eyes, wide with obvious awe up until this point, narrowed. ‘Has Natalia dressed many of your dates?’
There was a definite hint of tartness in her tone. He eyed her contemplatively. Was that tartness a sign of jealousy?
Jealousy was an emotion he had no time for. He neither cared about his lovers’ past bedmates nor felt any pangs of regret when their time was over and they found someone new. If during their time together any sign of possessiveness reared its head, he would end the relationship there and then. Jealousy was dangerous—as dangerous as love itself—driving men and women to lose control of themselves with unimaginable consequences.
And yet hearing that tinge of jealousy filled his chest in a manner he didn’t even want to begin contemplating. Not when he couldn’t take his eyes from her...couldn’t stop his imagination running wild about what lay beneath that stunning dress.
His imagination had run riot since the day before, when she’d played for him semi-naked.
In his head he’d imagined she would wear practical underwear—not the matching lacy black numbers that set off the porcelain of her skin. As slender as he’d imagined, her womanly curves were soft, her breasts high and surprisingly full. What lay beneath those pretty knickers? he’d wondered, over and over. Had she taken the route so many women seemed to favour nowadays? Or had she left herself as nature intended...?
Halfway through her playing he’d smothered a groan, thinking it would be a damn sight better if she were fully naked, as his wild imaginings were utter torture. The expression in her eyes had only added to his torment.
For the first time in his life he’d come close to breaking a promise. He’d known that if he’d taken her into his arms she would have been his. But it hadn’t only been his promise that had kept him propped against the cottage wall. It had been the shyness he’d seen when she’d first stood before him wearing only her underwear—a shyness he’d not seen since his lusty teenage years. An innocence that made him certain Amalie had minimal experience with men.
That innocence had acted like an alarm. A warning. Alas, it had done nothing to diminish the ache, which hadn’t abated a touch, not in his groin or in his chest. All day, helping his brothers with the evening’s arrangements, his mind had been elsewhere—in the cottage, with her.
‘Natalia was my grandmother’s official dressmaker,’ he said softly. ‘She made her wedding dress and my mother’s wedding dress. She’s mostly retired now, but as a favour to me agreed to make your ball gown. I’ve never sent another woman to her.’
Dark colour stained her cheeks—almost as dark as the wide dilation of her eyes. Was that what her eyes would look like when she was in the throes of passion...?
The thought was broken when the first guests were led into the Banquet Room. Two footmen stood at the door, handing out the evening’s booklets—a guide for each guest that was adorned with purple ribbon. Each booklet contained a full guest list, the menu, wine list and a seating plan, along with a list of the music to be played throughout the evening by the Agon Orchestra. The orchestra’s role tonight should go some way towards mitigating any underlying resentment that a French orchestra would be playing at the official gala.
As his brothers had already given the official welcome, Talos’s job was to keep the guests entertained until everyone had arrived.
He would have preferred to be at the main entrance, shaking hands. He hadn’t been joking when he’d described the tedium of what was about to ensue. Almost two hundred guests filed into the Banquet Room, the majority of whom were, at the most, distant acquaintances but all of whom expected to be remembered personally and made to feel like the most important guest there.
Normally Theseus would take this role, and Talos would line up with Helios to do the official greeting. If there was one thing Talos couldn’t abide, it was small talk, having to feign interest in interminably dull people. Tonight, though, he wanted to keep Amalie at his side—not wanting her to have to deal with scores of strangers alone. Palace protocol meant only members of the royal family could make the first greeting.
To his surprise, she was a natural at small talk; moving easily between people with Talos by her side, taking an interest in who they were and what they did that wasn’t feigned, her smiles as warm for those from the higher echelons of society as for those much further down the social ladder.
If she was aware of all the appreciative gazes being thrown her way by men and women alike she did a good job of pretending not to be.
When the gong rang out, signalling for everyone to take their seats, Talos looked at his watch and saw over half an hour had passed since the first guests had stepped into the Banquet Room. The time had flown by.
‘You mastered the room like a pro,’ he said in an undertone as they found their seats on what had been designated the top table.
She cast puzzled eyes on him.
‘The way you handled our welcome job,’ he explained. ‘Most people would be overwhelmed when faced with one hundred and eighty people wanting to make small talk.’
She shrugged with a bemused expression. ‘My parents were always throwing parties. I think I mastered the art of small talk before I learned how to walk.’
‘You attended their parties?’
‘I was the main party piece.’
Before he could ask what she meant another gong sounded out and a courtier bade them all into silence as Helios and Theseus strode regally into the room.
No one took a seat until Helios, the highest-ranked member of the family in attendance, had taken his.
A footman pulled Amalie’s chair out for her, while Talos gathered the base of the train of her dress so she could sit down with ease. He caught a glimpse of delicate white ankle and had to resist the urge to run his fingers over it, to feel for himself the texture of her skin.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, her eyes sparkling.
‘You’re welcome.’
Taking his own seat, he opened his booklet to peruse the menu. As Helios had directed, the four-course meal had an international flavour rather than one specifically Greek or Agonite.
White wine was poured into the appropriate glasses, the starter of dressed crab with an accompanying crab timbale, crayfish and prawns was brought out by the army of serving staff, and the banquet began.
‘Is your grandfather not attending?’ Amalie whispered before taking a sip of her wine.
‘He is unwell.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ she asked with concern.
He forced a smile. ‘A touch of flu, that’s all.’
‘It must be a worry for you,’ she said, clearly seeing through his brevity.
‘My grandfather is eighty-seven and as tough as a horse,’ he deflected artfully.
She laughed. ‘My English grandfather is eighty-five and tough as a horse too. They’ll outlive the lot of us!’
How he wished that was the case, he thought, his heart turning to lead as he envisaged a life without his grandfather,
