Glitter (Glitter Duology #1)(5)
And, indeed, with a dozen members of the high nobility arranged in a semicircle before her, Lady Cyn does look like the true Queen holding court. As though hearing our whispered conversation, Lady Cyn turns her long, elegant nose toward us. Then she whispers behind her fan to a girl standing next to her and turns halfway, giving us her back. Not quite the cut direct—she doesn’t dare give me such a social dismissal—but a clear insult nonetheless.
I simply don’t care.
I used to. At my coming out, when my mother made it all too obvious that she intended to parade me in front of the King like a tasty slab of meat, Lady Cyn was quick to inform me that I was unwelcome in her territory. Only weeks apart in age, and owing to a friendship between their mothers, Lady Cyn and the King were considered by the court to be—informally and unofficially, of course—intended.
I can still feel the sting of her satin glove smacking my face when she cornered me over a year ago, flanked by a half-circle of well-born bullies in silken gowns. It should have been merely an insult—an ancient and almost meaningless gesture. Except that Lady Cyn had taken it upon herself to put several heavy rings inside the glove.
“You’re a devious climber, and you’ll stop if you know what’s best for you,” she hissed close to my ear as I cradled my throbbing cheek.
I wished I could tell her I wasn’t after her precious boyfriend. Of course, every starry-eyed débutante within a decade of the King’s age probably entertained some shallow hope of a royal wedding. And I can’t say I was any different—but I hardly nurtured a tendresse for the always-arrogant young monarch.
What drew Lady Cyn’s anger wasn’t my determination but my mother’s. Through her scheming and bribes, I more often than not found myself seated beside the King at dinner, sharing his box in the palace’s theater, his name programmed into my dance card.
Consequently, I also found myself avoiding empty corridors whenever humanly possible.
When my betrothal was very publicly announced two months ago, the hatred Lady Cyn already felt toward me, combined with the grievous insult, practically took on a life of its own.
I turn from my future husband’s not-so-secret girlfriend and continue my trek forward. “Where are Lady Mei and Lord Aaron?” I ask. Molli is seldom by herself at these gatherings. Not enough social status to gain notice alone. We used to band together—a pair of nobodies. Now I’m happy to bring her along on my unwanted rise in prestige.
Molli flips open her fan and flutters it in front of her face. M.A.R.I.E. keeps the palace’s climate at a perfect, comfortable temperature, but the motion both is decorative and conceals Molli’s words from eavesdroppers with a lip-reading program on their Lens. Which, because such apps are strictly banned, is everyone. “Lady Mei and her sister have been compelled to join their parents for a family moment.”
“I imagine she’s thrilled,” I say, half amused. The marquis and Lady Zhào are rather fond of parading their two daughters about for the marriageable nobility to see. It’ll be another five years at least before either is ready for marriage, but luck favors the prepared, and betrothals can be quite lengthy.
“Lord Aaron slipped out a few minutes ago,” Molli continues. “He’s remarkably out of spirits this evening. He tries to hide it, but I’ve known the boy since he was still wetting his britches.”
I’d sensed his gloomy mood myself but find it difficult to gauge. I haven’t known Lord Aaron as long as Molli has, having only moved into the palace four years ago, and he does tend toward melancholy anyway. I have trouble distinguishing between his passing fits of existential angst and true distress. I’m always grateful for Molli’s insight in these moments.
A feathered fan—lime-green and loud as the grating laugh of its owner—catches my eye. “I suppose that has something to do with it.” I nod subtly in its direction, though I’m referring not to the woman in the frothy confection of a gown but to the lean, handsome young man beside her.
“It’s such a shame,” Molli says, peering after them over her fan. “He and Sir Spencer are so well suited they might have been created for each other.”
“Can you picture it?” I whisper. “Sir Spencer’s golden hair—Lord Aaron’s dark skin. They’d be gloriously striking.”
“I wish they wouldn’t stand on such ceremony. It’s hardly a love match, even on her side. Besides, everyone in the court cheats.”
I don’t have to voice my agreement, as it’s such a naked truth.
“Her father is so old-fashioned,” Molli laments.
Lady Julianna—the young woman with the unfortunately hued fan—is the heir to the Tremain dukedom; the much more elegant man at her side is the Honorable Sir Spencer Harrisford. An American by birth, Sir Spencer inherited his title and shares when his parents—both top Sonoma executives in America, a brilliant match—were killed in a high-speed rail accident. Their son was brought to Sonoman Versailles by Duke Tremain and wed to Lady Julianna a few weeks later, on the very night of his eighteenth birthday. Not in a whirlwind romance, but simply because Sir Spencer was overly biddable in his fragile emotional state and the duke had an agenda. Still does, if dark rumors are to be believed.
It’s exceptionally bad luck on both their parts that Sir Spencer and Lord Aaron fell quite instantly and madly in love at the wedding fête. Unfortunately, with Lady Tremain’s father holding tightly to the purse strings, that means no affairs. For now.