The Tournament Ball

(Elliot's POV)

The great hall was nearly full when Elliot and his parents arrived for the banquet. The savory scent of roasted meat mingled with the spice of mulled wine as they entered the large space. The moment his foot stepped across threshold, his heartbeat quickened. A faint wave of nausea rolled in his stomach.

Elliot had agreed that George’s idea of asking Princess Ophelia for a dance at the ball could potentially help smooth over any enmity that had sprung up between them that afternoon at the archery event. However, now that he was in the castle surrounded by the king’s court and Sigova’s nobility, trepidation weakened his resolve. The king had allowed Elliot to storm from the tournament that afternoon without a word, but would he be so merciful tonight? Perhaps the king simply chose to delay the inevitable—waiting until every powerful and notable eye in the country was fixed on the young noble so that the king might make a lesson of his impertinent behavior. He would be humiliated, his father would be humiliated, and the entirety of the court and the nobility would know that not even the most powerful of those loyal to the king escaped his retribution.

Elliot hadn’t promised a dance to Ophelia, though. Nor had he made any request of the king to do so yet, so perhaps he could simply idle in the shadows of the hall all night, keeping his head down and staying out of anyone’s notice. He and his family could end the night as early as possible, and hopefully, the gossip would move on from the incident at the tournament.

Unfortunately, Elliot’s father agreed that asking Ophelia for a dance would help improve their image in the eyes of the court as well, which meant Elliot had no choice in the matter.

Sweat beaded Elliot’s brow at the thought of having to face the king. He nicked a goblet from the tray of a passing server as George and his family joined with them and took two long swigs.

George sauntered toward Elliot with a wide smile, mischief flashing in his dark green eyes. “All of us have only just arrived, and yet, you already seem as though the night has had its way with you in the worst possible way.”

“I feel like I’ve aged ten years,” Elliot replied.

“Surely not,” George said, taking a goblet from another passing server. “A man ten years your senior would have had more of his wits about him this afternoon than you had.” Elliot cut a glare toward George, but his friend only smirked in reply. “Not having second thoughts about your dance with the princess already, are you?”

Elliot was saved from having to answer when the members of the royal family were announced, and the doors to the great hall swung open. King Alphonse and his children stepped into the room then strode down the wide isle, through a sea of bowing heads.

Before his head fully inclined, Elliot’s eye caught a flash of red hair, and his stomach flipped. Or did it turn? He couldn’t tell. Something about the princess uncentered him, and that couldn’t mean anything good.

Once the royal family took their seats, the banquet guests followed suit, waiting on the king’s word for the feast to begin.

King Alphonse said some blandishments about the tournament and how exciting the past three days had been, but Elliot didn’t hear much of it over the din of his blood rushing in his ears, nervous anticipation clouding his mind.

“Bring out the roast pigs, and let the feast begin!” Alphonse shouted, and a loud cheer erupted in the hall. Guests raised their goblets to toast the king and each other before diving into the array of dishes provided by the royal cooks.

The feasting lasted an hour among loud conversations and laughter. Elliot picked at his food, doing his best to eat enough to balance out the amount of alcohol it was going to take to get through this evening, but his stomach wouldn’t have it. Some meat and bread were all he could handle before heaving the contents of his stomach became a true threat.

Beside him, his mother shot him a worried glance. Elliot forced a small smile to his lips and laid his hand over hers, giving it a gentle squeeze to assure her he was all right, despite how badly he wanted to throw himself through one of the windows lining the walls of the hall.

Once the minstrels began playing more jovial music, signaling the end of the feast, attendees from all areas of the hall flooded the open floor in anticipation of the first dance. Elliot’s father and mother rose from their seats with George’s parents and made their way out into the fray, doing their part to maintain appearances among the nobility. Elliot and George chose to remain seated, taking full advantage of the crown’s bottomless wine and ale.

After a while, George nodded toward the front of the hall. “When do you expect your father will drag you up there?”

Elliot followed George’s gaze to the table where the king sat and shrugged, his eyes instantly finding Ophelia seated next to her father. “Too soon,” he replied then took another swig of wine.

Ophelia was too far away to see clearly from where he sat, and that was just as well. Seeing her clearly would make his task seem more real, and he was fine as he was—drinking with George and pretending like he didn’t have to face the most powerful man in the country at some point that evening.

After several songs passed, and Elliot’s father still hadn’t come to collect him, Elliot was beginning to believe he might get away without having to dance with the princess after all. That hope shattered not a moment later, though, with the sound of his father’s voice. “It’s time, Elliot,” the duke said from behind him with a sigh, his voice wearied as though the inconvenience of Elliot’s asking the princess for a dance bore too heavily on him.

Elliot locked his jaw and stood, falling in step beside his father without a word of retort as they made their way toward one of the king’s courtiers. Elliot’s annoyance with his father quickly snuffed out, though, once they were announced and standing before the king, freezing over into anxious anticipation.

