Page 9 of A Fragile Enchantment

Welcome, indeed. That made her job twice as difficult. If Kit refused to wear anything she made, then Jack would surely replace her with someone Kit would tolerate. Despite his threats, the prince couldn’t very well go naked to his own wedding. Her face burned at the memory. “Sinclair, I don’t mean to pry, since I know we have just met, but I must ask…”

He leaned in. “Go on.”

“Do you know Prince Christopher well?”

Sinclair blew out a breath. “Toowell, if you ask me. We’ve known each other since we were children, so neither of us had much choice in the matter of our friendship.”

So that explained it. She grinned, finding herself a little charmed at the thought of them interacting. “You two don’t seem to have a lot in common. I confess, I find it hard to imagine what you talk about.”

“Oh, plenty. Kit maintains an alphabetized list of all my faults. He likes to nag me about each and every one of them.”

Niamh laughed. “That, I can believe.”

Sinclair gave her a sly look. “Why do you ask?”

“It is nothing untoward, I swear! I would appreciate your advice, if you have any to give me. It’s clear His Highness despises me, and somehow, I have to make him something he doesn’t hate. He said…” Niamh could hardly bear to repeat what he’dactuallysaid. “… that he would rather die than wear any of my clothes.”

“That certainly sounds like Kit,” Sinclair muttered with the long-suffering resignation of someone who’d heard the same story a thousand times before. He took on quite a serious expression. “I’m not trying to make excuses for him, but you should understand that he’s been waging a war against himself for a long time. Sometimes you get caught in the cross fire. Try not to take it personally.”

“I will certainly try.” She did not sound at all convincing, even to her own ears.

“That’s the spirit.” Playfulness lit up his eyes again. “Once you strip off all those thorns, he’s not so bad. He has a sweet, tender inside. So just be yourself. You’re like a pint-sized hurricane of earnestness and good cheer. It’s… Well, it’s refreshing.”

Niamh was not sure which was worse: the mental image of Kit’ssweet, tender insideor being asked to takepint-sizedas a compliment. As if being unable to reach anything on her own was not punishment enough. “Thank you, Sinclair. I think.”

“My pleasure.” He grinned. “Good luck.”

She had a feeling she would need it.

4

The next morning, a footman escorted Niamh to her new studio and handed her a letter composed in the prince regent’s immaculate handwriting.

Dear Miss O’Connor,

Please accept my sincerest apologies on my brother’s behalf, and for my sudden departure yesterday. I hope you are settling in well, and do not hesitate to let my staff know if there is anything at all you might need…

The note went on to describe, in excruciating detail, Kit’s social calendar for the Season. In addition to an outfit for the presentation of the debutantes next week—and the arrival of his fiancée,the first time in one hundred years that the Castilian royal family would stand on Avlish soil without a war banner and a navy behind them—he would need suits for two balls a week, a hunting jacket, and, of course, the traditional wedding cloak.

Before she left Machland, Niamh had cobbled together as much information as she could on Avlish wedding traditions. As part of the ceremony, the groom’s best man placed a cloak around his shoulders to symbolize his new role as husband and protector. It recalled, apparently, a chivalric era, where a knight’s squire would help him dress for battle. How unromantic, Niamh thought, to see marriage as a battle to be won. In Machland, they exchanged golden coins and danced until dawn. Here, a wedding ended no later than noon.

Niamh scanned the rest of Jack’s note—and nearly gasped with excitement. Infanta Rosa had requested that Niamh design her wedding dress.

Details,Jack wrote,to be finalized upon her arrival.

It was an enormous honor, one she hadn’t dared to hope for. But after a moment, it sank in exactly what had been asked of her. She would need to make ten pieces in six weeks. Even though he’d promised her a team of assistants to help assemble the garments she designed, the prospect of all that work daunted her more than she cared to admit. It took the better part of ten minutes for complete and utter overwhelm to harden into stubborn determination. Neither absurd deadlines nor difficult princes could frighten her. Not when Gran and Ma were counting on her.

Especially not when she’d been given such a beautiful workspace.

The staff had stocked the workshop with everything she could possibly need and more. There was a spinning wheel tucked into the corner—even a loom—and a gorgeous worktable situated just beneath the bay windows. The bookcases had been emptied and refilled with sumptuous bolts of fabric, everything far finer than she could’ve ever dreamed of purchasing herself.

She stood in the middle of the room with her hands clasped at her chest. She never wanted to leave this place. She couldn’t believe that, even if only for a month, all of this washers. If only for a month, she could imagine that she truly belonged in a place as beautiful as this. That maybe she even deserved it.

Niamh gathered her skirts in her hands and twirled through the open space. She’d never learned to dance, but she almost heard the swell of the string quartet now. The weightless one-two-three of the steps, the steady touch of her partner’s hand at her waist, and—

“What are you doing?”

She shrieked in surprise. When she whirled toward the voice, she saw Kit standing in the doorway. She dropped her skirts and steadied herself before she trod on the hem. “Did you knock?”