He seemed a bit stiff to her now, actually. He wasn’t shimmering with the heat she’d felt in the passageway, nor spilling over with seductive energy. He looked to be spilling over with tedium at present. Eliza would think he’d at least attempt to be a bit more cordial if he was indeed searching for a wife. Nevertheless, she would magnanimously give him the benefit of the doubt—perhaps the stiffness in him was the result of a bad back from riding around on horses. Or fighting wars. Didn’t her father say there had been skirmishes with the Weslorians?
Whatever the reason, he clearly was not enthusiastic about these introductions. Certainly not as enthusiastic as the slight man who kept bringing young ladies forward to meet him. Now that man had a ready smile for each lady. He moved strangely, and she realized that he held a gloved hand against his side. It appeared to be misshapen and he used his right hand exclusively.
One by one, the smaller gentleman brought the ladies forward, and one by one, they curtsied before the prince. He never seemed to utter a word but would give a polite bob of his head, then turn his back and resume his conversations with fellow Alucians. It seemed shockingly rude to Eliza.
She wondered what he would say when he saw her. Would he find it amusing? She might offer him the rest of her punch. Or perhaps he would remark on her thirst for it and offer her a punch. Perhaps they’d laugh. “Oh dear, I had no idea it was you in the passageway!”
The peacock wouldn’t like that.
Eliza pictured herself before him, sinking into a deep curtsy. She would say, “Enchanté,” because he surely spoke French, the language of royal courts. He would hold out his hand to help her rise, and perhaps then he would smile, and he’d say, in perfect French, that the ball was quite pleasing, and how did she find it? And she would say, in perfect French, her fluency having improved dramatically for the moment, that she found it quite pleasing, too. He would ask if she’d yet put any names on her dance card, and when she admitted she had not, he would escort her past all the other ladies to the floor for a dance.
“Move up!” someone behind her hissed.
“Oh! Pardon,” she said, and took a sort of hop-step forward as the line advanced, as if she were playing the game “Mother May I.”
The introductions continued like an assembly line. It was the same every time—the enthusiastic Alucian introduced a lady, the lady would wax excitedly about something, and the prince would bob his head then turn away, and the poor man making the introductions had to work to gain his attention again. Some of the ladies, tired of waiting, drifted away, lured by the dancing. Others doggedly waited their place in line, Eliza among them. Why should she not? She felt so sparkly on the inside that she could not keep the smile from her face, particularly when she glanced around the ornate ballroom at all these beautiful people—well, beautiful masks. She was in Kensington Palace at a royal ball. The crown prince of Alucia had sipped her punch!
But just as Eliza was closing in on the prince with her introduction in mind, standing behind only the peacock, the prince said something to the gentleman making the introductions and began to move away. The peacock froze with indecision. Her companion looked back at her, her alarm evident behind her mask. Eliza could imagine what the two of them were thinking—that one friend would have the introduction and not the other was unthinkable.
Eliza nudged her. “Step forward! We might still make his acquaintance—”
The peacock suddenly whirled around to her. “Don’t push me! Miss Tricklebank, has it not occurred to you that you are far too old to be in this line?”
“What?” There was an age limit? There was no time to discuss it—the prince was moving away without so much as a glance in their direction, and Eliza saw her chance slipping through her fingers. She’d had enough rum punch to feel justifiably emboldened, and suddenly leapt around the paralyzed woman and blurted, “Welcome to England!” for lack of anything better to say.
In the days to come, Eliza would believe that Prince Sebastian would never have acknowledged her at all had she not sort of lurched into his path at the very moment he was striding forward, which unfortunately caused him to step firmly on her foot.
Eliza gasped with the surprise and pain of it.
“I beg your pardon, are you all right?” He quickly moved his very large and heavy foot from hers.
“Quite,” she said breathlessly and stuck out her hand as if he were the butcher who had just given her a very good price on pork. “Miss Eliza Tricklebank.”
He looked at her gloved hand as if he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was to do with it. Eliza smiled hopefully. He reluctantly and delicately took her hand in his, which felt like a vast plane of palm and fingers, and bowed over it. “Madam.”
The feel of that strong hand holding hers so carefully fired through Eliza’s veins. It was the zest of accomplishment, the thrill of having met an actual prince, not once, but twice. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance again, Your Highness. Your Royal Highness.” She smiled brightly. “Formally. Obviously, we met earlier.” She beamed at him.
“Sir,” one of the Alucian men said, and the prince let go her hand and turned away from her. Before Eliza could so much as draw a breath, he’d been swallowed up by several Alucians and hurried along.
The man who’d been introducing the women to the prince suddenly appeared at Eliza’s side. “Are you hurt, madam? Shall we have a look at your foot?”
“Pardon? Oh, no need, there was no harm.” She laughed a little hysterically. “I met the prince,” she said to him.
The man smiled. “Indeed you did.” He leaned forward and said, “You and your foot might have left a most indelible impression on him.”
Eliza laughed with delight. Her mission had been accomplished. A broad smile of pride spread across her face, and she turned her head and cast that smile at the peacock. That woman gaped at her, still paralyzed.
“I met the prince!” Eliza said again, and with a bright laugh, she nodded at the kind Alucian and walked away, aware that the peacock’s gaze was boring through her back.
That was another thing that happened when one became a spinster caretaker. One ceased to care what others thought of her.
Guests at the Royal Masquerade Ball were treated to three sets of Alucian dancing, all of which involve very intricate steps and require an agility and eye for precision demonstrably not possessed by a certain minister many consider to be past his prime.
Ladies, if your lovely ball gown has suffered a mishap, remember to put a teaspoon of Madeira wine to every gallon of water to remove the stain.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
SEBASTIAN CHARLES IVER CHARTIER, the crown prince of the kingdom of Alucia and the Duke of Sansonleon, was hot behind his bloody mask and desired more of the excellent rum punch. But he would accept any liquid that might quench his thirst.
What he disliked about balls and assemblies and state suppers in general was that there were too many expectations, too many people to please. And apparently, to hear the captain of his guard tell it, too many dangers lurking beneath the gowns and the coattails around him. He was not allowed to take a drink from a servant. Protocol demanded any drink or food be handed to him by an Alucian. After it was sampled by an Alucian. And the Alucians were so intent on their duty that a reasonable man could easily believe there were hordes of rebels attempting to poison him at every turn.
Sebastian also disliked the necessity of dancing. He wasn’t a bad dancer, quite the contrary. His position in this world demanded that he be a competent dancer, and to make sure of it, his parents had hired