Chapter 23

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High-ranking officers and royal guards display their finest uniforms. A lively fiddler's jig carries under the rowdy banter and laughter. A cluster of elegant women, silk skirts merging like petals of an exotic flower, sip from stemmed glasses. Servers deck the long tables with gravy-dripped meats, caramelised vegetables, steaming ceramic pots of beans and root plants.

The Duchess draws my halting body forward. I am in the banquet hall of the King's only brother! A pulse of energy quickens my heartbeat and a smile flutters across my lips.

My cheeks are flushed from drinking, and from the men's glances at my bare neck and tight bodice. But another surge of heat flares in my chest when I catch sight of the Prince.

He stands with the Duke. His hair has been trimmed, lending him a military air. A moss-green doublet lightens his eyes and accentuates his muscled shoulders. For the first time, I truly understand I am looking at a warrior prince, trained from the age of eight in the King's gruelling military program. Quick enough to disarm Tug. Strong and swift enough to kill five soldiers.

My footsteps grind to a halt but the Duchess whispers encouragement and urges me forward. At least awkwardness and distrust are not something I will need to fake. As I dip a curtsey, a servant blows a horn to hush the crowd.

"Let us celebrate Prince Jakut's arrival among us and his good health!" the Duke announces.

An approving cheer fills the hall. The Duchess watches sympathetically as I am forced to sit beside my lying suitor. At the far end of our table, Brin and Tug mingle with a group of officers. Brin slaps one on the back, chuckling loudly. Ale slops from his tankard. Tug's disapproving gaze slides to our end of the table. In response, Duchess Elise moves closer to her husband, rests her hand on his.

A server fills our glasses.

"Your beauty rivals the Duchess's," the Prince murmurs in my ear. I snort and accept the offer of wine. "You don't drink, Mirra." The light warning in his tone is clear. Better we keep our wits about us.

A voice in the back of my mind agrees, but tonight I want him to fear my recklessness. I have no idea what he is capable of, and I want him to feel a little of the spine-prickling uncertainty in return.

"You are not my husband, Your Royal Highness," I say raising my glass and tilting it to his health.

He smiles unnaturally. "So, you have been talking with the Duchess." He enunciates his words for his aunt and uncle on the opposite side of the table to hear. "It always amazes me what two women who are not acquainted and share nothing in common find to discuss."

I lean closer, so only a warm breath separates my lips from his smooth neck. "Perhaps you lack imagination," I say. His composure slips in the slight pursing of his lips. Satisfaction worms through me. Two can play at his game. My crooked smile widens. The Duke throws an askance glance at his wife. She whispers a quick word in his ear.

"What are you doing?" Jakut says. I tilt my face close enough to detect the peppermint on his breath. His full wine glass goes untouched. He is not drinking.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Did you take wine with the Duchess?"

"Indeed," I say.

"Then perhaps you should slow down. A lady does not get drunk." The Prince stabs his fork into a meat platter, takes a large slice and slaps it on my plate.

"And where is Deadran?" the Duke enquires. "Does he not join us tonight?"

"Our journey here was not easy for him. I hope you will not be offended, but I gave him permission to take supper in his room. It is difficult for him to be around so many."

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