Microsoft Word - Cinder-Marie_Sexton.doc (5 page)

I was a mess of nervous energy. My palms were

embarrassingly sweaty. My heart beat a wild staccato inside my chest. What would I say to him when I saw him?

As it turned out, I had plenty of time to ponder the question. I was ushered into a waiting room full of other
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young women. I was given a small wooden chit with a number on it

"We'll call you when it's your turn," the steward told me. "After your dance, you can go home, or you can wait in the parlor with the rest."

I eyed the room full of women, each clutching

similar chits in their hand. It was disconcertingly, like waiting my turn to buy bread at the bakery except that everyone here was decidedly overdressed. I found an empty seat and settled in to wait my turn.

Some women paced. Some sat quiet and stoic.

Some chatted idly with friends. A few were obviously summing up their competition. I spotted my cousins on the opposite side of the room. Penelope sat, nervously chewing her cuticles. Jessalyn stood at a mirror, fussing with her hair. Neither of them noticed me.

Jessalyn's number was called next, but she quickly snatched Penelope's chit away and shoved her own into her sister's hand. "You go first," she said. "That way you won't have to sit here worrying any longer."

I knew that wasn't the real reason she wanted Penny to go first. Jess wanted to be able to upstage her sister. Still, Penny didn't argue. She went into the ballroom like a criminal marching to trial. Only a few minutes later, Jessalyn's number was called. I relaxed significantly once 41

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they were gone.

More women came in behind me. More left as their

numbers were called. The seconds ticked by, and I began to worry I'd have to leave before my turn came. But at last, twenty minutes before the clock was to strike twelve, I found myself walking through the ballroom door.

The room was large, lit with what must have been

hundreds of candles. On the near side of the room sat a group of musicians, silent at the moment. Opposite me was another door. My predecessor was just disappearing through it into what must have been the parlor. The prince stood near a buffet table at the end of the room, drinking a glass of champagne. His back was to me.

"X—" I cut myself short, realizing I'd been about to say his name. I corrected quickly and said, "Excellency?"

instead.

He didn't turn to face with me. "I'll be with you in a moment."

I approached slowly, moving as quietly as I could in the ridiculous shoes. I didn't want to disturb him, but I didn't want to stand on the other side of the room, either.

As I came nearer to the buffet, I saw it was covered with finger foods and refreshments. They appeared to have barely been touched.

"Not hungry tonight?" I asked.

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He sighed and turned to look at me. His eyes were guarded and wary. "My father promised each maiden a dance, not dinner."

It amused me that he would meet his father's

demands, and yet go not one step further. "I see."

He gestured over his shoulder at the door the last woman had left through. "There's quite a feast laid out in there, from what I hear, so the ladies don't go hungry as they await my decision."

I pictured another room full of women, much like

the one I'd just left. Some would be nervous, some hopeful, some full of resentment. Some would undoubtedly be on their fourth or fifth glass of champagne.

"It sounds wonderful," I said.

He didn't seem to notice the hint of sarcasm in my voice. He looked me up and down with unabashed

curiosity. "You look lovely," he said.

"Thank you, sire. You look…" My words trailed away as I tried to decide how to end my sentence. Every other time I'd seen him, he'd been dressed casually, in clothes that were obviously of the highest quality, and yet designed for daily wear. This evening, he wore something that resembled a uniform. It was royal blue with gold braids on the shoulders and across his chest. It looked stiff. Its cut was tight and severe. He was as gorgeous as ever, but he 43

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didn't look at ease.

I still hadn't finished my sentence, and he raised his eyebrows at me. "Charming?" he prompted. "Dashing?

Handsome?" He wasn't digging for a compliment. His tone was teasing, and I knew he'd probably been told all of those things this evening several times over.

"Uncomfortable," I said.

He laughed. The sound was short, but loud and

genuine. "Indeed," he said. "I have renewed sympathy for you women and your corsets."

"You have
no
idea," I muttered under my breath, resisting the urge to tug on the one that bound my ribcage.

"Pardon?"

I decided it was best not to repeat myself. Instead, I gestured to the glass of champagne in his hand. "Do you intend to offer me a drink?"

He smiled. "No, I don't. Do you intend to curtsy like a proper lady?"

Of course I should have done it as soon as he'd

turned to face me, but I hadn't thought of it. He was teasing though, not chastising, and I said, "No, I don't."

That made him laugh again. He turned and poured

another glass of champagne. He held it out to me. "Happy now?"

I couldn't help but smile. I curtsied as I took the
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glass, a movement that was somehow unbelievably natural to this body I wore. "Thank you, sire."

I could tell my response pleased him. The approval I saw in his eyes caused a whirlwind of excitement and nervous energy in my stomach. My hand trembled as I raised the glass to my lips.

The champagne was unlike anything I'd ever

tasted—sweet and bright and bubbly. It was better than anything my aunt ever had in her house. It tasted like morning sunlight. I should have sipped it, but it was too delicious, and I had too little time. I gulped it down all at once, and when I lowered the glass, I found him looking at me with obvious amusement.

"More?" he asked.

I felt myself blush. I didn't often drink. I imagined I could already feel the alcohol flowing through my blood, making me reckless and giddy. I put the empty glass down on the table. "I'm sure a second glass would be unwise."

He held his hand out to me. "Then I suppose this is when I ask you to dance."

Standing there talking to him had been easy, but

reaching out to take his hand required every ounce of willpower I had. It felt like something I'd never come back from. Finally, I put my hand in his. His fingers were warm against mine. He pulled me toward him, and as he did, the 45

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musicians in the corner began to play.

