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She supposed that the fizzy warmth of the rum was what kept her nerves from defeating her completely when the door at the other end of the passageway came open a few inches, as if someone coming through had paused. She listened curiously to the male voices all speaking the Alucian language, and then the door suddenly opened all the way, to reveal an Alucian gentleman stepping into the passageway.
The door swung shut behind him.
Eliza and the masked man were alone.
He tilted his head just slightly to the left, as if he was uncertain what he’d just found. She returned his gaze with a curious one of her own. His presence was so large and the passageway so small that she felt a bit as if she was pressed up against the wall. But thanks to the rum, she was feeling rather sparkly and untroubled and, with the help of the wall, managed to curtsy with a slight lean to the right and said, “How do you do?”
The Alucian didn’t answer.
She supposed it was possible he didn’t speak English. Or perhaps he was shy. If he was painfully shy, he deserved her compassion. She’d had a friend who had suffered terrible stomach pains for days when she was forced to be in society. She was married now, with six children. Apparently, she wasn’t shy away from society.
Eliza held up her glass, making it tick-tock like a clock pendulum. “Have you tried the punch?”
He glanced at her glass.
“It’s delicious,” she proclaimed, and drank more of it. Perhaps as much as half of it. And then chuckled at her indelicacy. She’d forgotten most of what she knew about polite society, but she was fairly certain guzzling was frowned upon. “I hadn’t realized I was quite so parched.”
He stood mutely.
“It must be the language,” she murmured to herself. “Do you,” she said, enunciating very clearly and gesturing to her mouth, “speak English?”
“Of course.”
“Oh.” Well. She could not guess what would cause a gentleman not to speak at all if he understood what was being said to him, but frankly, Eliza was more concerned with the whereabouts of the footman than the Alucian stranger. “Are you going through?” she asked, gesturing to the ballroom door.
“Not as yet.”
The clean-shaven, tall man with the thick tobacco-colored hair and the pristine neckcloth had a lovely accent. She thought it sounded like a cross between French and something else. Spanish, perhaps? No, something else. “How do you find London?” Not that she cared, but it seemed odd to be looking at a gentleman when there were only the two of you in the passageway and not at least attempt to make polite conversation.
“Very well, thank you.”
The door behind him swung open and very nearly hit the gentleman on the backside. The footman squeezed inside. “Pardon,” he said, bowing deferentially before the Alucian gentleman. Eliza thought it curious the footman didn’t offer the Alucian the punch but walked past him to take Eliza’s glass and offer her another. “Oh dear. I really shouldn’t.” But she did.
The footman carried on into the ballroom.
All the while the Alucian gentleman watched Eliza as if she were one of the talking birds that were brought to Covent Garden Market from time to time.
Perhaps he was curious about her drink. “Would you like to sample it?” she asked.
The man’s eyes fell to her glass. He moved closer. Close enough that the skirt of her gown brushed against his legs. He leaned forward slightly, as if trying to determine what her glass contained.
“Rum punch,” she said. “I’ve never had rum punch until tonight, but I mean to remedy that oversight straightaway. You’ll see.” She held up the glass, teasing him.
He glanced up at her, and she noticed he had the most remarkable green eyes—the faded green of the oak leaves in her garden at autumn. His dark lashes were long and thick. She held the glass a little higher, smiling with amusement because she didn’t believe for a moment he would be so ill-mannered as to take her glass.
But the gentleman surprised her. He took the glass, his fingers brushing against hers. She watched with fascination as he put the glass to his lips and sipped the punch. He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket, wiped the glass where his lips had touched it and handed it back to her. “Je, it is very good.”
She liked the way his voice slipped over her like a shawl, light on her skin. “Would you like a glass of your own? The footman and I have an arrangement.” She smiled.
He did not smile. He gave her a slight shake of his head.
She considered this lovely creature further as she sipped the punch. “Why are you here and not out there?”
A dark brow appeared above his mask “One might ask the same of you.”
“Well, sir, as it happens, I have a very good reason. The hostess was not satisfied with my dance card.”
His green eyes moved casually to her décolletage, and Eliza’s skin warmed beneath his perusal.
“I’m not particularly good at dance,” she admitted. “We all have our talents, I suppose, but dance is not mine.” She laughed because it struck her as amusing that she would admit this unpardonable social sin to a stranger. The rum punch did indeed have magic qualities.
