He didn’t stand, didn’t bow or offer her his hand. Which was rude and the opposite of what the future King should do. But he was comfortable, deep in his chair, and she’d intruded upon a rare moment of gentle solitude. “Miss Larch,” he said. “Have you lost your way?”
She hadn’t. The small smile fixed across her painted lips made that perfectly clear. “A Prince of many talents,” she said, not answering his question, her eyes flickering to the sketchbook in his lap. “What are you drawing?”
“Nothing.” Elm had seen Maribeth at court. He knew her father—her brothers. She was pretty, tall, with a warm presence and thick brown hair she often wore in a coronet. But now her hair was down, swept over her shoulder. “I’m waiting for inspiration.”
Maribeth bent to peer at a low shelf, the rounded tops of her breasts swelling over her neckline. “Do you draw from reference or memory?”
The smell of wine. Heat from the hearth. The shape of Ione’s mouth when she parted her lips—her eyes, clear and sharp and honed entirely on him.
“Memory,” Elm said in a low voice, running his thumb along the balled-up portrait in his hand. “Why? Are you offering to pose for me, Miss Larch?”
She smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she stepped forward. But the blush of red in her cheeks—the way her eyes flickered from his to the floor—gave her away. She was nervous. She took the chair Willow had occupied and lowered herself into it. Without meeting Elm’s eyes, she inched her dress up her leg until it was almost at her knee, revealing smooth, olive skin.
She wasn’t wearing leggings. “If you’d like to draw me, Prince Renelm, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”
Elm sat deeper into his chair. He knew enough of life at court to know when he was being propositioned. It felt familiar, like a book he’d read many times. Which was why he’d been taking the contraceptive tonic since he was seventeen. They were alone, and unlikely to be interrupted. There didn’t have to be a bed, but if she wanted one, there were plenty of empty guest rooms—so long as it wasn’t his bed. If she wasn’t already wet, he would get her there before he’d let her touch him. And even when he did let her touch him, he wouldn’t let her take his clothes off. He’d do that himself. Or he’d leave them on, loosening only his belt and trousers. He felt safer that way.
He’d put his mouth against her ear and ask what she liked. She’d be reticent to say—or maybe not—but she wouldn’t look him in the eye. He’d please her with his fingers or mouth. Maybe he’d give all of himself, working on her until she met her release, finding his own somewhere along the way or not at all, all the while knowing, behind the swell of his desire—the tight, rising exhilaration—an empty feeling waited. An aloneness.
After, despite the emptiness, Elm would help her dress. Cheeks red, mouth swollen from kissing, she’d finally meet his gaze. When he was younger, he fancied that’s when women saw him. Not the Prince, not Renelm—but Elm. Elm, who wanted to be liked, to be seen. Petulant, reticent Elm.
But he knew better now. And it humiliated him that he’d ever thought the women he’d bedded had seen the real him. They hadn’t. Mostly because he hadn’t let them. He’d reached into the deepest part of a woman to find himself, when all he really wanted was for someone to look at him. To admit they knew what had happened to him as a boy and still hold him, unflinching, in their gaze.
The way Ione had last night.
His grip tightened on the crumpled portrait in his hand. “You don’t have to do this, Miss Larch.” He rested his face against his palm, keeping his eyes on Maribeth’s face, away from her bare leg. “It’ll come to no good.”
Her smile faded.
Elm might have dismissed her outright, but the nervousness stamped across her face made him wonder if this had even been her idea. Perhaps she had a meddling mother. Or a grasping father, like Tyrn Hawthorn. “You’re very beautiful.” He forced lightness into his voice. “But you should know, these feasts are the King’s doing. Not mine.”
Maribeth’s grip loosened on her dress, the fabric slipping back over her leg. She tried to smile. “And if I merely wanted my picture drawn?”
Elm offered his own smile. “Did you?”
“No, I suppose not.” She cleared her throat. “A folly on several accounts, for I imagine the King has picked someone out for you already, just as he chose Miss Hawthorn for the High Prince.” She gave a rushed bow, then quit the library. “Good afternoon, Majesty.”
The stylus slipped through Elm’s fingers. He sat up too quickly, his sketchbook spilling onto the floor. He didn’t remember his father choosing Ione for Hauth—because the King hadn’t chosen her. There’d been an agreement with Tyrn. A Nightmare Card for a marriage contract.
A barter.
Elm rose from his chair, tucking Ione’s portrait into his pocket, and headed for the stairs.
He found the man he was looking for on the first landing, announcing families on their way to the great hall for dinner. “Baldwyn.”
The King’s steward jumped, his rounded spectacles falling askew. Baldwyn Viburnum had always reminded Elm of a kitchen rat, with his coarse, thinning black hair. His nose was short and narrow, and the spectacles that sat on its bridge were often smudged. Snide, without a whit of humor, Baldwyn was as pleasant to speak to as the inside of a chamber pot. He’d always been cruel to Emory.
Elm despised him.
Baldwyn straightened his spectacles and ran a hand over his hair. “Prince Renelm. Are you going down to dinner? It’s the first feast in your honor.”
“No, listen—”
Behind them, families waited to be announced. Which was utter nonsense. These fools had attended dozens of dinners together. If they didn’t know each other’s names by now, another screech from Baldwyn wasn’t going to do the trick.
But it was tradition. And Elm was fairly certain Baldwyn would rather throw himself down the stairs than offend tradition. “Announcing,” he boomed, “Lord and Lady Juniper and their daughter, Miss Isla Juniper.”
The Junipers bowed to Elm, the daughter taking an extended glance, and went down the stairs.
“I need to look at the King’s contracts,” he said to Baldwyn, keeping his voice low. “His marriage contracts in the last month.”
“Any particular reason, sire?”
Elm fixed his mouth with a false smile. “If I’m expected to wed, I’d like to understand the business end of things.”
Baldwyn opened his mouth to respond, but another family came up behind Elm. “Announcing Sir Chestnut and his son, Harold.”
The Chestnuts bowed. Elm greeted them with a flick of his wrist and kept his eyes on Baldwyn. “Well, little man? Where can I find the contracts?”
“I keep them in the record chamber off the library, sire.”
“Brilliant.” Elm turned to leave—
“It’s locked, Prince Renelm.”
Elm heaved a sigh. “As to that. What did Ravyn do with the keys when he left?”
“You mean your keys, Highness?”