Page 16 of A Fragile Enchantment

“It makes me look sinister,” he supplied. “I’m aware.”

She deflated. “Of course you are.”

“It feels like it hates me.”

She winced. “I know.”

“This is supposed to be a celebration. It’s kind of inappropriate for the occasion.”

Humiliation and indignation roiled within her. “Iknow.It was an accident. You do not need to rub salt in the wound.”

He paused for a long while. “You should have seen Jack’s face.”

The image came to her in perfect clarity. Kit, descending the imperial staircase with a dark and menacing aura. Jack, utterly mortified and too polite to say a word to either of them about it. She couldn’t help it. She choked on a laugh, muffling it as much as she could with her hand. To her shock, Kit’s lips curled, just barely, in a wry half smile.

He reallywaslovely.

And she had to stop noticing that. Like one of the Fair Ones, his beauty was nothing but a glamour that concealed a rotten inside. One shared moment did not absolve him.

“Miss Beaufort,” the herald called, “presented by her aunt, the Viscountess of Grosvenor.”

Miss Beaufort, by her own account, possessed the divine bloodof one of the most venerated figures in Avlish history, Saint Jeanne. With a snap of her fingers, every candle in the room extinguished. The crowd tittered nervously, then erupted into delighted gasps when they blazed back to life.

Niamh turned toward Kit again. In the warm press of the crowd, they were as good as alone. “You know, you left before I could get your thoughts on the kind of coat youactuallywanted.”

“My thoughts,” he repeated skeptically.

“Well, yes. We will have to discuss what you would like to wear throughout the Season—and ultimately at your wedding. But we don’t have to talk about the wedding cloak just yet. Will you tell me about what you like to wear?”

“Nothing.”

Some errant whimsical impulse must have possessed her, because before she could think better of it, she feigned dismay and said, “You’ve changed your plans again.”

It took a moment for him to catch her meaning. His face went very red, very slowly, before he mastered his expression with a scowl. She hadn’t realized before now that he had such a hair-trigger blush—or that, as aloof as he pretended to be, he was so terrible at hiding his emotions. “Anything,then. It’s all the same to me.”

“Surely, you havesomeopinions,” she cajoled. “Colors you like and don’t like, a particular cut of suit you admire, the way you want to feel when people look at you…”

“I couldn’t care less,” he replied stiffly. “I’ve never thought about colors in my life. I’m sure my brother will have enough opinions for the both of us.”

“But your brother is not going to be the one on the altar. You are.” Niamh planted her hands on her hips. “Anything, anything at all, will help me. Please?”

“What is so difficult for you to understand? I don’t want peopleto look at me at all.” He angled himself sharply away from her and glared out at the proceedings.

Seething, Niamh turned her attention back to the debutantes, but she could hardly focus. After nearly an hour, she lost track of the girls entirely. One levitated mere inches off the ground, her hair snaking toward the ceiling as though she were underwater. Another swooned immediately upon kissing Sofia’s ring. It took her mother, a vial of smelling salts, and two bystanders to revive her. Nothing particularly extraordinary seemed to happen, but everyone applauded anyway.

Just when Niamh believed she would keel over with boredom, the herald called, “His Royal Majesty, King Felipe V de Todos los Santos de Carrillo.”

Excitement sparked within her. She’d nearly forgotten Infanta Rosa was meant to arrive tonight.

“His Majesty is escorting his daughter, Her Royal Highness, Infanta Rosa de Todos los Santos de Carrillo, and Miss Miriam Lacalle.”

Finally, what she had been waiting for all night: a glimpse of the princess. Assuming she would be able to catch a glimpse of her at all, of course. Sometimes—most times, really—Niamh hated being short.

She stood on her toes and craned her neck, hoping for a better view, but she saw nothing through what seemed to her a towering forest of hairpieces. Kit raked his eyes across her face with the cruel fascination of a child watching an overturned turtle struggle. Niamh braced for whatever scorn he saw fit to throw at her this time.

“You,” he said to the man in front of her.

The gentleman looked affronted to be addressed so rudely, but when he saw Kit standing behind him, arms crossed and expression dour, his face drained of color. “Your Highness? What can I do for you?”