forcing her voice not to tremble, ‘I believe I shall retire for the evening. Please excuse me.’
‘Now, now,’ her aunt said disapprovingly. ‘You’re going to play my game whether you like it or not, my dear!’
Empress Anna snapped her fingers and a line of aristocratic bachelors marched out onto the dais in single file. Ekaterina’s throat closed in dread. She knew all of these men by name. Captain Boris Zukov, a ruthless military man. Count Vitaly, who had once beaten a servant to the verge of death for dropping a cup. Igor of the North, known for torturing his mistresses once he tired of them. Her ribs felt like constricting bands of steel as she took in the sight of each cruel, malicious man.
These are my suitors, she realised as panic shredded her stomach.
* * *
Anna grabbed Andrey’s sleeve and leaned her cheek against his. Her breath was hot and rancid against his skin.
‘Let this be a lesson to you, foolish boy,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘No one steals from me and gets away with it unscathed.’
Andrey felt frozen in place, as if he might be shattered by his hammering heart. His eyes found Ekaterina, whose face had gone blank.
‘My dearest niece, you have been dallying among the wildflowers for too long. So I have assembled this group of suitable men for you,’ her aunt bellowed. ‘I demand that you choose a husband from these suitors by the end of tomorrow’s Christmas celebrations.’
* * *
To be shackled to one of these barbarians...
‘Aunt,’ Ekaterina protested, ‘surely—’
‘If you don’t choose a husband,’ she warned, interrupting, ‘I will choose for you and send you, married, back to your father’s house tomorrow night.’ She paused, her smile sharp. ‘And if I have to send my favourite niece away I don’t believe I will very much care for this bright room any longer. Nor the man who designed it.’
The thinly veiled threat hung in the air between the lovers. She was to be condemned to a life of violence and servitude no matter what—and if she did not willingly walk into that trap, the Empress would damn them both.
The next day came far too quickly. After the events of the Christmas Eve ball, the palace had been buzzing with gossip. Some pitied Ekaterina’s fate while others sniffed and basked in her misfortune. But all were excitedly guessing at which suitor she would choose.
All, that was, except for Andrey.
Andrey had spent most of the night pacing, his mind awhirl. After Empress Anna’s announcement he hadn’t been permitted a moment alone with Ekaterina. Instead, he had been rudely ushered from the hall as his mentor, Rastrelli, had erupted in panicked appeal. His last stolen glance had been of Ekaterina’s pale, stone-faced expression as she surveyed her potential husbands.
Now, finally released from his suite by the Empress’s personal guard, he walked briskly into the reception hall of the palace, where a Christmas Day luncheon was being served. But as he strode into the room he was nearly shoved out of the way by a burly nobleman, barrelling past. He blinked, surprised. It was Count Vitaly—and he was as red as a ripe tomato and swearing profusely.
Frowning, Andrey entered the grand hall and was greeted by the hushed whispers of the Winter Court. He glanced up at the royal dais. The Empress was beet-red and glowering down...at Ekaterina.
But when he peered at Ekaterina through the throng of milling nobles, his frown only deepened. She was not her usual serious, serene self. No, the young woman was tittering and giggling behind a gold-feathered fan as she openly flirted with her two remaining suitors, Captain Boris Zukov and Igor of the North.
Andrey circled the edges of the ballroom, studying the strange, sly smile that lifted the corners of her ruby-red lips. Her lusty allure was on full display as she laid her fingers on Captain Zukov’s arm while tiptoeing to whisper something in Igor’s ear. The men were captivated by her...except when they paused to glare at each other over her head.
* * *
Ekaterina caught a glimpse of Andrey’s stormy face from the corner of her eye. But she had neither the time nor the opportunity to reassure him of her true intentions. No, manipulating these boors into abandoning their suit was taking all of her energy...and she was nearing exhaustion.
She had already managed to turn them against each other by courting them all simultaneously and then stepping back as they traded insults and threats while vying for her attention. She hid a smile behind her fan. Count Vitaly had already stormed away, cursing and muttering that she was not worth the trouble. And now the remaining two were at each other’s throats.
Ekaterina eyed the squabbling men above her. Yes, it might take the better part of the day, but she could finagle her way out of this marriage business yet. All she had to do was make her suitors leave of their own volition. That would buy her enough time to escape her aunt’s devious plans.
But Andrey...
She could no longer find him in her peripheral vision. She knew he must think her fickle or mad for shamelessly using her feminine wiles to court disaster. She was sure he did not understand what she was trying to do. She sighed inwardly and turned her attention back to outmanoeuvring her aunt.
* * *
In fact, Andrey wasn’t even in the hall anymore. After seeing Ekaterina giggling at one of Boris’s jokes and gasping in delight when Igor stroked her cheek, he’d found he could take no more. He’d marched out, heading straight for his workshop, which was abandoned for the day’s festivities.
For the next few hours he lost himself in woodcarving. He started out by hacking aimlessly at a chunk of wood. By the time he had worked out most of his frustration, his shirt was soaked in sweat. He pulled the clinging material from his body and tossed it away. Then he began to chisel away at the wood with more purpose and less anger, letting the monotony of the work distract him.
So engrossed was he with his work that he almost missed the soft sound of a woman clearing her throat. He looked up, surprised.
‘I thought I might find you here,’ Ekaterina said softly as she stepped into his haven.
Andrey looked down, returning to his work.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Don’t be cross with me,’ she said as she made her way over to his workbench. ‘I only did what I had to.’
His answering laugh was a sharp, bitter bark.
‘And did you choose a suitable husband?’
He waited for her reply, his eyes locked on to his wooden carving. But she said nothing, and the only sounds in the room were those of his chisel and hammer.
‘Well?’
‘Oh, Andrey.’
He paused midstroke. He felt her step up behind
