"We all want to be seduced; we yearn to be drawn out of ourselves, out of our routines and into the drama of Eros."

—From The Art of Seduction,
By Robert Greene

TORCHES FLICKERED AS Ilyas passed by them. Men and women twirled on the stone floors, silk skirts swirling and leather-shod feet stomping. As he made his way to the table littered with glasses of champagne, wine, whiskey and scotch. He took one of these now, feeling the burn of liquor as he swallowed, trying not to revel in his victory before it had been fully realized. At midnight the king and queen would consummate their marriage... but no one would know which king exactly.

"What a night, has it not been?" A golden-skinned woman leaned against the table as she spoke to him, a flute of pale liquid in her hand. Earlier, he had seen her around a crowd of men who were no doubt adoring suitors but had been too distracted by his own plans—too distracted by his own heartbreak. "Tell me, are you happy for the queen?"

He eyed her, their gazes locking with a strange and sudden intensity. Her eyes were brown, like Adaira's, but that was where their similarities ended: where the Mordanian queen's hair was the deepest black, this woman's was a rich, bright red reminiscent of fire. Her skin was tan, warm, lit with a glow that doubtless drew men like moths to a flame, contrasting with Adaira's milky white complexion. Otharian, perhaps--no Atlan woman of the gentry would dare set foot in Mordania. She was beautiful, however, and mysterious in an alluring way.

He blinked a few times, trying to formulate a response to her question. "Who could not be happy on such a festive night?"

She smiled, her red-painted lips curving upwards as she smoothed the fabric of her green dress. "Perhaps someone who is in love with the queen?"

He let his eyes wander from hers in an effort to steel himself against the blow she had just landed directly to his heart. He felt exposed suddenly, hollow and empty and scrambling for cover. His eyes dropped to the rim of her glass, stained with her lipstick. "I know not of whom you speak."

Her smile grew brighter still. She moved as though to touch him before dropping her hand and strangely, though moments ago he had been able to think of nothing but Adaira and the schemes unfolding at his fingertips, all he could focus on now was how this stranger's skin might feel beneath his hands.

"I am certain I shall see you again before the night ends, Lord Durand." She finished her champagne and walked away, the movements slow and sensual.

The woman had not even touched him, yet somehow a spark seemed to burn now in the pit of his chest, flames licking at his ribcage, urging him onwards. He had thought she would be another noblewoman who threw herself at him, wanting the Durand wealth and prestige that came with being highly important in Mordanian court. Ilyas had perceived her to be yet another entitled social climber who wanted Hartfall and all the riches that came with it. But she had so easily walked away from him, had not even laid a hand on him as though thinking better of trying to seduce him.

Perhaps she simply acted in such a manner with all men--perhaps she was only the sort of person who drew attention easily as others breathed, the sort who engaged in casual flirtation like it was nothing. Ilyas himself did so as a tool, wielded charm as a weapon when he had to but the rest of the time was stoic, stolid, not wearing the title of rake as many other noblemen did. So what made this woman want to speak to him?

Before he knew what he was doing, he snatched up two glasses and strode after the woman, pursuing her. Whispers rustled past him like snakes in the grass as the crowd parted for him, gossip reaching his ears. Ilyas Durand did not chase after women.

He passed the stranger one of the drinks and kept one for himself, watching her. She only drank a few moments after he did, and smiled again, dazzlingly bright. "What brings you to see me, Lord Durand?"

"Curiosity, I must admit." The Lord of Hartfall took a sip, the champagne sliding down his throat, cool and bubbly. Ilyas had been reluctant to indulge, earlier in the evening, but now... now there seemed to be no fear of the plan going wrong, and really--what excuse did he have not to enjoy himself? "How do you know my name? I must confess that I would remember such a lovely face."

"I fear we have not been introduced, though I have heard much about you, Lord Durand." She held out her hand for him to shake and he kissed it instead; her skin really was much smoother than he had imagined, viewing the contrast of his paler fingers against her darker ones. He felt a set of eyes on his back. "I am Nadia Mafi."

"What brings you to the queen's coronation, Nadia?" He asked when there was a lull in the music. The musicians out down their stringed instruments and rustled the sheets of their scores as they made their way discreetly to the refreshments table. Discreetly, but he had trained himself to be on high alert at al times. Which was why the appearance of this woman put him off his guard so much... why this distracting, enchanting presence felt like something to be wary of, to the extent that he nearly missed her reply to him.

"You have done it again, Lord Durand," Nadia said cryptically, twirling her now empty glass between her long, slender fingers.

"What, precisely, have I done?" He was frankly mystified by her answer, but... Ilyas did enjoy a mystery, a challenge. It was what had drawn him initially to Adaira, all stubborn fire and ruthless intent that she was. Though it was difficult to think of her now, with Nadia's scent of nutmeg and vanilla heady as it cloaked him.

"You showed me your hand, good sir." A bemused look turned her full lips up. "You called this little party the queen's coronation, which is technically true. But it is also the royal wedding reception, is it not? Yet you do not want to acknowledge that because your heart belongs to the queen—or rather, she has done a fine job of snatching it from you and breaking it."

Whatever amusement he had found from their brief banter faded quickly now. "How dare you speak so brazenly as if you knew me?"

Her smile never dropped; even as his anger rose. "How dare I speak the truth? Admit it, Ilyas... You would not be so upset by my comment if you did not care for queen Adaira Dusang in more than a... patriotic capacity."

This stranger was, he thought, begrudgingly correct. He did love Adaira still and she had broken his heart and he had done his best to ignore all of that, including the fact that she was married now. Even if he had just finished enacting a scheme that would harm the integrity of that marriage.

She was right. He didn't like that fact any more than he had when Adaira had been right, and rubbed it in his face twice as much. It was that male pride, that innate masculinity that bristled at the thought of being wrong even about the slightest detail. And this was far from trivial.

"When you realize that," Nadia murmured, her voice a smooth drawl, feeling like a trail of fingers across his nape, like the drip of honey on his tongue. "I will be see you again, Ilyas."

And she was. That very night he took her to bed, all thoughts of Adaira or his pride or anything other than the woman in his sheets, in his arms, were lost. Against her mouth, between frantic kisses and frenzied touches, her whispered three words: "You were right."

Then a year later, he found a baby boy on the doorstep of the Durand estate in Hartfall, a note affixed to its blanket. Thank you for admitting that I was right. And thank you for the night we shared, Ilyas. I am afraid I cannot care for this child, but I know you will give him a good home. Take care of Alastair,

Nadia Thorne