The Rebel Prince (The Season Series #3)

Chapter 6 - Part 1

My betrothed, I thought, as I looked down at the woman on my arm.

Right. That needed to change.

In the few minutes I'd waited while Dulciana's ladies' maids finished bedecking her for Ana-Cristina's birthday ball, she'd screamed at two of them and reduced the third to tears with a simple look. Gone was the warm, gentle countenance she seemed to save only for her youngest sisters. In its place was the spoiled, cruel princess that I knew.

Though which was the real Dulciana, I had yet to discover.

My appearance at her door, dressed in my finest and prepared to play the part of doting betrothed to appease the king, seemed to have soured her already foul mood. She cursed at me in Ardal, at her maids, at her too-tight slippers, at the castle and its too-many stairs, at the jewelled combs apparently digging into her royal head...

I'd almost told her to shut up before I remembered that I wasn't supposed to understand her. Instead, I slipped on my new signature grin, smiling like an idiot and asking whether she was looking forward to our evening.

She didn't say a word to me after the final curse she spat my way before reluctantly taking my arm.

We walked down to the ballroom in silence, the gardens lit with torches and hanging lanterns as High Relizia's nobles flooded the entrance hall on their way to the ballroom. Silk shimmered and jewels glittered as the nobles milled, greeting each other warmly, only to whisper behind their fans or hands once they'd turned their backs.

As the crowd parted for us, Dulciana's sour look replaced by her dangerous grin, I slipped fully into my role of idiot prince. Curious gazes followed us as we rounded the fountain towards the stairs down to the sunken ballroom, but something in Dulciana's polite, but firm nods to those who curtseyed to her kept the inquisitive nobles at bay.

Clearly I wasn't the only one hoping to keep others guessing about the status of our betrothal.

I had yet to learn who in Ardalone's court could serve as an ally and, until then, I'd decided to play along with whatever the king thought of our betrothal. He would have the ultimate authority, the ability to order the pair of us to the altar in the morning if he so desired. That Dulciana had somehow managed to hold her acid tongue around him meant that she knew he was capable of such drastic action as well.

Once again, united by our disgust at the thought of marrying one another.

The truth was that I'd sailed to Ardalone intent upon finding some way to skirt the betrothal altogether. The thought of marrying Dulciana, of spending the rest of my life tied to her, was just about as abhorrent as marrying a goat.

While Ana-Cristina was pretty, there was clearly more to her than met the eye. As pleasant as her outward facade was, I was keen to evaluate all the suitors she'd bragged about to Dulciana over dinner. With a face like hers, she'd be popular among the nobility even without her royal blood. I didn't think that it would sit well with the king if I stole her away from one of the more powerful Ardalonian noble families. Inés, the poor thing, seemed in desperate need of a reprieve from her sisters and their dramatics, definitely not a foreign suitor attempting to woo her despite her sisters' glares.

That left the mysterious Beatriz in her convent. That bit of news didn't bode well for me either, as convents tended to be where kings sent wayward or extremely pious daughters. Time would tell whether she was the former or the latter, though even I doubted my abilities to woo someone so devoted to their faith to have spent the past seven years at a convent.

Dulciana tugged my arm, yanking me to a stop before the stairs down to the ballroom. A herald stood just inside the doorway, on the landing that connected with the giant gallery encircling the upper part of the ballroom. Columns of pale stone jutted skyward, with chandeliers nestled between them. Above, the stars twinkled through the glass ceiling, the salty smell of the ocean wafting through the doors that remained open on all sides.

Upon noticing our approach, the herald shifted uncomfortably, gesturing for us to enter.

"Announce us, you fool," Dulciana hissed in Ardal. The herald took a breath, seemingly to steel himself.

"I'm sorry, Princess, but I am under orders from the king," he said, genuinely apologetic. Dulciana, however, didn't seem to care whether he was sorry or not. She tensed as if she'd only just managed to keep herself from lunging at him, baring her teeth before pulling back, sucking in a breath and tilting up her chin.

"I will remember this," she said ominously.

"Are we not to be announced?" I asked innocently. Her jaw muscle clenched.

"I don't wish to distract from my sister's party," she said, tossing her head.

She tugged her arm free from mine, descending the stairs with the very same grace she'd displayed during her entrance in Highcastle. Without any fanfare, nor any announcement, few heads turned until the courtiers realized that a princess had arrived unannounced. The heads that turned when I finally caught up to her on the ballroom floor were all filled with gossip, whispered words following us as Dulciana cut a path directly across towards the vacant throne.

As we approached, I wondered whether she had the temerity to climb the dais and seat herself in the king's place after being denied an entrance.

Before she could, however, a deafening fanfare cut across the ballroom chatter, the entire room turning as one towards the throne. When the king emerged, sweeping aside a crimson curtain behind his gilded seat, the ballroom sank into reverences so deep the men were nearly doubled over and the women were almost kneeling on the floor. Continuing with my ruse, I followed them, a pleasant smile on my face as I surveyed the nobles around me.

Dulciana remained standing long enough for the king's eyes to find her before she dipped a curtsey of her own. A shallow one, but still more of a curtsey than a nod.

The monarch's eyes narrowed before he spoke, his voice bellowing in the silence of the hushed room.

"You are all gathered here tonight to celebrate the birthday of my beloved daughter Ana-Cristina, your favoured princess and the jewel of my eye," the king began.

I darted a look to Dulciana, whose face had turned to stone as she stared down at the marble.

"Join me in welcoming the most beautiful girl in Ardalone," the king said, applauding in the silence before the rest of the room followed suit.

When Ana-Cristina swept out from the same curtained passage her father had used, I didn't imagine the collective intake of breath around me. She was indeed the most beautiful girl in Ardalone. Draped in swaths of golden silk with a bodice encrusted with jewels, her dark hair was swept back to highlight her cheekbones, emphasizing the catlike tilt of her kohl-lined eyes. She smiled as she surveyed the crowd, a perfect, pretty expression she'd no doubt practiced many a time beforehand.

But what drew my eye the most was not her face, it was the golden tiara nestled in her hair.

And the fact her sister beside me was not wearing one.

I watched for Dulciana's reaction as the ballroom filled with thunderous applause. But rather than sneer or scoff, Dulciana studied her sister's descent from the dais, nothing but cool calculation on her face. When Ana-Cristina reached the floor, the nobles cleared a space around her, four well-dressed young men stepping to the forefront of the crowd.

The suitors, I guessed.

Before I could so much as inspect them, fingernails dug themselves into my arm, shoving me forward into the space before the princess.