Page 51 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
“Nonsense! We can squeeze you in at Elio’s table.”
The singer puts on a brave smile, clearly holding something back. “Alright.”
Heather hooks her elbow around Elizabeth’s and leads her toward the ballroom, where tables have been set for the seven-course meal that awaits us. Elio and Lori fall into step behind them, but Hector accosts me on my way out the door, holding me back for a private word.
“Your Highness, Her Majesty the Queen says she’d rather save her energies for tomorrow. She sends her excuses,” he says sternly.
“Thank you, Hector.”
My lips curl down, and the strange heat in my blood vanishes. With Mother growing weaker and weaker, the wedding can’t come soon enough.
Royal weddings are not much morefun than birthing ceremonies or official holidays. Uncles, aunts, cousins, and strangers all want to congratulate me, and many take the opportunity to wedge in an intrusive comment. From the insincere “A country wedding, how nice!” to the annoying “So little time between the engagement and the wedding… should we expect a wee babe soon?”
I try to remain patient, but the tense conversations between Elio and Elizabeth on the opposite side of the ballroom keep piquing my curiosity. They appear to be disagreeing about something, but with so many royal acquaintances and extended family members to satisfy, dessert has already been served by the time I manage to approach Elizabeth again.
Tons of guests asked her for an autograph, but none of them managed to hold her attention.
I slide into the empty chair next to her, the seat abandoned at the moment as Elio and his new wife take to the dance floor. “You’re quite the celebrity. Everyone is dying to hear you sing,” I say, unable to think of a more clever conversation opener.
She squares her shoulders and gulps down a sip of Nether cider before angling her body to me. “Everyone?”
She looks at me through her long, black lashes, daring me to include myself in that statement, and my lips quirk, a sizzling warmth nestling beneath my ribs. “Everyone.”
She finally averts her gaze and motions to the tall, intricate white orchids and golden thread centerpieces. “Is this the wedding you’ve always dreamed of?”
“As a rule, I can’t say I’m a big fan of weddings.”
“Why not?”
I clear my throat awkwardly, my eyes darting to my lap. I can’t tell her the whole truth, but I can find an innocuous answer. “It’s all a bit too…flashy for me.”
“I thought nothing was too flashy for someone asardentas the Crown Prince of the Summerlands.” She smiles to herself like she’s privy to some dark, inside joke that I can’t quite make sense of.
“I know my birthmark makes people talk, but I’m not half as garish as they say.”
“Are you sure about that?” Her attention shifts to the spot where the Mark of the Gods is situated on my hip.
I swallow hard.
By the Flame. How does she know where it is? And moreover, is she flirting?
AmIflirting?
What the?—
“Have we met?” I blurt out, flustered by the intensity of her ocean-blue gaze.
“What?” she breathes. Her creamy skin loses even more color, like the blood in her cheeks drained out entirely. “Are you serious?”
There’s an unmistakable edge in her voice, and I begin to wonder if I misread our initial encounter, when I thought she found me so disappointing. Maybe she feels as oddly drawn to me as I am to her, but the thought is equally thrilling and absurd.
“I can’t shake the feeling that we’ve met before,” I say, inching forward ever so slightly.
She rubs the chill from her arms and tightens the shawl around her shoulders, her fingers gripping the fabric so firmly that her knuckles whiten. "I thought—” her mouth hangs agape for a moment before she squeezes her eyes shut. “Perhaps you've heard me sing?" She reaches for her glass of water and gulps down half of it, as if in a hurry to wash away the entire conversation.
The motion causes her delectable scent—hints of pines and abyssal violas—to fill my nose, and my mouth waters, the urge to reach out and brush her creamy skin almost impossible to quell.
“Heather listens to your songs almost every day,” I admit.