The Alucian shifted even closer—her petticoats rustled with the press of his leg against her. His eyes moved over her mask, tracing the scroll that arched overhead. “I would hazard a guess that you would like to tell me your particular talent,” he said, clearly enunciating the last word.
Either the rum or the masculine rumble of his question had Eliza feeling swirly and warm. She had to think a minute. What was her talent? Repairing clocks? Embroidery? Or was her talent something as mundane as taking care of her father? She was certain her sister and her friend would be appalled if she admitted any of that to any gentleman. She couldn’t, anyway—his gaze was piercing, rendering her momentarily speechless and a wee bit slushy.
No, that wasn’t right. It was the punch making her feel slushy.
His gaze raked over her, from the top of her mask’s scroll and down to her mouth, her décolletage and the ridiculous spray of flowers, then to her waist. When he lifted his eyes again, his gaze had gone very dark, and the shine in them had turned her blood into a river of heat. It felt as if the air had been sucked out of that passageway, and she felt the need to hide behind her glass and sip tiny little gulps of air, because she honestly didn’t trust herself not to do something very ill-advised. Like touch his face. She had an insane desire to press her fingertips to his high cheekbones.
His gaze was on her mouth as he said, “Did you not mean to share your talent with me?”
“No, I did not,” she said, her voice somewhere outside of her.
His gaze moved lower, lingering on the burst of gold flowers between her breasts. “Are you certain? I’d love to hear it.”
He was attempting to seduce her. It was exciting and amusing and so very silly. “Your efforts, while admirable, will not work,” she announced proudly. “I am not so easily seduced.” Except that wasn’t entirely true. She certainly liked the feeling of being seduced. It had been a very long time since anyone had even thought to attempt it, and although she was crammed into this narrow passageway and it was hardly the place she would have chosen to be seduced, she rather liked the idea of starting the ball in this manner. It made her feel electric.
Fortunately, she supposed, she at least had the presence of mind to recognize she probably shouldn’t allow herself to be seduced by a perfect stranger.
The gentleman shifted imperceptibly closer, and his masculinity, which felt undeniably potent, wrapped around her and held her there. He lifted his hand and shamelessly, and slowly, traced a finger lightly across her collarbone, sending all manner of chills and shivers racing through her. “Is that not what you intended? To be easily seduced in a dark passageway?”
She snorted a laugh. The ridiculous confidence of men who believed that if a woman came near, they wanted to be seduced! “I intended to drink some punch and avoid the ballroom hostess.” She lifted her hand, wrapped her fingers firmly around his wrist and pushed his hand away. “You think highly of yourself, sir. But I should explain that merely because a woman is standing in a passageway, having drunk a bit of rum, does not mean she desires your advances.”
He smiled smugly. “You might be surprised. What other reason could a woman have for lurking in this passageway?”
“I can think of a hundred other reasons.” She could only think of one. “And I know myself very well, and I would never be seduced in a passageway. So if you would please step away.”
His eyes casually took her in, head to toe, and then he stepped to the side.
Eliza sipped more punch as if she wasn’t the least bit bothered, but in fact, her skin felt as if it was flaming. Her pulse was fluttering. And the thought that she was too practical was playing at the edges of her thoughts. The Alucian gentleman, tall and lovely eyed, was quite enticing. Who would have been the wiser? She wouldn’t mind in the least being kissed at a royal ball...but neither did she want to risk discovery and be tossed out before she’d met a prince.
As luck would have it, the door swung open and another Alucian stepped in. But he drew up short and stared down at her in surprise. He looked past her to the gentleman stranger and spoke in their language. The gentleman responded quietly and stepped around Eliza as if nothing had been said between the two of them and went into the ballroom without so much as a good evening.
The door swung closed behind him.
The door at the other end opened and the footman entered once more with yet another tray of drinks. “Madam, you can’t be in here,” he reminded her.
“All right, I’m going,” she said, and with her glass, she followed the Alucians into the ballroom.
She instantly spotted the hostess searching the room like an eagle surveying a valley from a high perch. So Eliza turned and walked quickly away from the group of undesirable dance partners. She skirted around the dance floor and, when she finally stopped to have a look around, she discovered she’d put herself in a group of women. It was some sort of gathering. In fact, two older women were corralling the young women together like a pair of sheepdogs.
And that was how Eliza had found herself in a line to meet a prince.
She hadn’t realized it at first—she was too taken by the youth and beauty of the ladies, all of them adorned in beautiful masks and gowns, and holding themselves with discernible confidence, quite unlike the wallflowers across the room. This was her group.
