Chapter 4: The Summons Arrives
The morning sun sliced across the Montford breakfast table, illuminating dust motes dancing above the remains of kippers and toast. Letitia was mid-sentence, dissecting the flaws of a rival’s ballgown from three seasons past, when the butler entered, his steps unnaturally quick. On the silver tray in his hands lay a single parchment, its seal a splash of crimson and gold that seemed to suck the air from the room.
“My lord,” the butler intoned, his voice tight. “A royal courier. From the Summer Palace.”
A beat of perfect silence. Then Isolde shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that rattled the china. “It’s here! It’s here!”
Chaos erupted. Flora clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. Leo and Julian were on their feet, chairs scraping violently against the floor. The Marquess alone remained still, but a fierce, hungry light ignited in his eyes as he took the letter. He broke the seal with a deliberate snap.
His voice, when he read, was thick with suppressed triumph. “‘Their Royal Highnesses… request the pleasure of the Marquess Montford and his family’s company… at the Summer Palace… to further discuss a matter of mutual interest.’” He looked up, the paper trembling slightly in his grip. “We leave in three days. Mrs. Byrd! The large trunks from the attics. Now.”
The next seventy-two hours were a blur of perfumed hysteria. Letitia and Flora’s debates over gowns escalated into full-scale diplomatic incidents, with bolts of silk held like banners. The brothers argued over weaponry and horseflesh, their voices a constant boom from the hall. Through it all, Carmela moved like a ghost, packing her simple, dark dresses, feeling the secret weight of that night in her marrow—a touchstone of reality in the glittering fantasy her family was constructing.
The journey to the Summer Palace was a jostling, day-long affair of dust and anticipation. When their carriages finally crunched up the pristine white gravel drive, the reality of the place stole even Letitia’s breath. It wasn’t a castle; it was a sprawling confection of pale stone and glass, all airy terraces and gardens that spilled down to a glittering lake. It spoke of casual, immense power.
They were met not by Cassian, but by a phalanx of silent, efficient servants in the Valtimore livery. A steward with a face like carved oak bowed. “The Crown Prince awaits you in the Blue Salon, Lord Montford. If you would follow me.”
The family fell into step, a gaudy, chattering parade moving through cool, echoing corridors hung with modern art. The walls were white, the floors pale marble. It felt like walking through a cloud. Carmela’s heart was a trapped bird against her ribs. With every step, the distance between her memory of Cassian—rumpled, intense, whispering filth in the dark—and this sterile grandeur grew.
As they passed a branching hallway, she saw her chance. She touched her father’s arm, her voice barely a whisper. “I… I need to find a ladies’ retiring room. The journey…”
He waved her off without looking, his focus ahead on the oak-faced steward. “Catch up promptly. Do not wander.”
A maid, young and plain-faced, peeled from the wall and gestured. “This way, my lady.”
The maid led her down a side passage, then another, the sounds of her family’s footsteps fading. They reached a discreet door. “I’ll wait to escort you back, my lady,” the maid said, eyes downcast.
When Carmela emerged, the maid was gone. In her place was a different servant, older, with a placid expression. “If you would come with me, Lady Carmela. Your family is momentarily detained. You may wait in here.”
She was led to a small, exquisite salon. The theme was flowers. Delicate blossoms were woven into the gold-leaf pattern on the white walls, embroidered on the silk of the cream-colored settees, painted onto the porcelain vases that held real, fragrant peonies. The air was sweet and still. And it was utterly empty.
Carmela turned, but the servant had vanished, the door clicking softly shut. She was alone. The silence was profound, a ringing quiet after the weeks of noise. She let out a long, shaky breath and sank onto the edge of a settee, her hands clasped in her lap. She felt like a specimen placed under a glass bell.
Minutes ticked by, measured by the ornate clock on the mantel. Then the door opened.
Cassian stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He wasn’t in formal court dress. He wore dark trousers and a white linen shirt, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked like he’d just come from the stables or the training yard, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. He looked real. He looked dangerous.
Carmela shot to her feet. “What are you doing?”
A slow, wolfish smile spread across his face. It didn’t reach his yellow eyes, which were fixed on her with unnerving intensity. “I told you,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the floral quiet. “You’re mine now. I’m just making sure of it.”
He began to move, not directly toward her, but circling the perimeter of the room, his hands in his pockets. The casualness of it was a lie. Every line of his body was coiled. “Enjoy the journey?”
“This is a mistake,” she said, her own feet moving, keeping the bulk of the settee between them. It was a slow, absurd dance. “We shouldn’t be alone. My family… your brother… the proposal. This will cause problems.”
He laughed, a short, sharp sound. “The fact that it’s a problem is the only thing that makes it interesting, Carmela. Problems are real. Everything else in this place is just… polite noise.” He changed direction, forcing her to sidestep. The settee was no longer a barrier, just a piece of furniture in a shrinking room.