Elliot clenched his hands into fists to stay their trembling. Because of his actions, he and his family were under enough scrutiny from the king as it was; he couldn’t afford to do any further damage. Any misstep could break his family, and he would be entirely responsible.

“Your Majesty, it is an honor to greet you this evening,” stated the duke as he and Elliot both bowed.

“Good evening to you, Duke and Lord Barnham, and a fine performance at the tournament this afternoon, Lord Barnham. The duke must be very proud of the talent displayed by his young lord,” Alphonse said, his tone absent of the derision narrowing his eyes.

Elliot saw the comment for what it was and let it roll off him. He wouldn’t give the king the satisfaction of him rising to the provocation, despite how much it might have stung his pride. “You speak too highly of my talent, Your Majesty, as I was no match for the skill of House Ivrea this afternoon,” Elliot replied, giving a strained smile and slight bow to Ophelia.

He’d been so focused on his father and the king that he hadn’t let his eyes drift, but once they finally fell on Ophelia, his heart stuttered.

She was stunning.

Her eyes had been lined in kohl, a stark contrast against her pale blue irises. It was lovely. An enticing shade of pink colored her cheeks only a shade lighter than her lips. He imagined how soft those lips would feel brushing against his. Imagined how she probably tasted sweet with a hint of spice from the wine. His eyes flicked to her long, red tresses flowing down her shoulders in smooth waves and wondered for a second time that day what they might feel like running through his fingers, clenched in his fist.

His gaze followed the silky waves down to where they fell past the golden archery brooch pinned just below her right shoulder—right next to the beautiful swells of her perfect tits. Elliot felt the blood rush to his groin, and he snapped his gaze away with a clench of his jaw. He took a deep, steadying breath.

Get it together.

“I cannot begin to express my deepest apologies for my son’s behavior this afternoon towards Your Majesty and Your Highnesses,” the duke added, pulling Elliot from the haze he’d fallen into. “I assure you—he will do all he can to atone for such outrageous impertinence.”

“Your sentiments are noted, Lord Duke, however, we will leave the matter to be dealt with another time. This is an occasion of celebration; let us not sully the evening with such serious conversation,” the king replied.

“You are most benevolent and have our deepest gratitude, Your Majesty.”

Elliot and his father both bowed, but before turning away, Elliot stepped forward. “Your Majesty, my father and I do not wish to impose upon any more of your time, but I wanted to seek your permission to share a dance with Her Highness, Princess Ophelia.”

An uneasy silence hovered over the small section of the hall they occupied as everyone in the vicinity seemed to stop breathing as they waited for the king’s reply.

Alphonse, however, would not be rushed by the tension thickening the air around them and took his time to announce his decision, sitting silently, scrutinizing Elliot through his narrowed, deep blue eyes.

The moments crawled by, causing Elliot’s unease to simmer in his stomach. Beads of cold sweat formed at the back of his neck, and he nervously glanced at Ophelia to gauge her reaction. Elliot pressed his lips into a thin line to hide his amusement. He was expecting her expression to be inscrutable at best, filled with disdain at the worst. He was not expecting to find her gaping in wide-eyed surprise. Shock and confusion painted every inch of her face, and she in no way attempted to hide it.

But of course, she wouldn’t. From what little he’d gotten to know of her that afternoon, she was not one to disguise her feelings or tread lightly to keep from offending someone.

The king finally took a sip from his goblet and said, “Very well, Lord Barnham. I give my permission, as long as my daughter is pleased to share a dance with you.”

Elliot’s gaze rose to Ophelia as her eyes darted between him, her father, and the small crowed forming near their table. The pink in her cheeks deepened before she gave a small nod and stood from her seat, rounding the table to meet Elliot where he stood. He offered her his hand, and she took it without meeting his gaze.

A charge sparked across his skin where they touched, and the warmth of her hand seeped into his. Her skin was achingly soft, and the desire to run his hands over the rest of her, to discover all the softest parts of her, swept over him. His mouth went dry.

She held her gaze forward, chin high with resolution to ignore him, as they walked toward the open floor. She was tense, her shoulders stiff—she clearly didn’t want this dance with him, and his mind briefly wondered who she did want a dance with. An unexpected surge of jealousy twisted his stomach.

Ridiculous.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d insulted her victory over him and quit her presence rudely and without permission—she was well within her rights to still be offended. Yet, he'd resent her choice to spend the night gliding and twirling in another man’s arms?

Apparently so.

A few moments later, they took their place among the other couples and stood facing each other, waiting for the song to begin.

When she finally lifted her eyes to meet his, everything else around him dimmed.

He found himself enraptured by the piercing ice blue of her eyes. They were so different from her father’s eyes. They were lighter in hue, of course, but also softer and gentler, despite how she must feel about him at the moment. They reminded him of a lake, frozen over after the first snow of winter.

