Page 68 of The Exile's Curse

"A long time ago," Lucien said. "We were friends before that. We are no longer."

Irina, cheeks flushed, said, "Friendships can be mended."

"I don't think this one can," he said, twirling her under his hand as the dance demanded. "What I did was necessary but unforgivable, I think."

"It's surprising what people can forgive when they care about someone," she said, coming back to his arms.

He frowned. Irina was not quite twenty-three. Too young to be dealing in forgiveness and wisdom in the middle of an increasingly drunken celebration of her sister's wedding. The dominas back in Lumia would probably have called her a viele ame, one wiser beyond their years. But wise or not, he wasn't going to tell her he had condemned Charl to death. Or encourage her matchmaking.

"I fear the wedding has turned your head, my lady. You are seeing potential romances where there are none."

"Who said anything about romance?" she shot back. "We were talking about friendship." She grinned at him. "Weren't we, my lord?"

Damn. Too sharp indeed. If she saw through him, then he needed to be more careful. "Let's just dance, my lady."

She snorted but didn't press. She did, however, wander in Chloe's direction after the dance finished. He made himself turn away. The last thing he needed was for Irina to tell Chloe he'd been watching her and for her to look across and find him doing just that.

Perhaps he was going to need some kafiet to make it through the night after all.

Chapter 21

The kafiet helped a little, though he had limited himself to two glasses. The clocks had traveled well past midnight and beyond by the time the king and queen retired for their wedding night and the court began to gradually disperse. Though some of them seemed intent on celebrating through the night.

He didn't intend to be among them. Nor did he think Chloe should be. He would see her safely back to her room, and then he would go to sleep and take up his dealings with House Elannon again in the morning.

Chloe, in her golden gown, was easy enough to find as the crowd thinned out. The look she gave him as he joined her was not entirely friendly. It was probably wrong-headed of him that he found her nearly irresistible regardless. Her cheeks flushed from the dancing, and her hair curled where it had come loose from its careful arrangement. It suited her, the not entirely buttoned down and in control look. He'd seen her downing kafiet with Irina earlier, but she didn't appear tipsy as she had been the first night he'd walked her back to her room. Or at least not enough to forget she didn't like him.

Damn it, what had Irina said to her?

"Lady de Montesse," he said. "Will you walk with me back to quarters?" There. That sounded professional. They were the only two Illvyans left in the room. It had become a pattern of sorts. Honore tended to retire as early as possible after the king departed and the other senior nobles left, ending the prime opportunities for politicking.

He'd seen Gilles walking from the ballroom not long after Honore left. The captain had been talking with one of the Andalyssian women, and Lucien hoped the man was smart enough not to take things further. The Andalyssians were stricter about dalliances than Illvyans. Their daughters remained chaste until their weddings—though he suspected that, of course, some of them ignored that rule—and affairs were not common. Marriage vows were a rite of balance, and cheating approached blasphemy. The last thing they needed was a forced wedding to prevent a diplomatic incident. But Theisse was an experienced diplomat and knew enough, Lucien hoped, to keep himself out of trouble.

"I know the way, my lord," she said.

Ah. Definitely short with him. "I know. But we are both heading in that direction."

"Fine." Her hand flexed. Back in Illvya, she'd be snapping a fan at him in irritation. But they didn't use fans here. If a ballroom grew too hot, all they needed to do was throw open a window.

Her skirts swayed in a staccato rhythm as he followed her out of the room. Twitching like the tail of an annoyed cat. He, sensibly, kept quiet as he walked behind her. When they reached his room, he began to unlock his door. But before Chloe could continue down to her room, he asked, perhaps less sensibly, "Are you going to tell me what I've done to annoy you?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not annoyed."

"That's a lie," he said.

"This is not a subject for discussion in the middle of a corridor."

He pushed his door open. "After you."

To his surprise, she marched inside. He followed warily, closing the door behind them and pressing his hand briefly to the wall to activate his wards. If he was going to be shouted at, he'd prefer everybody in the delegation didn't hear.

He turned back to face her. "Well?" A sensible man would back down from this discussion, send her back to her room. But it seemed he wasn't feeling sensible. Something about her anger was sparking his own frustration with the situation.

"Irina said you were watching me. Again."

"I was watching you," he said. "You are very beautiful in that gown."

That was deliberately provoking. It seemed to work.

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