ESP 43

“Lord of Ebony, Keith Dalmor. May I have this waltz?”

Briony couldn’t remember how many times she’d been asked to dance that night—or even how she had replied to him.

All she remembered was the firm hand supporting her back, his other hand holding hers tightly, and the way he led her effortlessly through the throng of dancers. She could still recall the feel of his coat beneath her left hand and the solid muscles of his shoulder under it.

“You look especially beautiful tonight.”

Keith had never been the sort to flatter with empty words. It wasn’t in his nature to try to win anyone’s favor, which only made him seem more honest and trustworthy. Yet, every time she looked up at his strikingly handsome face as they danced, Briony had to hide the strange warmth that welled up inside her, despite how unfamiliar and uncomfortable everything else felt.

“So do you, Lord Weardale.”

“You must be the only lady here who compliments a man like that, Mistress Arlington.”

“And you must be the only man who compliments me in such a way, Lord Weardale.”

The words slipped from her lips before she even thought about them—just as her feet moved through the steps from memory.

Quick, quick, slow.

The voice of her strict waltz instructor echoed in her head.

Mistress Arlington, how will you ever marry into a better house if you’re so stiff?

…But Keith had guided her so smoothly that she’d forgotten all about her poor dancing. Just as the Duke of Byron was leading her now—though perhaps with a touch more severity.

“Mistress Arlington, you don’t seem to realize how beautiful you are,” the Duke said as he spun her in a broad turn.

Normally, Briony barely managed to keep up, but this time she moved fluidly, thanks to his confident lead. She felt the lace hem of her dress brush against her ankles and flare softly as she turned.

“Half the people here are watching us right now,” he murmured.

“Please don’t make me more nervous.”

The Duke smiled.
“The other half are watching Her Majesty and the Earl of Dalmor.”

Briony turned her head in surprise and nearly lost her balance. The Duke caught her quickly, and their upper bodies ended up closer than the waltz’s decorum allowed.

“You shouldn’t look,” he said quietly.

“And why not?”

“Because it displeases your partner.”

The way his eyes gleamed when he said it made it impossible for Briony to tell whether he was joking or not.

They glided across the grand floor, turning widely to the right near the edge of the hall.

Natural turn, Briony—watch your direction. Do you want to trip over your own steps?

But with the Duke, there was no need to worry about the next move. His lead was flawless. All Briony had to do was let herself be guided, half-embraced in his arms.

When he twirled her, the chandelier lights reflected in the crystal and poured into her eyes. She turned her head, feigning the need to shield them, and tried to spot Keith. Just as she glimpsed the silver of the Queen’s gown, the Duke steered her smoothly in another direction.

“Does the Earl of Dalmor trouble your thoughts?” he asked.

“…And why would that interest you, Lord Weardale?”

“Because I’ve proposed to you.”

“And I refused you.”

Their legs brushed; her skirt tangled briefly around his knee. The Duke bent close to her ear.

“This ball is a follow-up to the recent trial. To prevent rumors that Her Majesty falsely accused a noble, she must at least appear to console the Earl of Dalmor. The first waltz at a royal ball always carries special significance.”

Was that it? Was that why Keith had accepted the Queen’s invitation to dance?

“If I’d known it was so significant—”

“You wouldn’t have made such a promise with me, of course.”

Even surrounded by hundreds of others, the Duke moved as though only the two of them existed. The dance was surprisingly enjoyable, but Briony’s mind was a tangle of thoughts.

“I’m… out of breath,” she whispered.

“The music hasn’t ended yet, Mistress Arlington.”
The Duke’s tone was gentle, but firm. His hand still held her tightly.

“You look tired. I appreciate that you didn’t embarrass me by asking for a dance,” Queen Leopoldine said with a smile, looking up at Keith.

He didn’t return the smile.
“I didn’t ask you to dance to spare Your Majesty embarrassment.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I feared Your Majesty might put me on trial again for not asking.”

Since the ball gathered all the nobles who had attended the recent court session, Keith had expected the Queen would find some way to bring him onto the floor. But he hadn’t expected this—that she would request the first waltz. For any young nobleman, dancing with the Queen was an honor, but that privilege was usually reserved for the highest-ranking peers.

Leopoldine’s silver eyes flickered at his cold reply.
“I heard the Earl of Dalmor was a gentleman. Yet you speak so harshly to me.”

“That’s because Your Majesty is not a mere lady—you are the Queen.”

