Of Heirs and Havoc ✔️ | Of Crimes and Crowns Book 2

thirty - four : of proposals and princes

Ice would certainly be welcome right now, Matthew thought as he stirred his wine, which in this heat was rapidly becoming too lukewarm to be palatable. Outside, the dry heat of the fire had subsided along with the smoke, and now a heavier, more humid warmth was filling the air. The sign of a storm, he knew from living here for five years. Though in those five years, no one had told him how to cope with this pervasive warmth that hung constantly in the air.

Dampness formed on the sides of his glass, and he finally gave up on slowly savouring his drink in favour of downing it immediately. The mulled wine, with its spices and herbs, left a bitter tang in the back of his throat though it cooled his body. Celeste was late. She had asked to meet him on the balcony for wine at evening, and now the sun was nearly setting, requiring the citrus-scented tapers to be lit, giving light and protection from mosquitoes.

Over the water, he could see lights reflecting in glittering fractals over the waves. The dark, angry clouds raced across the sky, blocking out the setting sun. He shivered as a chilling breeze—however welcome—danced across the terrace, ruffling his hair. Finally, the balcony door swung open, and Celeste appeared in an angelic white dress that seemed rather deceiving.

"Night has fallen," he remarked, shifting his leg to give himself more comfort. "You told me to meet you at evening."

There was no real mirth in her smile, and it chilled him more than any iced wine could. "A girl has to look good, Matthew, time be damned."

Looking at her would give her what she wanted, so he refrained from doing so. "I wonder how your future husband would feel about that."

"Oh, I think I know." She poured herself a glass of wine, swishing it around in the goblet. "Very well, in fact."

Very well indeed. "May I know if someone has proposed?"

Even the most blind of men could see the guile, the cunning and deceit that flashed through those brown eyes as brightly as any bolt of lightning

Young men had drowned in those eyes, been swallowed whole and lost all sense of reason, all willpower except that which was tethered to hers. Matthew may have been young in body—but his spirit had endured too much to suffer more at the hands of one, soon-powerless girl.

"Of course, I will tell you." She downed her wine and for a moment it looked like blood, looked fitting as any rings might have when it splashed accidentally onto her fingers. "Could you pass me a napkin first, however?"

Under the mask of politeness that was necessary for dealing with her, in the same way that a level of caution was required for handling vipers, he picked one up and gave it to her. "Well? Tell me exactly who your intended is."

"Impatient, are you not? One would almost think you had a personal stake in the matter." As she dabbed at the back of her hand with the fine linen, he felt his impatience surge. "Very well. I shall divulge the identity of my suitor. It is someone we both know very well, who came to the island unexpectedly five years ago and who would do quite well to leave it, but strangely has yet to do so."

Looking at her, he wondered that anyone could find such treachery and manipulations attractive. "I know not of whom you speak." He forced out the words between stiff lips.

On the surface, one might think her surprise genuine, her wide eyes and opened mouth an authentic expression of true emotions. That was the effect she had on others, playing her role to perfection. "Do you really not?"

Vanquishing his desire to strangle her, he pushed his chair away from the table. Her face was as familiar to him as his own, and in that moment he saw it splintered into all the masks he had ever seen her wear: the concerned girl six years ago when she had held his hand as the doctor sawed his leg off. The devoted nurse when he had been struggling to regain the ability to stand and walk. The laughing, vivacious life of the party and various galas and parties. The tearful gaze as she clung to him after the fire, soot smearing her cheeks. The darkly violent expression that came over her when her plans were thwarted, which she wore now.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to hurt her, to harm her. Just as they had screamed at him to return home, past the cloud of shame and guilt wrestling his body—the cloud that, he realized, had been put there by the girl sitting before him. "As I told you, i do not."

"Please, Prince, do not play the fool. You know of whom I speak. And you would do well to marry me."

Out of his seat, he loomed over her. "You would do well to marry a prince. You, for whom there can be no inheritance nor duchy nor island to govern. You, the daughter of of a man who will soon be out of power, would do very well to marry a prince."

"What ideas you have!" She scoffed, standing up and knocking over her wine glass. Clumsy. All these clumsy moves, from a girl whose every action was planned down to the last precise detail. "Such fantastic words have just come out of your mouth—are you certain you do not confuse reality with one of those stories you always scribble away at in your journal?"

"Everyone knows your father is dying, and everyone expects that your brother will inherit," he responded calmly.

"Really, Matthew... did you never think that I would defy expectations?"