And she laughed, because she could not help herself, and for the briefest flash his smile reached up and touched his eyes.
The orchestra were drawing their intermission to a close, and he held out his hand, pale and slim-fingered.
‘May I presume as much as a second dance, Miss Marshwic?’
She rose, and the word that rose to her lips – the unthinkable correction – was ‘Emily’.
But, before she could speak, another voice cut across their conversation. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe it must now be my honour.’
She turned, ready to deal harshly with this presumptuous newcomer, but her voice died in her throat. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr Northway turn and skulk away like a shadow when the lamps are lit.
‘Your Majesty,’ she stammered.
Close to, he seemed impossibly perfect, a piece of hyperbole stepped from a storybook. His skin was smooth and flawless as fine silk, and the curve of his lips made her aware of how poor her gown was, and her provenance. His eyes, though – his eyes were the special magic. They were hypnotic, deep as seas and, like the sea, changes and tides passed over them and currents lurked in their depths. Emily felt her heart hammering, and her breath refused to come.
‘We are told that you are of the old Marshwic line, my lady,’ he said, as though she was anything more than the second daughter of a provincial squire.
She found her voice with a great gasp. ‘It is good of Your Majesty to remember my family,’ she got out. She wanted to look, to find Alice, but she could not take her eyes from the King.
Luthrian, by God’s grace the fourth monarch of that name, smiled easily. ‘You are of a rare old stock, Miss Marshwic, and your grandfather, I recall, was one of my grandsire’s Warlocks. Your family has its place in the histories of Lascanne. Loyalty and honour, Miss Marshwic, should be your family motto. Do you think a generation or two of worse luck could erase such antecedents?’
‘Your Majesty . . . ?’
‘Barlocque here tells me that you serve me still, your family fighting at the front, eh?’ The musicians were holding off, playing masterly arabesques about the opening bars of the dance, as they awaited the King’s pleasure. She vaguely gathered that Barlocque was the elder wizard, now standing at the King’s shoulder.
‘That is so, Your Majesty. We are proud to serve you in any way we can.’
‘And it shall be rewarded, in due time. All my loyal subjects who have taken arms to defend us against Denland’s aggression will receive the rewards of freedom.’
There was polite applause from the guests all around them.
‘Will you dance with me, Miss Marshwic?’ the King asked.
‘Your Majesty has only to command—’
‘I command no such thing.’ His smile broadened. ‘Here and now, you may refuse a king and lose nothing by it. But I ask, merely as a man, will you dance?’
She could hardly believe that she was still speaking. ‘But, Your Majesty, why . . . ?’
‘Why you?’ He barked out a single syllable of laughter. ‘My lady, you looked so solemn, even as you danced in the midst of all this gaiety. I confess my eye was quite drawn. I vowed to see what was amiss, that such a noble lady as yourself was moved to frown.’
Emily heard the sound of a hundred noblewomen vowing to be more solemn in the future. ‘It was some small matter, Your Majesty, and it is quite gone from me now,’ she said, quite truthfully. ‘As your loyal subject, as a Marshwic and as a gentlewoman of Lascanne, I would be honoured to dance with you.’
She took his hand, feeling the smooth metal of the rings there, touching a faceted stone with her thumb. The evening was unreal around her, the guests faceless blurs of colour against the mother-of-pearl floor. Even the music seemed to lose its thread and tone. Only the King was there for her, as he laid a hand lightly on her waist, and hers found his shoulder.
He danced as though the music had been written for him, as though music – all music – had been written for him. He danced as though motion and metre were his to command. In his arms, with his guiding hand burning hot around her waist, so did she. She felt the gloomy pall of Mr Northway being burned from her by the radiance