smoothing my hair as best I can as we round the edge of an ornate fountain surrounded by elaborate topiary. My blood pressure increases in direct proportion to our dwindling distance from the doorway. By the time we ascend the five marble steps to the threshold, four guards flanking us from all sides, I’m sure I’m about to keel over from a massive coronary incident.
Just before we step inside, two blue eyes cut to mine. “Ready for this?”
“Not remotely,” I whisper.
“Last chance to bolt.”
“One thing you should know about me?” I steady my shoulders, turn my face forward, and watch as the door swings inward. “I don’t bolt.”
With that vow hanging in the air, I step forward into the manor.
* * *
In all my life,I’ve never felt more frizzy and frazzled than I do as my eyes sweep around the Lockwood Estate’s soaring atrium. Between the grand staircase, the crystal chandelier, and the carefully appointed collection of antiques, I’m about as out of place as Maria arriving at the Von Trapp family home inThe Sound of Music— one of the old Hollywood films I used to watch on repeat as a little girl, back when I still believed in happily-ever-afters and fairy tale endings.
There’s a rotund man in a pinstripe suit waiting for us. I startle when I realize I saw him on television earlier: the Palace Press Secretary. Offscreen, his expression is equally sour — perhaps more so, when he catches sight of me. His eyes scan from my outgrown lavender roots down to my chunky black heels and back. I know, from that two-second perusal, he has taken my measure and found me sadly lacking.
“Well, then,” he says in a haughty tone, as though we’re inexcusably late for an appointment. His jowls quiver with displeasure as he turns his gaze on my companion, evaluating every flaw from the lipstick-stained collar to the messy hair to the bloodshot eyes. “Lord Thorne, you may go occupy yourself doing… whatever it is you do in your vast free time. Just do not leave the premises.”