“Oh,” I blurt gracelessly, blushing deeply. “Of course.”
He beams as he tucks my hand in the crook of his arm and leads me out onto the dance floor. I glance around at the Great Hall, telling myself I’m taking in the sights — not scanning restlessly for a dark head of hair and broad, tuxedoed shoulders amongst the throng of guests.
There’s no sign of him anywhere. And I can’t help noticing that Ava is suspiciously absent, as well.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter.
Pushing thoughts of Carter Thorne from my head, I force myself to appreciate the beauty of the ballroom. The space has been impressively transformed, full to the brim with fresh flower arrangements and white linen table cloths and shining silver candlesticks. Sharply uniformed waitstaff distribute champagne flutes to everyone in the crowd. An eight-piece string band offers musical accompaniment to the many couples already whirling around elegantly at the center of the room.
Alden and I take our place amongst them. I hardly breathe as he leads me through my first ever waltz — well, with anyone besides Lady Morrell, which I’m relatively certain doesn’t count. He’s a much more exciting partner, leading my turns with ease, steering my every move as though there are marionette strings attached to my toes. After a while, I find I’m actually enjoying myself as we glide to the tempo.
“I can’t believe you lied to me,” he whispers in my ear as the waltz comes to an end.
“What?”
His smile is ultra white. “You’re a lovely dancer. You’ve not tread on my feet even once.”
“Give it time.”
“Does that mean I can persuade you to dance with me again?”
I open my mouth to agree, but the words are cut off by a lightly accented voice from the left.
“Unfortunately, the princess cannot dance with you,” a young man I don’t recognize says, bowing slightly as he beholds me, his brown eyes sparkling. “As she will be dancing with me.”
“Oh?” I arch a brow. “And you are…?”
“Westley Egerton, Baron of Frenberg. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Your Royal Highness.”
“Just Emilia, please.”
His brows shoot up in shock at such familiarity. Lady Morrell would be positively scandalized by my impropriety, but I don’t care. I’m so tired of being calledYour HighnessI could spit. And the night has only just begun.
“Princess Emilia it is, then,” Egerton says tactfully, smiling as he extends a hand. “Shall we?”
With an apologetic glance at Alden, I take his outstretched hand and allow myself to be pulled into another spirited dance. Feeling the weight of many male stares, I have a creeping suspicion his won’t be my only offer this evening…
* * *
My hunch,as it turns out, is correct.
Two hours later, my feet are aching as yet another suitor from some place I can’t remember the name of steers me around the dance floor. Unfortunately for me, unlike Alden, this particular earl does not possess even an ounce of lightness of foot — as evidenced by the fact that he’s already trampled on mine at least three times.
“Apologies again, Your Highness.”
I hide my wince with a fake smile. “Not a problem.”
Chloe grimaces at me over the shoulder of the handsome lord she’s dancing with. I try to smile back, but it turns to another scowl of pain as his considerable weight comes down on my toes.
“Deepest apologies, yet again—”
I set my teeth in a grimace and pray it’s almost over. I’m exhausted from smiling benignly and making small talk with strangers; from being mauled by middle-aged lords with sagging bellies and sour breath; from fending off scathing comments from their wives during the brief interludes I’ve managed to escape the dance floor for a fortifying sip of champagne.
“Please forgive me, Princess,” the earl is saying, but my attention is suddenly elsewhere — snagging on something in the crowd that makes my heart race at twice its normal rate. Something I haven’t locked eyes on all night, despite my constant search.