I'd worried a bit about the dancing, but the witch's spell worked perfectly. I fell easily into step with him. It was strange and magical and amazing, the way my body moved in time with his. It moved in a way that was completely unfamiliar to me. It knew which way to step, even if I didn't. I didn't examine this new-found grace too closely for fear focusing on it would ruin the spell.

"You dance beautifully," he said after the first few steps.

"I don't really. It's the magic."

The words were out of my mouth before I had time

to think better of them. His eyes widened in surprised amusement. "I don't believe in magic."

"Of course not! I only meant, I'm normally a bit clumsy. It's a miracle I haven't stomped all over your toes, or tripped over my own feet."

"Yes. Well, this is my eighteenth dance of the evening, so I guess we both have good reason to keep the steps simple."

Eighteen dances so far. I thought about the room

full of women I'd just left. "There are at least another dozen girls behind me."

He sighed. "I'll be dead on my feet by morning."

"We could ditch the ball and go fishing."

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He stopped mid-step, causing me to run into his

chest. "You fish?"

I felt myself blush. Why had I said something so

stupid? "I shouldn't have said that."

"On the contrary, it's a wonderful idea, except my father would have me drawn and quartered."

"An execution would put a real damper on the evening."

He laughed. "It would indeed."

He put his arm back around me, and we resumed

dancing. It was wonderful, being so close to him, feeling his arm around me. I felt again as if he was a force of nature, carrying me somewhere. I didn't know where I'd end up, but I could hardly be bothered to care.

He stared at me as we danced, as if studying me. It might have made me nervous, but I was too happy to mind much. His obvious scrutiny gave me an excuse to look back.

"Have we met before?" he asked.

"No."

"You seem very familiar."

"You must be thinking of somebody else—"

"I don't think so. It's something about your eyes."

My heart jumped in my chest at his words, partly

from joy, partly from an irrational fear he'd guess my true 47

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identity. "You must be confusing me with one of the women you danced with earlier."

"I suppose," he said, although it was clear he wasn't convinced.

"So many women, so little light. I'm sure we all begin to look the same."

"Some more than others." He lowered his voice and whispered, as if he were sharing a great secret, "Some manage to stand out."

His words pleased me, and I found myself smiling.

"I'm glad I can liven up your dull evening. It must be so hard, spending the hours surrounded by beautiful, fawning women."

He laughed. "Now you're just being cruel."

"And you're being a tease."

He shook his head. There was amusement in his

eyes, but something else, too. "You puzzle me," he said.

"Why is that?"

"You're not like any of the other girls."

His words alarmed me a bit. I obviously wasn't

playing my part well. "What do you mean?"

"They've all fallen into one of three categories. One: they spend the entire dance telling me how handsome and charming I am. Two: they find me terrifying, and can't even look me in the eye, let alone talk to me. Three: they spend
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every second of our time together telling me what a wonderful wife they'd be."

"Well, I think you're too charming and handsome to be terrifying, but I'm quite sure I'd make a terrible wife."

"Why do you say that?"

The question made me laugh out loud. If only he

knew the truth. "There are too many reasons to list."

He shook his head again. "Definitely not like the other girls."

"I'll try to be more like them, if it will please you.

Which of those three options would you prefer? I think I can pull off either of the first two, but the third might be beyond my abilities."

"No," he said. We'd been teasing, but suddenly he seemed serious. "I very much prefer you this way."

I felt myself blush. I could no longer look him in the eye. I found myself studying the gold braid at his throat. I had no idea what to say.

"If you're so opposed to marriage, why are you here?" he asked. "Did your father make you come?"

"No. I…" I stumbled, unsure what to say. He was watching me expectantly. I decided to tell him the truth. "I just wanted to see you one last time."

The song ended, but he didn't let me go. I looked up at him. He had that same studious look in his eyes, as if he 49

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was trying to figure me out. I held very still, wondering what exactly he was thinking. The moment seemed to last forever.

"Will you dance with me again?"

Nothing in the world could have made me happier.

"Of course."

He smiled. He nodded at the musicians in the

corner. A new song started. And we danced.

It was both nerve-racking and intoxicating being so close to him. Breasts—
my
breasts—were pressed tight between us. I found the feeling incredibly disconcerting, but everything else was perfect. The way he looked at me.

The firmness of his hand on the small of my back as he pulled me closer. He stirred something in me—a dull, pulsing ache between my legs, so different from the feeling of arousal in my own body, and yet, unmistakably

recognizable. It made my knees weak. My stomach was queasy, full of butterflies. Every piece of me strained toward him, longing for him in a way I'd never fully realized before. I felt feverish. The need I felt for him was unlike anything I'd ever felt. My body—my
female
body—

felt like it was burning up from the inside out. Surely he must sense it. Surely he must recognize the effect he was having on me.

He pulled me tighter against him, and I felt the

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stiffness of his member pressing close. It made me breathless. He tilted his head down to me, his lips a centimeter from my own.

"Would it be completely inappropriate if I kissed you?"

My heart seemed to soar inside my chest. I put my arms around his neck and whispered back, "Appropriate is boring."

His lips were warm and soft. His tongue teased

against my lips, and I heard myself whimper. I opened up to him, letting him taste me, letting him explore me. He moaned, a low sound from deep in his throat that caused the heat between my legs to grow. The ache seemed to spread simultaneously down my thighs and up through my abdomen to the breasts that were jammed uncomfortably between us. The room ceased to exist. The music too.

Whether the musicians stopped, whether they whispered, or whether they played on, I didn't know and didn't care. I hung onto him, wondering how something as simple as a kiss could feel so unbelievably good.