“And you are my vassal. When I say dance, you dance; when I say attend, you attend.”

Her tone was stubborn, almost childish. Keith placed a hand lightly at her back and led her mechanically toward the open floor.

Across the hall, he saw Duke Byron leaning far too close to Briony, whispering something in her ear. She drew back slightly. A surge of anger welled up in Keith—an urge to break away, to stride across the floor and separate them.

Of course, he couldn’t. One doesn’t abandon the Queen in the middle of a dance.

“So that’s why you asked me,” she said softly, her smile deepening.

“Then will you also make me your court secretary?” he asked dryly.

“If I appoint someone once accused of treason as my secretary, what will the nobles say?”

“Why should I care what they say?”

Her silvery eyes sparkled like diamonds scattered across her gown. To any onlooker, she looked radiant and charming—but Keith couldn’t meet her gaze.

Until the day the “Queen’s Eye” had arrested him, he’d believed in Her Majesty’s sense of judgment. Except for that one event five years ago, she had ruled well. Under her reign, the royal house of Algonquin and the kingdom had prospered. For a queen who’d begun with so little support, her success had been remarkable.

…But this?

To appoint a former criminal to a royal position—out of personal emotion—was not sound judgment. It was far more dangerous than a symbolic first dance.

So he said quietly,
“Your Majesty is behaving like a foolish young girl.”

Her eyes widened. Keith lowered his voice.

“To such a girl, nothing matters more than pride.”

In other words: if she valued her pride above her dignity as a queen, she should at least refrain from reckless acts that would make her the subject of gossip and disgrace.

Leopoldine pressed her lips together but said nothing, continuing to follow his lead. Her dancing, of course, was impeccable—royalty was trained for such things. Keith barely had to think about guiding her.

…Briony had been different.

‘May I have this waltz?’
‘Please, go ahead.’

Her reply had come so quickly—but her steps had been clumsy. Her free hand didn’t seem to know where to go. She missed beats and stepped on his foot more than once.

Even when he chose the simplest pattern and steered her toward an emptier corner, it made no difference. He hadn’t cared about mistakes. He’d only felt sorry for her, that awkward young lady doing her best to keep up.

‘Are you tired?’
‘A little.’

Though she admitted it frankly, she kept dancing diligently. By the end, her pale cheeks had turned a soft blush, and the hand that had fumbled before now rested properly on his shoulder.

It had been clear that she’d never touched a man’s shoulder before. She’d been nervous, and her tension made him tense as well—but somehow, that waltz had felt far too short.

He hadn’t danced with Briony again after that.

It wasn’t as if I never had the chance, he thought bitterly.

From across the floor, he caught a glimpse of her—her delicate frame wrapped in layers of lace that flared and fluttered like petals each time Byron spun her. Her long, shining hair rippled over her white shoulders.

Why wasn’t it his hand holding hers now? Why had she accepted Byron’s invitation?

Compared to that, the silver-haired woman before him hardly mattered.

“…I thought you were a foolish man,” Leopoldine murmured.
“But now I see—you’re quite clever.”

In Algonquin, the Queen’s power was absolute, but even absolute power met resistance. If something happened again to Keith—so soon after the Queen’s “Eye” had falsely accused him—no noble would doubt whose doing it was.

And she couldn’t just have every dissenter hanged. The civil war in the neighboring country had proven what happens when monarchs abuse their might.

To preserve peace, even an absolute ruler had to learn restraint.

That was what Keith had meant to tell her—and she understood. He felt a flicker of relief. Her Majesty still had some sense left.

As they turned, so did their conversation.

“Earl of Dalmor, you once lived in Fanshaw, didn’t you?”

That had been during his youth, at the fencing academy. He nodded.
“Yes.”

“Did you ever dance with a girl who had eyes like mine?”

She looked up at him through long lashes—half wistful, half yearning. But Fanshaw was a distant memory, one he had no desire to revisit.

“I don’t remember.”

Their knees brushed. Keith stepped back, and she followed, the two of them tracing a large clockwise circle across the floor.

“I only asked you to keep me company for a little while,” she said quietly.

“Then, by all means, take my head and make it your company,” he replied.

Leopoldine bit her lip, speechless. All around them, colorful gowns swirled to the fading rhythm. Hundreds of eyes watched, but neither of them made a single misstep.

As the music slowed and the final notes lingered, Keith released her hand.

“That,” he said, “is all I can give you.”