“You’re being reckless.”
“I’m being alive.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “You look terrified. And you’re breathing too fast. And it’s the most honest thing I’ve seen in months.”
She took a step back, her heel catching slightly on the edge of an ornate rug. It was the distraction he needed. In two swift strides he closed the distance, his hands closing around her upper arms. He didn’t kiss her. He walked her backward until her hips met the edge of a round, polished table, scattering a small arrangement of peonies. The vase teetered, then fell, shattering on the marble floor. Water soaked the hem of her skirt.
She was caged, his body not quite touching hers but surrounding her. The scent of him—leather, clean sweat, something uniquely sharp—wiped out the cloying perfume of the flowers. “Cassian, stop. This isn’t—”
He kissed her. It started soft, a question against her lips. A mockery of gentleness. Then his hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, and the kiss deepened, turned hungry and consuming. It was a kiss that remembered everything—the taste of her, the sounds she made in the dark, the way her body yielded. Her resolve, so carefully constructed over weeks of silence, crumbled into dust. Her hands, which had come up to push against his chest, curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding on.
She was lost in it, in the heat and the rightness of his mouth on hers, when the world crashed back in.
The salon doors swung open.
The Marquess Montford stood frozen in the doorway, his face a grotesque mask of incredulity and dawning horror. Beside him was a man who could only be the Crown Prince—taller than Cassian, broader, with the same white hair but colder grey eyes, his expression one of profound, weary irritation.
Cassian broke the kiss slowly. He didn’t jump back, didn’t release her. He kept one arm around Carmela’s waist, turning his head to face the newcomers with a lazy, unrepentant smile. “Ah,” he said, his voice rough but clear. “Caught. I suppose that saves a lengthy explanation.” His eyes, bright and challenging, locked on the Marquess. “You know what proposal I wanted to make now, I assume.”
The Marquess made a sound like a teakettle choking. He was literally speechless, his face purpling.
The Crown Prince pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cassian,” he said, his voice a low, authoritative rumble that vibrated with restrained fury. “We had an agreement. A formal discussion. Over port. Like civilized people.” He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand such irritations. “Not… this.”
“Not… this.”
Cassian shrugged, the motion fluid and utterly unconcerned. “I suppose I’ll have to save her honor, then. Marry her.” He said it like someone announcing they’d have to take an umbrella for the rain.Carmela’s breath hitched. She twisted in his grasp, the heat of the kiss evaporating under a cold splash of reality. Her palm connected flat with his chest, a soft thump of fabric and muscle. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed, her voice trembling with a fury that felt borrowed, too big for her skin.
The Marquess finally found his voice, strangled and desperate. “Your Highness, please, there’s been a misunderstanding!My other daughters—Isolde, especially—are far more suitable. This one, she’s… bookish. Reclusive.” He waved a hand at Carmela as if swatting a fly. “She lacks the requisite polish for a prince.”
Cassian’s lazy smile vanished.His eyes went flat and hard, like yellow quartz. “You’re missing the point.” His arm tightened around Carmela’s waist, pulling her flush against him, a deliberate, possessive act.“You didn’t catch her in a compromising position with me. You caught me with her.My honor’s the one compromised. So she’ll be my wife.” He turned his head and pressed a quick, firm kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Problem solved.”
Carmela made a small, outraged noise in the back of her throat and wrenched her face away.The Crown Prince let out a long, weary exhale. He stepped forward, placing himself slightly between his brother and the seething Marquess. “Lord Montford, my deepest apologies for this… theatricality. But my brother is, in his typically archaic fashion, correct.There will be a wedding.” He didn’t sound happy about it. He sounded like a man managing a structural fault in a foundation.He glanced at Cassian, his grey eyes sharp. “Let her go. You’re not married to her yet.”
The Marquess’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked from the implacable Crown Prince to Cassian’s unyielding face, to his own daughter, held rigid in the prince’s arms. He saw the trajectory of his ambitions bending, snapping, rerouting into a ditch he’d never considered. The fight drained from him, leaving a hollow, ashen politeness.He bowed, stiffly. “Your Highnesses. If you’ll excuse me.”
He backed out of the room, pulling the doors shut with a soft, definitive click.The silence he left behind was different. It was charged, brittle, and exclusively theirs. Cassian finally released Carmela’s waist, though his hand lingered on her wrist for a moment, his thumb pressing once against her pulse point before letting go.
The Crown Prince waited until the Marquess’s footsteps had faded. Then he turned on Cassian, his controlled demeanor cracking at the edges.“What was that?We had a plan. A slow, formal courtship announcement.A betrothal period. Protocols exist for a reason, Cassian.”
