The Queen's Assassin (Queen's Secret #1) - Melissa de la Cruz Page 0,116

much spirits and the masculine desire to brag and impress a pretty face should work to my advantage, and I have Cal to thank for that lesson.

Still, I’ve had no luck so far. All I have to show for my efforts are cheeks that feel bruised from smiling.

I spot Caledon across the room. He looks so lost. It makes my stomach knot. I should just tell him. Why can’t I? We are both here on the queen’s orders now. Not that it matters. If only we had been able to speak our hearts to each other before the other night, if only we’d had a few more days of innocence. He must be nothing but Caledon Holt, Queen’s Assassin, to me now.

I’ve been suffering with this for days, alone. But it is my burden to carry; he already has his own.

But then he walks right up to Duchess Girt and asks her to dance.

Naturally, she jumps at the chance.

Fine, let him flirt with the duchess.

Did he kiss her the way he kissed me? I cannot help the hot blaze of fury that fills me at the thought. He kissed me like he wanted to become part of me—is that how it felt to her that day in the library? That his soul was in his kiss? And that he would love her forever?

The worst thought: Yes, of course it was the same. Because he’s adept at acting. At lying. It’s what he does. I have to remember there is nothing between us and never was; it never had a chance to flower. And he can always find other girls to kiss and dance with, of that I am certain.

“Lady Lila, is everything all right, my dear? You look a bit flushed.” My dance partner, Lord—oh, I don’t remember his name—asks me.

“I’m quite all right. I think I just need something to drink?”

“Say no more. You wait here. I’ll return shortly.” My eager suitor rushes off somewhere to fulfill my request, just as a footman appears with a tray of wineglasses.

I accept one and decide to flee the ballroom rather than watch Cal dance with the duchess. But when I turn the corner I run right into my suitor. “Oh,” he says, looking at the wineglass in my hand and holding a similar one.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I think I’ve broken my heel, and I’m off to . . .”

He kneels on the floor. Overeager, this one. “Let’s have a look. I know a thing or two about shoes . . .” He grabs the bottom of my skirts and tries lifting them up.

I immediately slap the top of his head with my fan. He puts his hands over his head and stares up at me in surprise.

“Sir! A gentleman does not lift a lady’s skirts!” I begin to fan myself frantically, as if I’m in need of smelling salts.

He blushes and jumps to his feet. “Please accept my apologies, my lady. I did not mean . . . I only meant to . . .”

“Well, I never!” I shout. I harrumph for emphasis and storm away. That should take care of him. He’ll avoid me for the rest of the evening out of sheer humiliation.

I walk through the hall leading away from the ballroom, then stop to remove my tight heels so that I can continue. When I bend down, I feel the talisman knock against my upper thigh. I realize the metal hasn’t reacted in a while. The farther I venture into the private areas of the house, the colder it gets.

Now that I’ve thwacked a nobleman on the head, I’m feeling bold.

Tiptoeing, shoes in my hand, I creep up the stairs toward the duke and duchess’s private bedchambers.

I pause to listen. It’s silent upstairs. I’m not sure what I’m doing or what I’m looking for. I don’t have a plan, exactly. I just know that I’ll know when I find it.

Each of my footsteps creaks on the wood floor. I’m positive I’m alerting everyone in the house to my actions, but of course that’s silly, because there’s a