She Is A Marchioness

“She is feeling a bit tired,” Elias said, flashing a smile that looked calm on the outside. His hand remained protectively on Lyra’s lower back, gently guiding her. “We were just about to say our goodbyes and I will take her home.”

“Yes, of course,” Gemma replied. “She does look like she’s been through... a lot.”

The words were sugar-coated poison. Aimed directly at Lyra’s pride.

“Excuse me…” Lyra’s voice spiked as she turned, ready to ignite. Her brows shot up, and there was a very good chance she was about to say something that would earn her a duel at dawn.

But Elias had seen that spark in her eyes before and he acted fast. He caught her arm and turned her smoothly, walking her away before any part of “Excuse me” turned into “Come outside and fight me.”

“We are not doing this here,” he hissed under his breath, tugging her gently toward the far end of the ballroom where Duke Williams stood.

“She is a Marchioness,” Elias whispered sharply, still smiling for the watching crowd. “You have no title. Try to keep your tongue in your cheek.”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care if she’s the queen of the damn realm. What does she mean by that? ‘She looks like she’s been through a lot?’ What does that even mean? Do I look like I crawled here from war?”

“You look perfect,” Elias muttered, rubbing his forehead. “But the point is—your attitude will get you thrown in the dungeon.”

“So I just bob my head?”

Elias stopped abruptly, turning to face her. His hands cupped hers, thumbs rubbing gently across her knuckles in a subtle attempt to ground her—and himself. “Lirae went through all of these belittling and snide remarks with the grace of an angel. She never gave them the satisfaction of a reaction. If you plan on impersonating her perfectly, you have to do the same.”

Lyra looked at him, the annoyance still bubbling under her skin but slowly dissolving in the warmth of his gaze. “So you want me to be perfect and quiet. That’s rich.”

“No,” Elias murmured, leaning in slightly. “I want you to be safe.”

Then he smiled that annoyingly swoon-worthy smile and hooked her arm through his again, turning them both as though they were nothing more than two guests enjoying a mild stroll.

“Now let’s go before the Marchioness starts throwing champagne flutes,” he said, resuming their walk.

As they approached the Duke, Elias put on his most pleasant expression. “Duke Williams, we have to say our good nights. The miss is feeling a bit light-headed.”

Williams smiled sympathetically, offering Lyra a knowing look that might have felt almost paternal. “Of course. I hope it was not too overwhelming, Lady Lirae.”

“Oh no,” she said brightly. “It was... wildly educational.”

“Hmm. I imagine it was.” He gave a slight bow. “Get home safe. And I look forward to seeing you again.”

Elias leaned in and whispered to Lyra as they turned toward the exit, “You passed.”

Lyra allowed herself to be weaved out of the ballroom. The minute the doors shut behind them and the muffled chatter of high society faded into the night, she exhaled—loudly, dramatically, and with every ounce of flair in her petite body.

“Oh thank God,” she muttered, tugging at the neckline of her gown. “It’s over. Sweet merciful heavens, it’s over.”

Elias helped her into the carriage, offering his hand. Once they were both inside and the door closed, she slumped into the cushioned seat.

“Pouting already?” Elias asked, side-eyeing her.

She didn’t dignify him with a reply. She just crossed her arms, jutted her lip out in the most theatrical pout she could muster, and stared out the window as if it had personally wronged her.

“You did great tonight. Thank you.”

Still, Lyra said nothing. Her silence was a dramatic performance all on its own.

“I apologise for the Marchioness’s behavior,” he offered gently. “She’s known to have a tongue that can cut through ice.”

“Her tongue wouldn’t be so legendary if people were actually allowed to put her in her place,” Lyra snapped suddenly, spinning toward him with fire in her eyes. “The nerve on that bitch. ‘Looks like she’s been through a lot’. Please. She looks like she’s had more plastic surgery than birthdays. Like someone took a barbie doll and melted it slightly.”

Elias snorted despite himself. “I must say,” he said with a half-smile, “your tongue rivals hers.”

“And you’re a wimp!” Lyra shot back without hesitation, glaring at him.

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you heard me.” She poked him in the shoulder, not hard enough to hurt—but definitely hard enough to get her point across. “You say Lirae endured the same thing with grace, and you say it with pride like it’s some badge of honor. Why? Why should she have had to endure anything? Shouldn’t you have at least tried to shut those vultures down? If being without title made her powerless, you had one. You could’ve been her sword when she wasn’t allowed to carry one.”

Elias looked momentarily taken aback. Not because he didn’t expect her to have opinions—Lyra had enough opinions for the whole kingdom—but because she’d touched a truth he hadn’t wanted to look at too closely.

“I cannot go around pissing people off when I need the support of these same people to claim back my throne!” Elias snapped, running his hand through his hair in frustration.

The carriage jolted slightly as Lyra’s head whipped toward him, eyes wide. “Your throne? What throne?”

“I am the rightful heir to the throne,” he admitted. “My uncle manipulated events, twisted everything to put Matthew on the throne instead. It was supposed to be mine. I need to get it back.”

Lyra blinked at him. “So… you’re, what? A prince?”

“So that’s the kind of king you want to be, huh? The one who won’t stand up for the little guy because he’s afraid his precious friends will throw a royal fit?”