Page 18 of The Rejected King
“You have your work cut out for you with the Promenade,” Millar said between bites. “The king doesn’t want to get married right now.”
“I gathered that much from our meeting this afternoon, but I’m sure he’ll change his mind when he meets all of the lovely women who have come to court him.”
Millar chuckled to himself. “I doubt that. He’ll put on a good show, but really, King Davin doesn’t know the first thing about women.”
“He knows how to thoroughly kiss one,” she said under her breath.
“What was that?” Millar asked, leaning in closer.
Emree choked on her food. Had she said that out loud? “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she said, back-peddling.
“So why did you want to run the Promenade instead of participating in it? Didn’t you want the chance to fall in love with the king?”
“Oh.” She focused on her spoon. “I’m not part of the ruling class, so I wouldn’t have been eligible for the Promenade.” But really, she was already promised to Portlend.
“If you got the job as Promenade Director, then you must be pretty accomplished. I’m sure you could’ve been chosen from your province as one of the ten girls for the Promenade, ruling class, or not.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but the Promenade rules are pretty specific. Only ruling class girls are invited to participate. Apparently, us working-class girls aren’t good enough to run the kingdom and be the queen.” It was all Emree could do not to roll her eyes at the ridiculousness of the class distinctions.
Millar gave her a wry smile. “Just good enough to run everything else?”
Emree snickered. “Something like that.” She took another bite of her soup. “What about you? Has it always been your dream to be the king’s personal guard?”
“Not always. It’s something that developed over the years.”
She looked around the room. “You must know a lot of people in the castle.”
“Not really.” He shrugged. “Just guards, mostly.”
Emree paused. “Do you happen to know Portlend Ricks? He’s an officer.” She didn’t want to seem too eager, but she’d been in New Montana for three days and still hadn’t seen him.
“Yeah, I know Officer Ricks.” Millar raised his brow at her. “Is he afriendof yours?”
Emree swallowed, not sure how to answer. What if Portlend hadn’t told anyone that he had a girlfriend back at home? She didn’t want to barge into his space, into his world, and create drama.
“Yes,” she said, trying to downplay their relationship. “We grew up together in Kenmare. I was hoping I would bump into him here.”
“Well, I’m sure you will. He’s on the king’s guard.”
She smiled, turning her focus back to her stew. Though the king’s guard had at least one hundred soldiers in it, all of those soldiers were assigned to different areas throughout the castle. She lived in the castle now. Even if she didn’t seek him out again, Emree would surely run into Portlend eventually. The only remaining question was how long was she willing to wait.
Davin
The grand hall at Enderlin Castle bustled with commotion. Newswriters from every city clamored inside, choosing seats closest to the dais where Davin would sit during the Promenade briefing. Chairs screeched across the wood floor, and voices echoed throughout the spacious room, bouncing off the pillars and domed skylight. A giant light hung down from the ceiling, illuminating a compass design that had been painted onto the wooden floor.
Davin leaned his elbows against the banister of the second-floor balcony, watching the scene unfold below. He could still remember the anxious feeling he’d had at his first briefing right after he’d won the election when the newswriters were still happy with him. Today would be different, though. Over the last two years, the newswriters had been Davin’s biggest adversaries, broadcasting and scrutinizing his every mistake. Perhaps today's briefing would end positively. If Davin did what Miss Dutson had recommended and led with his successes at the Council of Essentials, maybe the newswriters wouldn’t be so vicious.
Davin’s eyes dropped to Miss Dutson. His copy of The Hunger Games was tucked under her arm, making him smile to himself. Miss Dutson greeted the newswriters, directing them to their seats. She smiled up at him, gesturing for him to come take his place on the dais, and his heartbeat picked up its pace. Davin was a sucker for dimples, and hers were adorable.
He ran a hand across his face and shook the feelings away. It was one thing tofeelattraction toward Miss Dutson, especially considering the circumstances of how they had first met, but it was another thing altogether to dwell on it.
There were threebigreasons why thinking about Emree Dutson was wrong. The first was the Promenade. In a few days, sixty women would be at the castle for him. Those were the women that should be filling Davin’s mind. Second, Miss Dutson was from the working class. No ruler in the entire history of Enderlin had ever married a working-class woman. It was even written in the laws that monarchs had to marry someone from the ruling class. Everyone expected it and right now, with his low approval ratings, Davin couldn’t do anything unexpected. And finally, Miss Dutson was engaged or about to be engaged, so she wasn’t even available. Davin nodded to himself, making a secret pact with his mind that he wouldn’t think about Miss Dutson in that way again.
He walked down the grand hall staircase. The crowd hushed and stood in unison as Davin stepped onto the dais. He walked forward, turning around to face the brightly colored crowd. He glanced at Miss Dutson who stood just beside his throne. She gave him a reassuring nod, and Davin remembered what she had said.You need to be charming and charismatic.He flashed the crowd his best smile before sitting down. A few of the female newswriters smiled back at him, then the room took their seats.
“Thank you all for coming,” Miss Dutson said, addressing the crowd. “My name is Emree Dutson, and I am the Promenade Director. Before the king discusses the Promenade, he’ll answer a few questions about the Council of Essentials.”
Arms and hands jolted upward. Miss Dutson pointed to a heavyset bald man on the front row.