Cassian rolled his shoulders, a fighter loosening up.“Protocols would have taken months. Maybe a year. Sitting across tables, making polite conversation while she was packed off back to your bloody floral salon.” He gestured to the shattered vase on the floor.“This was faster. It’s done.”
“Don’t ‘you’ me, not here, not like this,” the Crown Prince snapped, his voice dropping lower, more dangerous. “You address me formally in front of others.Always.You know that.This isn’t the training yard.” He rubbed his temples. “You think forcing his hand like this makes it cleaner?It makes it a scandal. It makes her look like a… a…”
“A what?” Cassian’s voice was dangerously quiet.
"A what?" Cassian's voice was dangerously quiet.
Jonah, the Crown Prince, didn't flinch. He answered in a tone of pure, molten annoyance. "¡Como una indecente!" The Spanish slipped out, sharp and familial. He immediately pivoted to Carmela, his stern expression softening just a fraction. "I do not think you are indecent. I know my brother. He is the indecent one." He pinched the bridge of his nose again. "But if you are to belong to the royal family, we will have to manage this image very, very carefully."
Carmela nodded automatically, her mind struggling to catch up. “Of course, Your Highness. I understand the position this puts you in. I never intended—” She stopped. The words curdled in her mouth. She never intended any of this, but that wasn’t true either. She had left her door unlatched. She had kissed him back in the library, in this room. A cold clarity washed over her. “Wait,” she said, her voice small but clear. “There hasn’t been a proposal. Not one I accepted.”
She turned to Jonah, a frantic need to explain rising in her chest. “Your Highness, please, this is a misunderstanding that can be corrected. If we just explain that nothing was formally—”
Cassian interrupted, his arm sliding around her waist again, pulling her back against his solid warmth. “I warned you,” he said, his mouth near her ear, his voice a low vibration only she could properly hear. “That night, after. I told you you were mine now.” He said it like it was a natural law, as immutable as gravity.
Jonah exhaled a long, suffering sigh. He looked up at the ceiling as if seeking divine patience. “What did I do to deserve such a dramatic brother?” he groaned to the ornate molding.
“I’m not dramatic,” Cassian fired back, his chin resting on Carmela’s shoulder, holding her in place. “I’m decisive. You’re the one who turns buying a new horse into a three-day committee meeting.”
“Because the treasury pays for the horse, you idiot! It’s called accountability. A concept you treat like a contagious disease.”
“It’s called boredom. You file paperwork for fun.”
While they bickered, Cassian walked them both backward. He sat down heavily in a large, cream-colored armchair, and without ceremony, pulled Carmela down onto his lap. She stiffened, a flush of heat climbing her neck, but his arms were a firm bracket around her, holding her there as securely as if she were seated on a throne.
“You are the most frustrating person in this kingdom,” Jonah stated, leaning against the shattered table, arms crossed.
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you. It’s a full-time occupation.” Jonah’s eyes flicked to Carmela, who sat rigidly on his brother’s lap, her face a masterpiece of bewildered embarrassment. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, gone in a blink. “She hasn’t even said yes, Cassian.”
Cassian nuzzled the wild curls at her temple, his earlier intensity momentarily gentled by this familiar fraternal argument. “She will.”
Carmela felt the word vibrate through his chest and into her bones. She tried to twist to look at him, but his arms were a cage of casual possession. “You cannot just decide that,” she protested, her voice tight.
“I believe the term is fait accompli,” Jonah said dryly, pushing off from the table. He brushed a speck of invisible lint from his impeccably tailored sleeve. “Though my brother prefers brute-force theatre.” He walked around the wreckage of the vase, his steps measured on the marble. “Since the theatrics are concluded, perhaps we could have an actual conversation.” He stopped before them, his grey eyes settling on Carmela with a calm, assessing focus that felt more invasive than Cassian’s intensity. “You are Lady Carmela.”
It wasn’t a question. She gave a stiff nod, acutely aware of her position on Cassian’s lap. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Jonah studied her for a long moment. “You are the one who hides in libraries.”
Cassian’s chin was a hard point on her shoulder. “She doesn’t hide. She reads. There’s a difference.”
Jonah ignored him, his gaze steady on Carmela. “And what do you read about?”
The question was so simple, so direct, it bypassed the panic in her chest. “Everything,” she breathed, then cleared her throat. “Historical treaties. Agricultural ledgers. Philosophical discourses. Whatever I can find.”
A soft huff of air came from Cassian, a sound of familiar dismissal. Jonah’s lips, however, twitched into the faintest genuine smile. It transformed his severe face, carving a hint of warmth around his eyes. “A scholarly mind. Like mine.” He tilted his head. “And what subjects do you find hold your attention most?”
