How to Love a Prince

EIGHT

Roselia

He led me past a secluded alcove, through a less crowded hallway, and finally, into a quiet, dimly lit lounge area, tucked away from the main ballroom.

The air here was cooler, less suffocating, carrying a faint scent of old leather and expensive whiskey. He didn't release my arm until we were deeper inside, near a plush velvet sofa.

“Here,” he said, his voice softer now, devoid of the mocking tone he’d used in the ballroom. He gestured to the sofa, then to a small, ornate table beside it, where a half-empty glass of amber liquid sat.

“Sit. You looked like you were about to combust spontaneously.”

I sank onto the velvet, the softness a welcome relief after hours of standing in heels. Up close, his vivid green eyes held a disarming intensity, and the faint white scar cutting through his left eyebrow was more pronounced, giving him a rugged, almost dangerous charm.

“Thank you,” I managed, my voice raspy. I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. “I… I think I was about to, yeah.”

He leaned against the wall opposite me, crossing his arms, his gaze never leaving my face. “The Deveraux social circus can be a bit much, even for seasoned performers. For a fresh face like yours… I imagine it’s a baptism by fire.” His tone was cynical, but there was a strange lack of malice in it, a detached observation rather than a direct taunt.

“It’s… a lot,” I admitted, looking down at my trembling hands. “I’m not… used to this.” The words were out before I could stop them, a raw, honest admission that felt dangerous in this world of facades.

“Ah, I mean-” I gulped, sounding too vulnerable and unfitting to be a Deveraux wife. “I know my husband lives in the spotlight, but I didn’t think the light was this bright,” I mumbled, forcing an awkward laugh.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “No kidding. You stick out like a genuine article in a room full of fakes.” He pushed off the wall and walked over to the table, picking up a decanter. “Whiskey? Or something softer? You look like you could use a strong one.”

“Water, please,” I whispered, my throat still dry.

He poured a glass of water from a nearby carafe and handed it to me. His fingers brushed mine, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a spark, a strange current that had nothing to do with fear.

He seemed… different.

“So, the mysterious Mrs. Deveraux,” he mused, taking a sip of his whiskey. “What’s your story? Alistair usually picks his… companions… with more fanfare and less surprise.” There was a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice, a stark contrast to the veiled accusations of Mrs. Warner.

I hesitated, wondering how much to reveal, how much of my carefully constructed lie to maintain.

“There’s not much of a story,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I was…just a typical Cinderella who found my prince charming and had my happily-ever-after without the midnight curse thing.”

He raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his green eye “Girls do fall for the good guy all the time, eh? Don’t let that charming smile fool you, little bird. It’s just another weapon in his arsenal.”

His words, though harsh, resonated with a truth I had already begun to suspect. It was strangely comforting to hear someone else acknowledge the cold, calculating side of Alistair. It made me feel less alone in my perception. “He… he seems very different depending on who he’s talking to,” I ventured, testing the waters.

“But I still love him either ways.” I quickly added, smiling as I took a sip.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial whisper. “And what do you think he wants you to do, being his wife? What’s the real game here?” His eyes were sharp, probing, and for a moment, I felt like the air blew colder than usual.

“Why do you ask such things?” I asked back. “You sound like you’re close to my husband.”

He grinned, pulling away as he kept his gaze on me while he drank his liquor once more. As I kept my eyes on him, a series of loud bangs caused me to turn towards the door.

“Damian!” when the door burst open, there stood Alistair, his blue orbs glaring against the man’s green ones, walking in after slamming the door shut. “It’s proper manners to not steal someone’s wife, brother.”

My blood ran col. Oh hell no.

HE’S THE NASTY STEPBROTHER ALISTAIR WAS TALKING ABOUT?!

My eyes widened in horror. The warmth I had felt from him, the fleeting sense of camaraderie, curdled into a bitter realization. He hadn’t been kind; he had been calculating. This was another layer of deception, another player in Alistair’s intricate game.

I recoiled instinctively, pulling myself back into the velvet cushions, as if his proximity could contaminate me.

“Careful, little bird. I’m harmless, I swear.” The sudden shift in my demeanor must have been obvious because a slow, knowing smile spread across Damian’s face, his green eyes now glinting with a predatory amusement. He knew I had just figured it out.

“You were just… playing with me!”

He merely shrugged, a careless, almost dismissive gesture. “It’s a Deveraux family trait, darling. We all play games. Some just play them better than others.” His gaze flickered towards where Alistair is standing.

He was there, his expression a carefully neutral mask, but his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, held a dangerous glint as they swept over Damian, then settled on me.

“Roselia,” Alistair’s voice was calm, almost deceptively so, but there was an undeniable edge of command in it. “The waltz is about to begin, darling. I believe we have the first dance.”

He didn’t ask—he barked an order.

Damian merely smirked, raising his whiskey glass in a mocking toast. “Wouldn’t want to keep the happy couple from their grand debut, would we, brother?” His eyes, however, were fixed on me, a silent message passing between us – a warning, a promise of future encounters.

Alistair walked towards me, his movements fluid, purposeful and simply reached for my hand, his fingers closing around mine, a firm, possessive grip that left no room for argument.

“Come,” he said, pulling me gently but decisively to my feet.

My mind was a whirlwind of emotions – humiliation from Damian’s deception, lingering fear from the ballroom, and a fresh wave of anxiety about the impending dance. I was a terrible dancer. My childhood had been filled with work, not dance lessons.

He led me back into the main ballroom, the music swelling around us. The orchestra had indeed begun a sweeping, romantic waltz, its melody filling the vast space.

Alistair turned to me, his hand moving from mine to the small of my back, his other hand taking my outstretched one in the traditional waltz hold. “Just follow my lead, Perignon,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a command. “Don’t think. Just move with me.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. I stiffened, my feet feeling like lead. I had no idea what I was doing, but like a mechanical robot, I followed his movements as instructed.

He didn’t miss a beat. His hand at my back pressed firmly, guiding me into the first step. His other hand held mine securely, directing my arm. Like in what I see in TVs, he moved with a practiced elegance, a natural rhythm, and I, clumsy and awkward, could only stumble along, entirely dependent on his direction.

“Let’s talk later about why you’re with him of all people.” He spun me, pulled me closer, then pushed me away, all with a subtle shift of pressure, a silent command. “I only left you for ten minutes.”

My feet fumbled, my balance wavered, but he never let me fall. He was strong, steady, unwavering. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled as he held me close, leaning down to let me whisper on his ear. “I got scared when you’re away and he...unfortunately helped me out.

“Let’s settle it at home. For now, follow my lead,” Once again, he pulled away to spin me with one hand, then pulled me back to kiss my lips. “Darling.”

The music swelled, carrying us across the floor, and I knew, with a chilling certainty, that as long as I was his spy, this was my dance. And I had no choice but to follow.