Eliza thought perhaps she ought to dispose of her fourth rum punch lest the fizzy feeling extend to her tongue—if it hadn’t already—and when she leaned forward to see around the ladies, she saw a group of Alucian men. Curious, Eliza tapped the very creamy shoulder of the slender and tall young woman before her.
The woman turned. She had dark hair and wore an elaborate mask that included peacock feathers arranged in a clever way around her eyes. The blue and green of the peacock feathers matched the blue of her gown. The woman blinked through her mask, her gaze taking Eliza in.
“I beg your pardon, but who are they?” Eliza asked, nodding in the direction of the gentlemen.
The woman blinked. “I think the better question is who are you?” she responded curtly.
“Eliza Tricklebank.” She bounced into a tiny curtsy. “I am happy to make your—”
“You’re not to be in this queue,” the woman said, cutting her off. “This queue is for selected guests only. You must have been invited to it by Lady Marlborough. Did Lady Marlborough invite you?”
Eliza had the punchy audacity to laugh. It was necessary to have an invitation to stand in line? But the peacock was frowning, and Eliza said, “Of course!” And then she snorted, as if it was ridiculous to even question her.
“Really,” the woman said coolly.
“Really,” Eliza said. “She said to stand here, just behind you.”
The peacock didn’t seem to believe her, but she didn’t press it. She turned her back on Eliza and whispered to her companion.
Was it really necessary to be invited to stand in line? And for what? Frankly, Eliza couldn’t imagine why anyone would stand in line to meet anyone else unless that someone was terribly important. Or rich. Important and rich and handing out bags of money. That was a queue she’d willingly join.
Or if it was queue to meet the queen or some other bit of royalty—
Eliza’s fate suddenly dawned on her like a beacon from above, illuminating the path before her. Of course! She leaned forward again. The Alucian gentlemen, all dressed in black superfine wool and white waistcoats and identical masks, were distinguishable only by the color of their hair. Which, on inspection, was quite similar, all of them shades of darkly golden brown, much like that of the gentleman in the passageway. They were similar in height, too. Only one of them was perhaps an inch taller than the others. Another a few inches shorter than the others. And curiously, they were all clean-shaven. Caroline had said the crown prince had a beard.
It must be the younger one! She was in line to meet one of the Alucian princes! Eliza was beside herself with glee. She felt giggly and restless and looked around once more, desperately seeking her sister, who would never forgive Eliza if she met a prince and Hollis did not.
But Hollis was nowhere to be seen, so Eliza sipped liberally, then touched the woman’s shoulder again. The woman turned impatiently. “What is it?”
“Is it the prince?”
Well. A pretty mask could not cover a good roll of the eyes.
“Good Lord, Miss Tricklebank. You’ve shown quite indelibly that you were not invited to join this line. You best walk on before Lady Marlborough finds you.” And she jerked around and put her back firmly to Eliza.
Eliza was not about to move away, not now, not with a prince only feet from her. And having found no place to dispose of her punch, she continued to sip it as the line slowly inched along, amusing herself with all the ways she could imagine being introduced. Miss Eliza Tricklebank. Miss Eliza Tricklebank. Miss Eliza Tricklebank, of the Bedford Square Tricklebanks. Not to be confused with the Cheapside Tricklebanks, as there had been a rift in the family after her grandfather’s death.
She bent to see around the ladies again, examining the gentlemen. The one in the middle looked oddly familiar.
No. Her stomach fluttered uncomfortably. It wasn’t possible! Was it possible? Good Lord, it was entirely possible. That was the same gentleman she’d met in the passageway. It was a prince who’d tried to seduce her? Hollis would faint with shock. Eliza might, too. He’d sipped her punch! The prince! The younger prince—
No. No, that couldn’t be, she suddenly realized. It was the crown prince who wanted to make a match. It had to be him—why else would these women be queued up like cattle to make his acquaintance?
All at once, she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. To think she’d come so close to the crown prince. She might have kissed him! She very nearly had done! He was the crown prince!
She took a breath, forcing herself to calm down.
He seemed a bit stiff to her now, actually. He wasn’t shimmering with the heat she’d felt in the passageway, nor spilling over with seductive energy. He looked to be spilling over with tedium at present. Eliza would think he’d at least attempt to be a bit more cordial if he was indeed searching for a wife. Nevertheless, she would magnanimously give him the benefit of the doubt—perhaps the stiffness in him was the result of a bad back from riding around on horses. Or fighting wars. Didn’t her father say there had been skirmishes with the Weslorians?
