Page 85 of A Prince Among Pirates
“You saidChristmas,” I snap.
“Christmas will be your christening. Tonight is your coming out.”
“Youaremad!”
Henry smiles and touches my cheek—and as much as Iwant to stay furious at him, when he draws me in and kisses my temple, I deflate a little and find myself leaning into the affectionate gesture.
“Enjoy the evening, Christopher-Henry,” the king says softly into my hair. “You were born for scandal… and I think tonight will be the first of many.”
I do my best all evening to avoid Digby Hale. Both he and his father have spent the entire night vying desperately for eye contact with me. The viscount and viscountess of Falmouth are also in attendance, but unlike the Hales, they have carefullyavoidedmeeting my eye all night.
Shortly after midnight the festivities are still going strong, and I am sure I can sneak away without being seen, when Digby emerges from whatever shadow he was lurking in to block my path.
Damn.
“Digby,” I say stiffly.
“Your Highness,” he replies.
Wonderful. Now that that’s over with, I smile and turn to step around him. He has the audacity to reach out and take my arm. “I had hoped for an audience with you,” he says. “To catch up. I haven’t seen you since that night on your father’s balcony.”
At once he realizes his error and blanches. “That is,” he sputters. “I mean to say—”
“Good Lord. Let’s skip over the nonsense where we feelawkward about who my father is,” I plead, massaging my brow.
“You always were terrible at formality,” Digby says, grinning. Apparently, he thinks that because he had his tongue down my throat once, he can be familiar with me like this.
I lift a brow to let him know that I am not of that opinion, and he shuts his mouth immediately.
“I simply wanted to… extend my congratulations on your elevation,” he says after a pause.
I squint at him.
He seems to realize he’s digging himself a deeper hole and drops the shovel. “Perhaps we could take a walk through the palace and catch up?” he asks. “Like old times.”
Like old times?
The memory of the last time I took a walk with him is so vivid, I can still taste the blood on my lip.
“I’m very tired,” I say curtly. “It’s been a long night.”
I breeze past him to slip out the door before someone else can stop me. The halls outside the dining room are blissfully empty of guests, though servants mill about, tidying up and waiting to tend to their employers. I stop to watch them for a moment, swallowing down the lump in my throat as I consider how nine months ago I would have breezed past them as if they were naught but furniture in the room. I might have gossiped while they stood mere inches from me, as if they hadn’t ears or tongues of their own.
I catch the eye of a footman carrying wood through for the fireplaces. He hesitates, as if he might drop what he is doing at mybehest, and I offer him an apologetic smile and shake my head. I want to say something. To thank them; to apologize to them. But I realize that all I am doing is making them uncomfortable, so I drop my gaze and continue through the hall.
I head straight for the entrance to the palace’s private apartments and make the long, lonely walk back to my own rooms. I wasn’t lying when I said I was tired—the amount of energy it takes to get through a night at court is immeasurable, and thanks to my father’s shocking announcement before dinner even began, tonight it felt doubled.
When I finally reach the entrance to my apartments, I find the fires burning, giving the rooms the deliciously warm glow of firelight, which is more than I expected after giving Thomas the night off to sleep. The curtains are already drawn around my bed. I drop my cravat onto my vanity and slide out of my jacket before draping it over the back of one chair.
As I reach up to work open the buttons of my waistcoat, I am suddenly struck by the unnerving sensation that I am being watched. I pause and turn to look around the room, my gaze wandering from shadow to shadow as my heart does a nervous skitter in my chest.
His voice, when he does speak, comes from the shrouded darkness of my bed.
“Hello, Kitten.”
Thirty
I can’t move. My body aches to run to him, but I simply can’t move from where I stand, my hands still frozen on the buttons of my waistcoat.
