Page 8 of How Not to Marry a Prince

"No worries there, Your Highness," Amador said, forcing a smile he only sort of felt. "It's the travel that interests me, not the courting. I knew before I arrived that my chances were essentially zero. I assume your interest lies elsewhere, or you have no interest whatsoever—and it's not for me to ask, and I'm not."

Nazaire's smile turned into a strangely mischievous grin. "That's good. I don't think certain parties would take it well if I was the competition. I'm always happy to make a friend, though."

"Good friends are hard to find." What in the world did the rest of what he'd said mean? "Actually, if you don't mind, I had a rather strange question regarding that man who wanted to speak with His Majesty."

"Lipovsky?" Nazaire's nose wrinkled. "What in the world do you want to know about him?"

"Honestly, it's probably a stupid question, and my ignorance as a foreigner will show itself, but he looked almost exactly like a guard I passed by earlier. The same pale skin and striking red hair, and the unusual names…"

Nazaire's expression cleared. "Oh, crossed paths with Vladlena, did you? There are rumors to her parentage, but nothing acknowledged. A pity, because she would do the family name well, and he lacks for heirs, but…" He shrugged one shoulder, a wealth of meaning in the gesture, speaking of nobles, bloodlines, and snobbery.

So she was a bastard child. Interesting. He doubted that was at all useful to his cause, but it was information to file away all the same.

A prince in love with a gardener. A gardener in love with a prince. A gardener good friends with the bastard child of a noble powerful enough he could interrupt the king's breakfast, but not so powerful he'd do it through servants.

Amador crossed his silverware over his empty plate and finished his tea. "I'm certain you've a busy day ahead of you, Your Highness—"

"Nazaire, please," Nazaire said with a smile. "Not as busy as that. Would you like a tour of the palace? I promise we'll stay away from ponds."

"I'm never going to hear the end of that," Amador said with a sigh, though a smile twitched at his mouth. It was nice to be teased about such things, instead of reprimanded, even if he could still feel the bruising force of Ottokar's shove.

Nazaire snickered as he rose. "Neither is Sohan. His bodyguards were ready to kill him. Shall we tour, then?"

"That sounds marvelous," Amador said, standing and accepting the arm that Nazaire offered.

He'd failed before he'd begun at his last chance for a spouse that wasn't Ottokar, but it was nice to have a friend for as long as he was here. Who knew, maybe if his scheming succeeded, they'd find him so amazingly clever and wonderful they'd insist he stay to help them with other matters.

The idea was absurd, but most would say so was the thought of a prince marrying a gardener.

Maybe it was, but Amador enjoyed writing lists and reading about tax law. He knew all about absurd.

"La, darling, there you are," said a playful, familiar voice, right before a woman looped her arm through Nazaire's, casual as she pleased. "I was starting to think you were abandoning me to suffer this meeting alone."

The woman from the garden. Amador hadn't gotten a good look at her, but he'd know that voice.

She was as beautiful as the company she kept, with springy brown curls she'd twined into a fancy twist that looked as though it would come apart at any moment. Her medium brown skin had rich red undertones, and the freckles across her nose and cheeks gave an innocent look to her features, even as her eyes danced with curiosity and mischief. She wore a green gown with gold trim, beautifully tailored to her flat chest and narrow hips, the skirt not quite touching the floor, pulled slightly up in tufts that revealed a purple underskirt. She fluttered a matching fan, then gestured to Amador. "Who's your handsome new friend?"

"Prince Amador Sanz of Tesh, I make you known to Lady Marcellette Babineaux, eldest daughter and heir of Lord Babineaux, Duke of Montagne LeRoux, and my oldest and dearest friend. She is also a mistress of mischief, of the highest order, so do be wary."

"I was never troubled by mischief, so long as it brings no harm," Amador said, bowing over the hand she offered.

Marcellette scoffed. "Mischief that brings harm is just bullying."

"Well said, my lady," Amador replied with a smile. "So what is so exciting about today's council meeting that Nazaire would invite me as his guest?"

"They're in a tizzy over that tax amendment, and there's also a matter pertaining to Baron Pelletier that is being discussed today, though I doubt it'll resolve before they waste at least half a dozen of these meetings. Amusing, given how angry everyone was forty years ago when the title was given to the Lipovsky family."

"The man from this morning?" Amador asked.

"Oh, met him already, have you?"

Before Nazaire or Amador could reply, bells rang, sharp and jarring, bringing the room to order.

It was an ornate, almost ostentatious room, the walls covered in dark blue velvet with thick gold stripes spaced widely apart, landscapes in fancy frames in the spaces between. The double doors that led into the room were heavy, made of solid wood carved with the royal crest of a unicorn surrounded by a wreath of, predictably, roses. The carpet was a darker shade of blue, and it matched the padding of the twenty-three chairs around the table, ten on each long side, two at one end, and a single chair, more ornate than the others, at the other end.

Amador sat with many others up in the gallery, observers, not participants. Much like back home, the council discussions were a matter of public record, and so the public was allowed to attend. The reality was that the gallery was filled almost entirely with nobles and others of a certain amount of wealth, and they gathered there to whisper and plot and make quiet deals.

"You're not expected to be at the table?" Amador asked in low tones that wouldn't carry in a room where voices were meant to do precisely that.

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