Whatever the reason, he clearly was not enthusiastic about these introductions. Certainly not as enthusiastic as the slight man who kept bringing young ladies forward to meet him. Now that man had a ready smile for each lady. He moved strangely, and she realized that he held a gloved hand against his side. It appeared to be misshapen and he used his right hand exclusively.
One by one, the smaller gentleman brought the ladies forward, and one by one, they curtsied before the prince. He never seemed to utter a word but would give a polite bob of his head, then turn his back and resume his conversations with fellow Alucians. It seemed shockingly rude to Eliza.
She wondered what he would say when he saw her. Would he find it amusing? She might offer him the rest of her punch. Or perhaps he would remark on her thirst for it and offer her a punch. Perhaps they’d laugh. “Oh dear, I had no idea it was you in the passageway!”
The peacock wouldn’t like that.
Eliza pictured herself before him, sinking into a deep curtsy. She would say, “Enchanté,” because he surely spoke French, the language of royal courts. He would hold out his hand to help her rise, and perhaps then he would smile, and he’d say, in perfect French, that the ball was quite pleasing, and how did she find it? And she would say, in perfect French, her fluency having improved dramatically for the moment, that she found it quite pleasing, too. He would ask if she’d yet put any names on her dance card, and when she admitted she had not, he would escort her past all the other ladies to the floor for a dance.
“Move up!” someone behind her hissed.
“Oh! Pardon,” she said, and took a sort of hop-step forward as the line advanced, as if she were playing the game “Mother May I.”
The introductions continued like an assembly line. It was the same every time—the enthusiastic Alucian introduced a lady, the lady would wax excitedly about something, and the prince would bob his head then turn away, and the poor man making the introductions had to work to gain his attention again. Some of the ladies, tired of waiting, drifted away, lured by the dancing. Others doggedly waited their place in line, Eliza among them. Why should she not? She felt so sparkly on the inside that she could not keep the smile from her face, particularly when she glanced around the ornate ballroom at all these beautiful people—well, beautiful masks. She was in Kensington Palace at a royal ball. The crown prince of Alucia had sipped her punch!
But just as Eliza was closing in on the prince with her introduction in mind, standing behind only the peacock, the prince said something to the gentleman making the introductions and began to move away. The peacock froze with indecision. Her companion looked back at her, her alarm evident behind her mask. Eliza could imagine what the two of them were thinking—that one friend would have the introduction and not the other was unthinkable.
Eliza nudged her. “Step forward! We might still make his acquaintance—”
The peacock suddenly whirled around to her. “Don’t push me! Miss Tricklebank, has it not occurred to you that you are far too old to be in this line?”
“What?” There was an age limit? There was no time to discuss it—the prince was moving away without so much as a glance in their direction, and Eliza saw her chance slipping through her fingers. She’d had enough rum punch to feel justifiably emboldened, and suddenly leapt around the paralyzed woman and blurted, “Welcome to England!” for lack of anything better to say.
In the days to come, Eliza would believe that Prince Sebastian would never have acknowledged her at all had she not sort of lurched into his path at the very moment he was striding forward, which unfortunately caused him to step firmly on her foot.
Eliza gasped with the surprise and pain of it.
“I beg your pardon, are you all right?” He quickly moved his very large and heavy foot from hers.
“Quite,” she said breathlessly and stuck out her hand as if he were the butcher who had just given her a very good price on pork. “Miss Eliza Tricklebank.”
He looked at her gloved hand as if he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was to do with it. Eliza smiled hopefully. He reluctantly and delicately took her hand in his, which felt like a vast plane of palm and fingers, and bowed over it. “Madam.”
The feel of that strong hand holding hers so carefully fired through Eliza’s veins. It was the zest of accomplishment, the thrill of having met an actual prince, not once, but twice. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance again, Your Highness. Your Royal Highness.” She smiled brightly. “Formally. Obviously, we met earlier.” She beamed at him.
“Sir,” one of the Alucian men said, and the prince let go her hand and turned away from her. Before Eliza could so much as draw a breath, he’d been swallowed up by several Alucians and hurried along.
The man who’d been introducing the women to the prince suddenly appeared at Eliza’s side. “Are you hurt, madam? Shall we have a look at your foot?”
“Pardon? Oh, no need, there was no harm.” She laughed a little hysterically. “I met the prince,” she said to him.
The man smiled. “Indeed you did.” He leaned forward and said, “You and your foot might have left a most indelible impression on him.”
