Series: Willow Winters
Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I’ve learned a bit of these things from my barmaid and steward…as well as from eavesdropping on the chamberlain’s wife in the kitchen.
It doesn’t seem fair that I should have to do that when whatever prince I marry will know what he likes and what he wants. From the few rumors I have been allowed to hear, kings and queens don’t keep their sons on such a tight leash. It makes no difference if they are virgins on their wedding nights. It only makes a difference for me, because of course the royal physician will check to see if I am still…intact before the wedding night.
The very idea wipes the pleasantries from my expression.
There would be consequences if they were to discover that I’m not a virgin, but what do those matter now? I haven’t found a man yet. I haven’t let him touch me. I haven’t even decided how I’d like a man to touch me. Those kinds of consequences might as well not exist.
“You’re doing it again,” says Isabel. “Who is it you’re thinking of? There must be someone, or you wouldn’t have that look on your face.”
I give Isabel a small smile. I have been drinking the champagne without realizing, and my glass is nearly empty. The couple in the garden is on one of the farther paths, walking arm in arm with their heads close together. They’re done doing whatever they needed to be hidden for, and now they don’t care who sees them.
“No one,” I say, but as the words leave my lips, I think of the shadow on a balcony and the heat of his eyes on the back of my neck.
Chapter 3
Cora
Eventually, Isabel’s husband, Prince Philip, comes looking for her, and we go back into the ballroom. There’s more dancing, and then the food is brought out, and after that there are toasts. My father used to limit the toasts far more strictly when I was younger, but now that I am nineteen, he lets them go on for the better part of an hour.
Most of the toasts are more about my father than they are about me. He gets credit for my dancing and my beautiful manners and my smile, which is a backhanded compliment. I have never been as beautiful as my mother was. I got my looks from my father, and though I’m sure no one ever intended for me to overhear them, I did.
My appearance was homely as a child. Perhaps I’ve grown more into my mother’s likeness, but to me, she will always be the most beautiful woman. As she was for this kingdom. I swallow thickly remembering the first time I discovered I didn’t hold up to the kingdom’s expectations.
There were whispers behind their hands, for the most part. Being a princess has shielded me from outright rudeness or cruelty about my looks, but it could never entirely protect me from knowing what people thought about me.
I suppose the toasts were always like this—meant for the king and the queen, when she was alive—but I wasn’t paying attention. Perhaps I did not pay attention on purpose. Perhaps I pretended not to know what they really meant.
Does it matter, though? Does it matter more than what I want to do with the time I have before a husband takes control of my life?
I risk a glance around the room and see nothing of interest on anyone’s face.
The balcony from the ballroom extends into this room, as well—it is used as the supper hall when there is not a ball being held—and after I have nodded my thanks to the latest toast, I look up there as well.
And I see him. My heart does a weird tick and I swear time stops with it.
He’s moving even before my eyes land on him, but I know without a doubt there is a man in a dark suit up there. My breath hitches and my body heats.
I know without a doubt he’s looking at me as if his gaze could burn me.
I know I have felt him looking at me for most of the evening but now I have my eyes on him right back. My pulse quickens and I wish it wouldn’t. In a failed attempt, I try to settle my nerves.
The conversation I had with Isabel plays in my head. Of course I didn’t confess everything to her. There isn’t much to confess, other than a few wild thoughts. But my pulse flutters in my neck from the feeling of someone’s gaze on me.
Not just someone’s. His.
I pretend, for the rest of the ball, that I don’t feel any of this. After a round of applause, I dance with another set of men who talk over my head about their lands and their recent purchases and their hobbies, most of which revolve around hunting or paying other men to build castles or lodges for them.