Fireblood (Frostblood Saga #2)(13)

He laughed. Our eyes met and clung. As we executed a perfect turn, for a second I was flying.

The spell was broken as Lord Regier invited everyone to join the dance. As couples filled the space, I had to focus on keeping up with Arcus’s steps without colliding with anyone else.

“Any word from the Sudesian queen?” I asked hopefully, for perhaps the hundredth time since he’d announced the ball.

Something flitted across his expression—disappointment maybe, or regret. “You’re hoping she’ll show up at the last minute? It’s unlikely.”

I nodded, feeling foolish.

“I’m sorry,” Arcus said in a low voice.

“It’s not your fault,” I said brightly, resurrecting my smile. “You invited her, and that’s what counts.”

He nodded and pulled me a little bit closer.

A minute later, Marella and her dance partner came alongside us. “I hate to be a nuisance,” she said with a charming half smile, “but I do believe I’ve earned a dance with the king. I did work myself to exhaustion organizing this gala, after all.”

“My dear lady,” Arcus replied with amused tolerance, “if you are so exhausted, dancing will hardly help.”

“But, my dear king, I live to dance. Or have you forgotten?”

I blinked at her coquettish tone, my chest clenching with jealousy.

Marella winked at me and leaned close to whisper, “I need an excuse to get away from Lord Trilby. His hands are like sparrows in winter. They keep migrating south.”

My jealousy faded. I didn’t blame her for wanting to escape, and luckily, when we went to change partners, the young noble blanched and claimed to need refreshment.

Arcus was already laughing at something Marella had said as I steered myself toward the dessert table. I selected a powdery bite-size cake and popped it into my mouth. Custard filling exploded against my tongue. This wouldn’t be a bad way to spend the rest of the ball, I decided, choosing several more sugary confections to sample.

“The Frost Court certainly adores its sweets,” said a low, mocking voice with a slight accent. “And you are clearly no exception.”

I turned and found my gaze ensnared by a pair of golden-brown eyes. The young man’s face was sharply cut, his cheekbones high, his chin on the stubborn side. His expression was arrogant, but it was the color of his hair that made me stare. The wavy locks were a strange mix of light brown, auburn, gold, and ginger, as if each strand had been painted a slightly different hue by an indecisive hand. He was dressed in formfitting trousers and a simple gray tunic, but the silver embroidery on the edges was of the finest quality.

He regarded me with a level gaze. I realized I must be covered with powdered sugar. Heat covered my skin.

“Your statement tells me two things,” I said, trying to sound composed as I surreptitiously dusted my fingers together, creating a little winter scene with the fall of snowy sugar. “One, you’re not from the Frost Court. The court never analyzes or questions itself. It just…is.”

“Astute. The Frost Court perceives itself as the pinnacle of taste and civilization. But the way you say that makes me think you are not part of it, either.”

A few minutes ago, I had taken Marella to task for calling me a lady. Suddenly, I didn’t want to admit to this stranger that I didn’t belong.

“Two,” I counted, ignoring his observation, “you don’t like sweets.”

His lips quirked. “Now, that is a leap of logic. Simply observing that others like sweets does not mean I don’t like them myself.”

“It’s implied,” I answered. “If you liked them, you’d simply select one and eat it.”

“Like you’ve been doing, little bird?”

I blinked up at him, trying to decide whether to address the fact that he’d been rude enough to point out I was about to gorge on cakes or the unsanctioned use of a nickname. Before I could decide, he spoke again.

“Perhaps I have a weakness for a certain variety of sweet.” He moved infinitesimally closer. “The kind that is not found on a dessert table.”

The air suddenly felt trapped in my chest. Was he flirting with me? No one flirted with me. The court hated me. But then, he wasn’t from this court.

“Who are you?”

The tension at the edges of his lips spoke of suppressed amusement. “You’ve deduced that I’m neither a member of this court nor a lover of cake. Why not guess my identity as well?”

I examined him carefully, taking in his confidence, his air of entitlement, his easy grace. He had an accent, but the noble speech was still clear. Perhaps he was the Safran ambassador, whose coveted signature on the peace accords could reopen trade to the east. But no, the Safrans dressed in robes, not breeches.

“You’re from the South,” I said, an easy guess, since most everything was south of the capital.

“Vague,” he replied. “But accurate.”

“Fine, then, I’ll be specific.” His clothing was a recognizable style, making it likely he lived in Tempesia. And he’d agreed he was from the South. The farthest south within the kingdom was the Aris Plains. Which left only one option. “You’re the dignitary of the southern provinces. Though you’re rather young for that, aren’t you? Not much older than me, I’d say. Perhaps you’re the son or younger brother of the dignitary.”