The room shimmered with an iridescent glow. Her arrival held the population enthralled-and to him? The entire kingdom ceased to exist.
Prince surged forward, his path opening with the magic of the evening.
Long, slender fingers slid along the massive balustrade, stealing his breath, constricting his chest. He found himself afraid to blink lest she disappear. But step after step, folds of her graceful gown billowed over fragile glass slippers-until that moment-the moment she'd moved straight into his waiting arms.
He twirled her through the ballroom with one perfect waltz following another. Knowing he'd stepped, or danced, past the stricture of protocol, helpless against its pull. Rich mahogany locks piled high on her head, in a sophisticated twist clasped into place with a small, elegant jeweled crown. No curls to mar its thickness or beauty.
He was breathless, speechless, captivated.
Whomever this mysterious princess was, she was his now. Or soon would be. He must remember to thank Maman for her insistence on searching out his bride. He grinned at the frescoed ceiling.
Air shimmered around her like the halo of an angel, eyes of the darkest, most decadent chocolate one could only dream of, and full lips that trembled with a timid and tremulous smile.
He was caught.
"Will I love you because you're beautiful?" He said softly against her cheek. "Or because you're wonderful?"
"I am but a dream," she whispered. Her voice matched her-soft, enticing, mysterious.
"Perhaps," he agreed. He did not know. He could not know. He only knew he wanted to sing from the rooftops. A defining moment, he decreed. Because now he knew…he'd found…
Princess Charming.
The evening raced past in a whirlwind of dancing where no words were needed. They would have a lifetime to talk. Right now 'twas enough to revel in the feel of her hand in his, the scent of her hair. She floated like the whisper of a cloud, the mist of a ghost.
'Twas a lovely night. One he knew he'd never see again.
The stroke of midnight sounded from the tower clock: twelve bongs.
It seemed only ten minutes since he'd met her.
"What's that noise?" She'd asked. Her voice was as soft as feather down. Her smile so disarming. He smiled back.
"Just the tower clock," he'd responded, mesmerized by those luscious, full, red lips. "The night is young, my lady. 'Tis only midnight, the night is still young." He could not decide if the fragranced blooms inundating his senses came from the surrounding gardens, or the flower in his arms.
"Midnight," she breathed-then blinked. Then stilled. Right there in the midst of the dance floor. Alarm marred her lovely features, panic colored her voice. "I-I must go."