Page 162 of A Game of Veils

Marclinus trails his fingers down my side before clasping my waist again. “I’d say we give it ten songs total, and then we can respectably depart for our chambers. We can christen your new bedroom first, my wild princess.”

The nickname Fausta gave me prickles through my nerves.

Seven more dances after this one. I can agree to that timeline.

I peer at him coyly through my eyelashes the way my rival might have. “I look forward to it.”

Even on his wedding day, it’s expected that the imperial heir will spread the celebration around. While he dotes on one of the marchionissas, I find myself in the sweaty-palmed grip of her marchion. Then back to Marclinus.

Then he moves to entertain one of his father’s advisors, and a slim but firm hand clamps around mine.

My gaze darts over to meet Bastien’s dark green eyes.

I catch myself on the verge of wincing. My smile turns carefully polite. I accept his distant embrace, staying equally distant behind the disaffected mask I’ve put in place.

The prince’s stare remains as penetrating as always, if much colder than I’ve experienced in the recent past. I have the impression he’s trying to stab straight through my skull into my thoughts.

His jaw works. “You’ve had quite a day, Your Imperial Highness.”

There’s a cutting edge to his voice when he says my new title. I pretend I don’t notice his rancor, pretend I don’t remember how the hands now chastely placed once roamed over my naked body.

No one who observes our dance can witness so much as a twitch of emotion in my face or my stance. Bastien thinks he knows what’s riding on his silence, but he truly has no idea.

“It has been rather a lot,” I say carefully. “I’m grateful it’s ended so well.”

There’s no way to play the devoted bride without driving the knife in deeper.

The prince looks as if he’s gritted his teeth. “You have everything you wanted, then?”

My smile has never felt stiffer. “Oh, yes. I couldn’t be happier.”

He lapses into a chilly silence. My pulse thuds on, painfully heavy.

I can’t imagine he’d reveal our secret encounters now, not when I know far more of his secrets than he does mine. We’ll all just live in the misery we’ve made for ourselves.

Bastien’s lips part as if he’s going to say something else—and a sudden thump sends a flurry of gasps through the crowd. The music cuts out.

With a lurch of my heart, I spin around. My surprise isn’t totally feigned.

I didn’t know exactly how long the concoction would need to take hold in a man. I only ever tested it on animals back in Accasy.

Emperor Tarquin lies sprawled on the floor on his side, his limbs twitching, his face contorted. I let out a gasp of my own and rush toward my father-by-marriage.

Shouts ring out through the ballroom—“The emperor’s ill!” “Get the medics!”—with a current of murmurs underneath.

“He has seemed shaky recently.”

“That coughing fit the other day…”

“Sometimes the body goes swiftly after the first signs.”

The offhand remarks I crafted have stuck in their heads and rippled through the court. Let them see nothing but an old man finally faltering with age.

The dancers pull back around the fallen emperor. Both Tarquin’s face and body have gone rigid as the initial paralysis takes hold.

Three of his guards stand over him, their gazes sweeping across his crumpled form and the mass of nobles around us, searching for any sign of malicious magic. But there’s none to be found.

I worked my gift before I ever arrived in Dariu, over and over, until I had just the right mixture to cure the empire of its greatest menace.

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