And Luce—no, Lys—was an early favorite of the duke’s to fill the slot. That was the reason for the heavy, aching feeling in her chest: Lys couldn’t marry the king, because she loved Daniel. She had loved him passionately for years. But in this life, Daniel was a servant, and the two of them were forced to hide their romance. Luce felt Lys’s paralyzing fear—that if she took the king’s fancy tonight, all hope of having a life with Daniel would disappear.
Bill had warned her that going 3-D would be intense, but there was no way Luce could have prepared for the onslaught of so much emotion: Every fear and doubt that had ever crossed Lys’s mind swamped Luce. Every hope and dream. It was too much.
She gasped and looked around her at the ball—anywhere but at the duke. And realized she knew everything there was to know about this time and place. She suddenly understood why the king was looking for a wife even though he was already engaged. She recognized half the faces moving around her in the ballroom, knew their stories, and knew which ones envied her. She knew how to stand in the corseted gown so that she could breathe comfortably. And she knew, judging from the skilled eye she cast on the dancers, that Lys had been trained in the art of ballroom dancing from childhood.
It was an eerie feeling, being in Lys’s body, as if Luce were both the ghost and the one haunted.
The orchestra came to the end of the song, and a man near the door stepped forward to read from a scroll. “Princess Lys of Savoy.”
Luce raised her head with more elegance and confidence than she’d expected, and accepted the hand of the young man in the pale-green waistcoat who had appeared to escort her into the king’s receiving room.
Once inside the entirely pastel-blue room, Luce tried not to stare at the king. His towering gray wig looked silly poised over his small, drawn face. His pale-blue eyes leered at the line of duchesses and princesses—all beautiful, all dressed exquisitely—the way a man deprived of food might leer at a pig on a spit.
The pimply figure on the throne was little more than a child.
Louis XV had assumed the crown when he was only five years old. In compliance with his dying father’s wishes, he’d been betrothed to the Spanish princess, the infanta. But she was still barely a toddler. It was a match made in Hell. The young king, who was frail and sickly, wasn’t expected to live long enough to produce an heir with the Spanish princess, who herself might also die before reaching childbearing age. So the king had to find a consort to produce an heir. Which explained this extravagant party, and the ladies lined up on display.
Luce fidgeted with the lace on her gown, feeling ridiculous. The other girls all looked so patient. Maybe they truly wanted to marry the acne-ridden twelve-year-old King Louis, though Luce didn’t see how that was possible. They were all so elegant and beautiful. From the Russian princess, Elizabeth, whose sapphire-velvet gown had a collar trimmed in rabbit’s fur, to Maria, the princess from Poland, whose tiny button nose and full red mouth made her dizzyingly alluring, they all gazed at the boy king with wide, hopeful eyes.
But he was staring straight at Luce. With a satisfied smirk that made her stomach turn.
“That one.” He pointed at her lazily. “Let me see her up close.”
The duke appeared at Luce’s side, gently shoving her shoulders forward with his long, icy fingers. “Present yourself, Princess,” he said quietly. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
The Luce part of her groaned inwardly, but on the outside, Lys was in charge, and she practically floated forward to greet the king. She curtseyed with a perfectly proper bow of her head, extending her hand for his kiss. It was what her family expected of her.
“Will you get fat?” the king blurted out at Luce, eyeing her corset-squeezed waist. “I like the way she looks now,” he said to the duke. “But I don’t want her to get fat.”
Had she been in her own body, Luce might have told the king exactly what she thought of his unappealing physique. But Lys had perfect composure, and Luce felt herself reply, “I should hope to always please the king, with my looks and with my temperament.”
“Yes, of course,” the duke purred, walking a tight circle around Luce. “I’m sure His Majesty could keep the princess on the diet of his choice.”
“What about hunting?” the king asked.
“Your Majesty,” the duke began to say, “that isn’t befitting a queen. You have plenty of other hunting companions. I, for one—”
“My father is an excellent hunter,” Luce said. Her brain was whirling, working toward something—anything—that might help her escape this scene.
“Should I bed down with your father, then?” the king sneered.
“Knowing Your Majesty likes guns,” Luce said, straining to keep her tone polite, “I have brought you a gift—my father’s most prized hunting rifle. He’d asked me to bring it to you this evening, but I wasn’t sure when I’d have the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
She had the king’s full attention. He was perched on the edge of his throne.
“What’s it look like? Are there jewels in its butt?”
“The … the stock is hand-carved from cherry-wood,” she said, feeding the king the details Bill called out from where he stood beside the king’s chair. “The bore was milled by—by—”
“Oh, what would sound impressive? By a Russian metalworker who has since gone to work for the czar.” Bill leaned over the king’s pastries and sniffed hungrily. “These look good.”
Luce repeated Bill’s line and then added, “I could bring it to Your Majesty, if you’d just allow me to go and retrieve it from my chambers—”
“A servant can bring the gun down tomorrow, I’m sure,” the duke said.
“I want to see it now.” The king crossed his arms, looking even younger than he was.
“Please.” Luce turned to the duke. “It would give me great pleasure to present the rifle to His Majesty myself.”
“Go.” The king snapped his fingers, dismissing Luce.
Luce wanted to spin on her heel, but Lys knew better—one never showed the king one’s back—and she bowed and walked backward out of the room. She showed the most gracious restraint, gliding along as though she hadn’t any feet at all—just until she got to the other side of the mirrored door.
Then she ran.
Through the ballroom, past the splendid dancing couples and the orchestra, whirring from one pastel-yellow room into another decorated all in deep chartreuse. She ran past gasping ladies and grunting gentlemen, over hardwood floors and thick, opulent Persian rugs, until the lights grew dimmer and the partygoers thinned out, and at last she found the mullioned doors that led outside. She thrust them open, gasping in her corset to draw the fresh air of freedom into her lungs. She strode onto an enormous balcony made of brilliant white marble that wrapped around the entire second story of the palace.
The night was bright with stars; all Luce wanted to do was to be in Daniel’s arms and flying up toward those stars. If only he were by her side to take her far from all of this—
“What are you doing out here?”
She spun around. He’d come for her. He stood across the balcony in simple servant’s clothes, looking confused and alarmed and tragically, hopelessly in love.
“Daniel.” She dashed toward him. He moved toward her, too, his violet eyes lighting up; he threw open his arms, beaming. When they finally connected and Luce was wrapped up in his arms, she thought she might explode from happiness.
But she didn’t.
She just stayed there, her head buried against his wonderful, broad chest. She was home. His arms were wrapped around her back, resting on her waist, and he pulled her as close to him as possible. She felt him breathe, and smelled the husky scent of straw on his neck. Luce kissed just below his left ear, then underneath his jaw. Soft, gentle kisses until she reached his lips, which parted against her own. Then the kisses became longer, filled with a love that seemed to pour out from the very depths of her soul.