The Crown of Embers(32)
My eyes narrow as I try to discern his level of sincerity. In my peripheral vision, I notice Hector shift on his feet and cross his arms over his chest.
I decide to be frank. “Don’t be ridiculous, Your Grace. You and I both know my court has pronounced me unlovely.”
He decides to be frank right back. “True. Gossip has you pegged as portly, prone to uncouth wardrobe choices, and alarmingly blunt.” His smile reveals straight white teeth. “I concur that you are blunt.”
“I assure you they are correct about my fashion sense too. Were it not for my devoted attendants, I would be dressed in sand chaps and a goat-hair tunic.”
“I’m certain you would be stunning in them.”
I wait for him to make placating noises about the gossip regarding my reputed corpulence, and I’m a little disappointed, a little relieved, when he does not.
I’m not sure what to say next. From the corner comes the scrape-scrape of quill against parchment as the secretary feverishly records our meeting. I imagine him writing: . . . goat-hair tunic.
My head is now pounding from the relentless weight of my crown. Frustration boils over, and I say, “Conde Tristán, why are you here?”
He has the grace to seem flustered. He says, “I was hoping we could get to know each other. It is no secret that my people would benefit greatly if I were to . . . ally myself . . . with Your Majesty. But there is no hurry. I simply propose that we meet once in a while and see if we enjoy each other’s company.”
“That’s it for now? No requests, no favors?”
“Well, there is one thing.”
Of course there is. “What?”
“At the upcoming Deliverance Gala, would you be so kind as to honor me with two dances?”
Oh, God, I will have to dance. It hadn’t occurred to me. I’m a terrible dancer.
The horror on my face must be apparent, for Conde Tristán takes a step backward, eyes wide with alarm. “I apologize, Your Majesty. Perhaps I am too forward—”
“Yes, you may have two dances. But it is my plan to test your devotion by stepping on your feet.”
His eyes crinkle with genuine mirth. “I shall look forward to it. You may find, though, that I am not so easy to step on.”
I force myself to resist his smile, even as I admit to myself that I like him a little. I gesture to one of the guards and say, “Please escort the conde and his . . .” Herald? Assistant? “. . . and his man back to their rooms and make sure they have everything they need.”
If the conde is discouraged by the dismissal, he doesn’t show it. “Until the festival, Your Majesty.” He executes a polished bow. His attendant does the same, and they leave with the guard.
After the door shuts, Hector says, “He thought you were joking about stepping on his feet,” and we exchange a quick smile.
The secretary scribbles last-minute notations about the meeting. Will he record every single word spoken in this room?
“Mr. Secretary,” I say.
He looks up, mid–pen stroke. A smudge of ink mars the tip of his nose. “Your Majesty?”
“I’m thirsty. Fetch me a glass of water, please?”
He frowns with the understanding that I’m getting rid of him but schools his expression quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Once he’s gone, I lean back in my chair and look up at Hector. “What did you think of the conde? An improvement on Liano, at least, yes?” I rub at my temples. The weight of this stupid crown is making it hard to think.
Hector’s gaze turns inward as he ponders. I have always liked this about him, the way he mulls ideas over in his head. He never feels obliged to speak until he has exactly the right words.
He says, “Conde Tristán is at the top of Lady Jada’s list, but I think it has more to do with his general popularity and charm than it does his suitability. Selvarica is a small southern holding, consisting mostly of islands. It’s difficult to access, not heavily populated. I’m not sure what the conde feels he can offer the throne. I think you can do better. And Eduardo and Luz-Manuel have both expressed a preference that you choose someone from the north.”
He says it all without emotion, as if quoting an academic text. I look down at my lap. “But what of him?” I say softly. “What kind of man is he, do you think?”
Seconds pass. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, so I focus hard on the hands resting atop my skirt. My dark skin lies in sharp contrast to the blue of my gown. My right thumbnail is uneven from my habit of biting it. I should have Mara file it for me.
At last he says, “He inherited young, when his father died in a riding accident. By reputation, he is intelligent and charming. The ladies of the court consider him quite dashing. That’s all I know.”