“He’ll come, Amon; they both will, you’ll see.”

The music had stopped, signaling the end of the dance, and they coasted reluctantly to a standstill. Amon was leaning down, and their faces were inches apart. Gripping both his hands, Raisa whispered, “Thank you.” She went up on her toes, sliding her arms around his neck, meaning to finish the dance with a chaste kiss, but just then they were interrupted.

“Your Highness?” The accented voice came from behind. “I believe I have reserved this dance.”

Raisa whirled around and saw that it was Prince Liam Tomlin, of Tamron. The prince offered a graceful bow. “Of course, if it’s no longer convenient…?”

“Your Highness,” she said, and curtsied, her face burning with embarrassment. She really needed to pay better attention. Especially since Prince Liam was a possible match. “Of course it’s convenient. I’m sorry. I was just…”

“Distracted,” he said. “It happens.” His smile was dazzling against his coppery skin.

Raisa looked over her shoulder, but Amon had disappeared.

The prince took her hand, and the orchestra launched into a waltz, a safe dance for southerners, in deference to the royal pair. The musicians needn’t have worried. The prince danced with the unconscious grace of someone who’d grown up at court.

He was not especially tall, compared to Micah or Amon, but he was exceedingly well-dressed, in a blue coat and white breeches that displayed his lean, aristocratic build. Tamron was known for being the arbiter of style in the Seven Realms. Next to glittering Tamron Court, Fellsmarch was a backwater.

“It’s not often that I must reserve a place on someone’s dance card,” Prince Liam said. “And wrench my partner from the arms of another. See how far the fortunes of the Tomlins have fallen.”

Startled, Raisa studied the prince for evidence of arrogance, but found only a kind of self-deprecating good humor. She liked him at once.

“Right. Well, I’m trying to get used to the idea of being put on display like a fresh side of beef,” Raisa said.

Prince Liam laughed out loud, a surprising full-bodied laugh. “Perhaps you subscribe to the notion that princes actually have control over their own lives. I beg to differ. We strut the boards, improvising like mad, only to learn that the script is already written, and we’ve got it wrong.”

“Not always,” Raisa countered. “I have to believe that sometimes we can write our own.”

“You love your soldier, then?” The question was like a bold blade between the ribs, but Raisa deflected it.

“I am not talking about love,” Raisa said, amending silently, Well, not only about love.

“I have a chance, then,” he said, turning his head and displaying his handsome profile, framed by his tumble of black curls. He peered sideways at her to see if she’d noticed.

She laughed. “You are quite the poseur,” she said.