Page 23 of A Fragile Enchantment

In Machland, no laws prevented them from loving or marrying whomever they pleased. She and Erin had never officially courted, but the night before Erin had left for Avaland last year, she’d taken Niamh to the cliffs just outside Caterlow. As the sun had dipped low into the ocean, turning Erin’s red hair as brilliant as flame, she’d kissed Niamh. The languid heat of it, the fizzling, impossible happiness of that moment, had felt as fleeting as chalk on a ballroom floor. Niamh could not promise to wait for her—not when she did not know how long she had left. She could not follow her, either. Not for an ill-paying job. Not even for her own happiness.

The wounded compassion in Erin’s eyes had nearly broken her.

But in Avaland, where wealth and magic intertwined, where the nobility fiercely protected its magical bloodlines, it did not shock her to learn they disapproved of such matches.

“We are of a kind,” she said, which earned her a relieved smile. “But why me? I am hardly a suitable match for you.”

“That is exactly why you’re perfect! You’re not here to find a husband. No marriage-minded mother would let me anywhere near her daughter. Besides, I’d say you and I are about equal in the eyes of society. In fact, you might be more respectable than I am. I’ve no divine blood.”

“But you are still a noble,” she protested. And yet, the herald had announced him asMr. Gabriel Sinclair.

“No longer,” he said bitterly. “I’m not Pelinor’s son—not by blood, anyway. He raised me like a cuckoo in his home to protect both himself and my mother from the shame of her indiscretion. But a few years ago… Well, let us say that I wore out his generosity. A bastard without divine blood, he tolerated as best he could. A bastard with proclivities such as mine, he could have overlooked if I’d carried my mother’s divine blood. But both? It could not be borne.”

“He disowned you.”

“Yes.” Sinclair sighed, but she watched him carefully tuck away his pain behind a smile. “But Kit has made sure I am taken care of. I have an allowance from him.”

“What?” She wasn’t sure what shocked her more: that the duke would be so cold, or that Kit would be so generous. “But that’s horrible!”

“You do not need to fret over me. It’s a very nice townhouse that Kit bought for me. In fact, you should come and see it sometime.” He winked, but she couldn’t bring herself to play along with his hollow flirtations. How could he so determinedly gloss over something so painful? When he drank in her expression, Sinclair sobered. “I’ve upset you. My sincerest apologies.”

“No, please do not be sorry. One shouldn’t have to bear one’s burdens alone.” Niamh took both of his hands in hers. “I’m very glad you told me. And for what little it’s worth, I would be honored to consider your suit.”

His eyes shone with gratitude. “Ah, Miss O’Connor, I will break your heart in the end.”

“And I shall hate you bitterly for it,” she replied warmly. “Call me Niamh.”

“Niamh.”

The sound of her name, spoken with such welcome familiarity, lit her up from within. Tonight bore no resemblance to her silly daydreams. Even so, here in a ballroom full of people who disdained them both, she’d finally found a friend.

“Sinclair. There you are.”

Just as quickly as her night had improved, it soured once again.

Kit hovered just a few paces away, all the fine thread of his jacket silvery and cool. All the candlelight gathered around him, softening the sharpest edges of his features. Her mouth went infuriatingly dry at the sight of him. Here, at last, was a prince stepped out from the pages of a Jaillean storybook. Or a Fair One, cruel and beautiful, with how effortlessly and maddeningly he ensnared her attention.

And then, he turned his golden eyes to her and added, “You.”

You.As if he did not know her name after all this time!

“The man of the hour makes an appearance at last,” Sinclair cut in. With a touch of apprehension in his voice, he asked, “What have you got there?”

“Lemonade,” Kit replied curtly, “so you can stop looking at me like that.”

“Right. Of course.”

For the first time, Niamh sensed awkwardness between them. She inspected the glass in Kit’s hand. It was indeed lemonade, garnished with a sprig of mint and a thin sliver of cucumber. Strangely, he was one of the only people in the room without a glass of punch. He’d seemed distracted earlier in the reception room, but now, he was downright agitated. His jaw ticked, and his eyes roved the ballroom, landing on nothing and no one.

“Jack is clearly determined to spite me,” he said after a long moment, clearly doing his best to break the tense silence. “It’s so sweet, I can hardly stand to drink it.”

She gasped. “You don’t like sweets?”

“No,” he said, visibly taken aback by her horror.

It seemed impossible that one man could be so monstrous. “How can that be?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t,” he said defensively. He seemed entirely flustered by the accusation in her voice, which only baffled her further. “Here.”