I’m certain that my reply catches him off guard, because his brown eyes widen a fraction before he gives off a small laugh.
But it’s true. I do know I’m beautiful. Any beautiful person who says otherwise is lying. Sometimes, it’s to fish for compliments. But mostly, it’s because they have been taught by society—men, in particular—that we have to downplay our beauty, to only let them determine it. To seem humble. But I don’t have to be humble.
I’m a princess.
Of course, being a princess has its downsides too. Right now, for instance. Instead of being able to have this conversation privately, there’s an audience. Three of my ladies-in-waiting are embroidering by the window. Though even I can tell they’re more interested in eavesdropping than making their stitches. I should walk over to the fireplace that’s tucked into the corner of the tea room and toss their hoops into the flames, letting them balk. Yet my mother taught me to never let my temper burn hot. Rashness, fiery tantrums, outbursts, those are never well thought out.
Punishment is best served cold.
“You told me you’ve frequented theaters during your travels throughout the other kingdoms,” I reply, eyes flicking back to him. “I’m sure you’ve met many beautiful women.”
He tips his head as if in thought, lets a hand run down the gold thread along his collar. “None like you.”
I know this too. There isn’t a single family line whose heirs are born with snowy white hair—that’s a Colier trait. I have had sonnets sung to me, artists who have painted my likeness as a white rose growing out of the Highbell snow. I have been praised since I was a little girl for my unique beauty.
I have also had many offers for my hand in marriage, but this time, it’s different.
This time, the man sitting across from me has charmed my father. And there are only two things that my father can be charmed by: power and wealth.
Tyndall Midas just happens to have both.
Leaning forward, I reach to pick up the teapot from the table in front of us and pour out more tea before I take a sip. It’s still warm, despite the fact that we’ve been sitting here talking for the past hour.
“So, is that something you like to do here? Go to the theater in the city?” Tyndall asks.
After taking another sip, I place the cup back down on the glass table. I can see both of our legs beneath, mine shrouded by the skirts of my white dress, and his encased in brown trousers, the buckles on his boots solid gold.
“I do not enjoy the theater perhaps as well as I should,” I admit.
He tilts his head slightly, making the flames from the fireplace cast his golden hair in an orangish shadow. “And why is that? I thought most young women loved watching plays.”
“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” I reply, stroking a hand against the hair that’s swept over my shoulder. “They’re playing. I get enough of people pretending on a stage while I’m at court.”
“I suppose I won’t ask you to attend one with me, then.” A wide, bright smile comes over Tyndall’s face. I have to admit, the sight makes my stomach flutter. I am not one to be so casually charmed. Another aftereffect from court adulation. Yet this is different. I don’t dislike his attentions. For one, he’s not from this kingdom, and therefore, he’s something new. For another, when he looks at me, it feels like he’s actually interested in me.
Unlike the other possible suitors, he doesn’t constantly meet with my father. Instead, he puts all of his attention on me.
“On the contrary,” I tell him. “I have a feeling I wouldn’t be nearly as annoyed as I usually am when I go with my ladies.”
When he smiles again, I find my own lips curling up too. The motion makes my cheeks hurt. I don’t smile very often. I’m not one to give fake grins or to simper. I only smile when the person or the moment truly warrants it.
Is this what it feels like to fall in love?
The smiling, the stomach tightening? I have no one to ask. Not with my mother dead and buried, certainly not with my father, who only ever speaks to me either from across a formal dining table or during a court function. I’d rather scoop out my own teeth with a serrated spoon than ask my simpering ladies.
I suppose the theater will be good for something after all. The romances played out on that stage are the only examples I can go by.
“You’d make a very fine leading man,” I tell him, eyes sweeping over his figure.
“Well, from what you’ve explained, there will be plenty of opportunity at court for me to try my hand at a good pretend.”