The apples of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose held a light dusting of freckles that he’d been too far away to notice earlier during the tournament. They softened her features, made her appear more delicate than he remembered. His hand twitched with the urge to reach up and brush his thumb along the path of her freckles, wanting to follow their trail and count each one.

Once the music began, Elliot was shaken from his trance, stepping forward to take Ophelia’s hand and waist and swaying into the steps of the familiar tune.

The scent of lavender drifted from her as they glided around the room, and he felt it melt the tension in his muscles. Warmth crept into his chest. It all overwhelmed him—her warmth, the softness of her skin, her scent, her beauty, her nearness. Elliot found himself short of breath, something in him winding tight at her proximity.

Earth and Sea, what was she doing to him?

He was supposed to be using this dance to make amends with the princess, not melting into a puddle at her feet.

Elliot knew they couldn’t continue in this uncomfortable silence but found himself unable to meet her gaze for the fear that she would see right through him with her piercing eyes.

A moment later, he gathered himself and cleared his throat before saying, “I realize my behavior at the conclusion of the tournament this afternoon was wanting in all areas of a respectable gentleman of my status. I am truly sorry for my impertinence, and I seek your forgiveness.”

She didn’t reply right away. In fact, she simply stared at him with the same look of confusion he’d seen painted across her brow when he’d asked to dance with her.

Her mouth opened then closed once, twice, as though she struggled to find her words, weighing them on her tongue before giving them breath.

Once she seemed to gather herself, she replied, “Your behavior was, indeed, comparable to that of a small child not receiving his custard after finishing his vegetables, Lord Barnham, but I accept your apology.”

Elliot’s jaw clenched as he gently pushed her into a spin. He’d gathered that she felt no need to leash her tongue, but he hadn’t expected such a scathing response. Not that it was unwarranted.

Two could play at that game, though.

Perhaps it was the wine emboldening him or his pride muddling his judgement, but he couldn’t simply allow her the final word on the matter. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said, a smirk sliding across his face as she returned to his hold. “I feel I must also congratulate you on your harrowing victory today. It was a most impressive display, though I am not entirely convinced it was achieved fairly.”

Ophelia’s jaw dropped, her cheeks blooming a deeper shade of pink.

Oh, he liked that.

“It is hardly an offer of congratulations, Lord Barnham, if your statement is laced with accusation. I daresay, accusing a lady of such treachery reveals the mettle of a man who cannot endure a bruising to his pride and instead seeks to place blame elsewhere in lieu of claiming responsibility for his own shortcomings.”

Another jab at his pride. She was relentless. It…excited him. He couldn’t help the wry chuckle that slipped from him. “The daughter of the tournament host happened to emerge victorious from the event she participated in. Does that not seem rather suspicious to you?” He gave another smirk. “If my thoughts truly are baseless, then I must agree with your previous statement. However, that proud, defensive speech you just gave also seem to be the words of one who is not accustomed to losing, either.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she said as the two pulled apart, dipped, then came together again. “But that is neither here nor there since my character is not the one in question at the moment as I am not the one who has accused an innocent party of cheating simply because the result of a tournament did not sway in my favor.”

In only a handful of moments, she’d managed to chide him for his behavior, accuse him of having poor character, and call him childish. With the shadow of his and his father’s rank looming behind him, no one had ever spoken to him in such a manner before, and it sent a thrill down his spine.

Maybe it was because she out-ranked him and knew she would bear no consequences for bruising his pride with her words, but something told him this was simply who Ophelia was—a fiery woman who burned too brightly for the dull world around her.

He didn’t suppress the wide grin that spread across his face. “Touché, ma’am. I shall just have to work more diligently if I am to properly win the tournament next year and avoid making a mockery of myself with such outlandish accusations,” he replied, noticing a flush spread down her neck. He wanted to follow it with his tongue.

“Indeed, you will,” she replied. “I very much look forward to seeing your progress next year then, Lord Barnham.”

The music slowed and the dance came to an end. Elliot bowed then took Ophelia’s hand in his, gently pressing his lips to the back of it. “I do hope I don’t disappoint, ma’am,” he murmured against her skin before flashing her another wide smile.

Ophelia sucked in a sharp breath, shifting her gaze away from his as a shiver ran through her. Satisfaction swelled in his chest—she was just as affected by him. Another thrill ran through him.

Elliot shifted her hand in his then escorted her back to her seat at the head of the hall, disappointment seeping in to steal the moment from him. He didn’t want to leave her. He wanted to dance with her more. To learn where she got her love for archery. To see what other creative words she could come up with to insult him. To find out how to make her smile the way she had at the end of the tournament, when her sister removed her wimple and veil and her hair tumbled down her back.

As Ophelia took her seat, Elliot bowed to the king then to her, meeting her eyes one final time. “Thank you for allowing me the honor of a dance with you, Your Highness,” he said, suffusing as much sincerity into his words as he could, then backed away and disappeared into the crowd, unable to drop the smile from his lips.