She hesitated, the years of her family’s disinterest a heavy blanket. But Jonah’s focus was complete, his silence patient. “I… I am drawn to problems,” she said, the words tentative at first. “Societal ones. Not just the grand wars, but the quiet ones. The patterns in harvest failures that lead to famine in specific regions. The correlation between bridge tolls and the spread of disease in port towns. The way a law written to protect grain stores can accidentally cripple a wool trade three counties over.” Her voice grew stronger, her thoughts outpacing her fear. “I find the solutions, or the attempted solutions, fascinating. They’re like… layered puzzles. Every fix creates a new set of variables.”
Jonah didn’t move. His expression had shifted from assessment to keen interest. “Give me an example. A problem you’ve studied.”
Cassian shifted beneath her, but his grip loosened slightly, as if he, too, was listening.
Carmela took a shallow breath. “The Spindle River siltation. A century ago, the river was deepened for trade barges. It boosted the economy for five years.” She leaned forward slightly, her green eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance as she pictured her notes. “But the engineering changed the water table upstream. It slowly drained the wetlands that fed the flax fields in the Hemsworth Vale. The flax industry collapsed within a generation, creating a poverty pocket that still hasn’t recovered. The solution created a larger, slower problem.”
“And what would you have done differently?” Jonah’s voice was low, intent.
“I wouldn’t have,” she said immediately. “Not then. The data wasn’t there. But now? A similar project on the Silverrun is being proposed. I’ve read the engineer’s reports. They only model for fifteen years of downstream commercial traffic.” She met his gaze directly for the first time. “They need to model for fifty. They need to survey the aquifer links and the upstream micro-economies the river supports beyond the obvious ports. Or you’ll just be creating another Hemsworth Vale, only larger.”
The room was silent save for the soft tick of the mantel clock. Jonah stared at her. Then, slowly, he turned his head to look at his brother. His eyebrows lifted a fraction. He gave a single, slow, deliberate nod.
Cassian’s arms tightened around her again, a quick, almost reflexive squeeze.
Jonah turned his attention back to Carmela, his formal demeanor returning, but his eyes held a new, calculating respect. “I must attend to the constipated duke from the northern provinces before he ruins the upholstery,” he announced, his tone shifting back to dry practicality. “We will continue this conversation, Lady Carmela. I expect to see you at dinner.” He gave her a curt, acknowledging bow of his head—a gesture far more significant than his earlier irritation. “Brother.” The word was a command and a dismissal, aimed at Cassian with a wealth of unspoken meaning.
He turned and left, his footsteps echoing away down the corridor. The door clicked shut, leaving them alone again in the floral-scented silence, surrounded by broken porcelain.
Cassian didn’t speak for a long moment. He nuzzled his face into the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. “Well,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of amusement and something else she couldn't name. “You’ve impressed the Crown Prince. That’s a first for this family.”
She didn’t know how to process any of it—the interrogation, the nod, the unexpected spark of being seen for her thoughts, not her body or her status. She was trembling. “He asked me a question. I answered it.”
“You answered it like a royal adviser,” Cassian corrected, his lips brushing her pulse point. “Jonah doesn’t nod at people. He analyzes them. That nod? That was him slotting you into a new category in his mental filing system.” He sighed, a warm rush of air against her neck. “ ‘Problem-Solver.’ It’s a dangerous category to be in. He’ll never leave you alone now.”
“Is that a bad thing?” she whispered, staring at the closed door.
“It’s a real thing,” he said, his voice losing its teasing edge. He turned her face gently toward his. The yellow of his eyes was stark, intense. “Forget my brother. You still haven’t answered my question.”
“You never asked one. You decreed.”
“Semantics.” His thumb traced her lower lip. “Will you marry me, Carmela Montford? Will you let me drag you into this beautiful, suffocating cage with me? It comes with a library, you know. A very big one.”
Tears, sudden and hot, pricked at the corners of her eyes. They were not tears of joy, or fear, but of a profound, disorienting collision. The memory of his body moving over hers in the dark, the shattered vase at their feet, the crisp, analytical interest in his brother’s eyes—it was all too much. “You ruined my life,” she breathed, the words hollow.
“I cracked it open,” he countered softly. “There’s a difference.” He kissed her, slowly this time, a deep, lingering possession that tasted like a promise and an apology. When he pulled back, his forehead resting against hers, his next words were a quiet rumble. “Say yes. Say it now, in this ridiculous room, with the flowers and the broken china. Before anyone else tries to tell you what you should do.”
Outside, the sounds of the palace continued—muffled footsteps, distant voices, the hum of a world turning on ambition and decorum. Inside, the air was still thick with the scent of peonies and impending chaos. She closed her eyes. She thought of her quiet room at Montford Manor, the overgrown garden, the lifetime of being a footnote. Then she thought of Jonah’s nod, and the dangerous, fascinating category of ‘Problem-Solver.’
“Yes.”