Page 17 of A War of Crowns

But he needed to look casual, without seeming idle. As if he had just paused in the courtyard whilst on some other business, rather than the truth—that he had been loitering for the better part of the morning, waiting for a chance to be seen by the queen.

It was a difficult balancing act, to be sure. But nothing the son of the former Grand Master of the Mercer’s Guild couldn’t manage.

“You’re far from subtle, Crestley,” dour Lord Bennett Threston, second-born son of the Duke of Coreto, grumbled from his place perched on a nearby bench. “Have you ever thought of buying yourself a proper wife instead of prancing about for thequeen?” The other nobleman’s tone darkened considerably. “You have money enough for it.”

Tiberius simply smiled.

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re going on about, my dear Bennett,” he insisted.

But he did. Of course he did.

At thirty years of age, his continued status as the wealthiest bachelor in all of Elmoria was becoming…excessive. But he was walking proof that all the money in the kingdom couldn’t convince the proud fathers of Elmoria’s eligible bachelorettes to overlook his lack of a noble pedigree.

Lord Bennett snorted. “What I’m going on about is that I thinkanywife would be more than enough for the son of a merchant, so I’m not quite sure what you keep waiting for.”

Tiberius’s smile died on his lips. Shifting his stance ever so slightly to place more of his weight upon his left foot, he carefully reminded the other man, “I am a member of the peerage the same as you, my lord.”

“Yes,” Lord Bennett flatly agreed. “But my father didn’t have topayfor the privilege.”

Tiberius’s rapier was in his hand in the time it took the Duke of Coreto’s spare child to blink. “Need I remind you what I did to your older brother, my lord, the last timehethought to insult me?”

Before Lord Bennett could respond to those words beyond a mere tightening of his jaw, the young and stylish Sir Tristan Dacre—the only man in Queen Seraphina’s court who couldever be said to rival Lord Tiberius himself in looks and fashion sense—casually strode in between the two of them and drawled, “Come now, Lord Bennett. Your envy is showing," though he faced Tiberius while he said it.

Sir Dacre was broad and sun-kissed, as any proper midlander should be. And Tiberius loathed him for it.

He wasn’t jealous, though. Absolutely not.

Jealousy was such a common vice. And he was no longer common.

Besides, Sir Dacre was atleasta few inches shorter than he was. That counted for something.

“What reason haveIto be envious ofhim?” Lord Bennett scoffed. The sickly coward even dared rise to his feet now that he had a big knight protecting him.

But there was a palpable air of caution wafting about the duke’s second son, a wariness visible within his eyes as he watched Tiberius over Sir Dacre’s shoulder. A wariness which flirted on the edge of fear.

Clearly, he did remember how easily Tiberius had bested his older brother in their own duel five years ago.

Good. He should be afraid of me.

Sir Dacre shrugged, the very picture of nonchalance even though he still stood between the tip of Tiberius’s blade and Lord Bennett’s weak, under developed chest. “We can’t allbe the queen’s favorite now, can we?” Though the knight posed the question to them both, he reserved a wink specifically for Tiberius.

“No, no. Let him sulk,” Tiberius sweetly crooned even as he flashed another glance toward the West Wing out of the corner of his eye. “I feast on the envy of others for breakfast.”

When his gaze returned to the two men before him, he took a step back from Sir Dacre and returned his rapier to its scabbard. “You would not be worth the risk of ruining my new shoes at any rate, my dear Bennett. Suede is quite impossible to clean.”

Sir Dacre let loose a warm laugh. The sound of it grated on his nerves like the scratch of fingernails against a writing slate.

Lord Bennett was anything but amused, however. “You are lucky the queen favors you, Crestley.”

Tiberius’s smile deepened at that. But a flick of his wrist accompanied a declaration of, “Luck has nothing to do with it, my good fellow.”

He had been friends with Seraphina de la Croix since they were only eight years old. It had been his father’s idea.

“A good investment,”his father had said while shoving him toward the teary-eyed princess dressed all in black at her mother’s funeral.

His father, the elder Tiberius Beaumont, had always hoped his connection to the princess would win for them a marriage alliance with a well-positioned House. A House who would not mind the scent ofnew moneythat clung to their own family.

It had been a hope in vain.

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