Book 3: Chapter 55: A Dance of Rivals
♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝♝
“Congratulations, Marquess.”
Beaumont tapped the heavy golden chain of office that hugged his shoulders and frowned as he noted the red mountain bear symbol engraved into the medallion centerpiece, the sigil of Duke Stryker’s household. He glanced to the side, an intense dislike welling inside him as he met the piercing gaze of the whispering nobles around them. While Beaumont had grown accustomed to standing out due to his height alone, more often than not, he was just as quickly dismissed into the background as a mere royal knight, little more than an ornate piece of furniture that happened to carry a sword—but not anymore.
The newly minted Marquess lifted his violet eyes questioningly to the Crown Prince as Nicholas made use of the raised platform to grant the giant a friendly embrace. “There, that wasn’t so terrible, was it?”
“Your Majesty,” Beaumont murmured as the enthusiastic monarch pulled back. “How exactly am I meant to clear out corruption in Brigovia while simultaneously serving as your bodyguard?”
“Ah,” Nicholas's smile shifted into a rueful grin as his arms dropped to his side. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to find a trustworthy replacement from among the Royal Knights to take your position—and quickly. But that is a worry for another day. For now—” the Crown Prince took the new Marquess’s arm as he stepped down from the platform and turned the compliant giant in the direction of the scattered nobles. “The second dance is about to begin, so you should claim your partner quickly before someone else beats you to her.”
Beaumont’s eyes darted toward the Duchess standing off to the side beside Viscount Gilwren, flanked by her knights and ladies. Kirsi’s ice-blue eyes met his as she tipped her head towards him in acknowledgment with a curious smile that prompted him to move quickly in her direction.
Behind the new Marquess, Nicholas hastily signaled Acheron, who waited beside the orchestra as planned, still holding the knight captain’s sword, which appeared to be weighing the nobleman down and wearing him out. The Rogue, however, appeared distracted from his task. His steel-blue eyes gazed yearningly in the direction of Marchioness Serilda, who stood amidst a crowd of laughing noblemen. The Crown Prince groaned and turned in desperation to Attwood, who raised his brows in confusion at the prince’s curious hand gestures.