Like good little soldiers, he and Mina turned at attention, in unison, but out of the corner of his eye he could see that wherever there was skin visible Mina had blushed a deep red.
Fixing him with a long stare, Roz led their trio toward another diplomat—this one from the United Kingdom.
A distinguished older man, Charles William Henry was a minor aristocrat in his home country. As its official ambassador to Cyrano, however, he held a high enough status to warrant a personal greeting from the King and Queen—Zayn credited that fact with his seeking of the position in the first place.
“Your Majesty...” The man oozed over Mina’s hand with an enthusiasm that grated on Zayn’s ears. “It is truly a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I must say it was worth the wait, however. You are more radiant than the sun. Apollo must bow when you enter a room.”
Zayn didn’t know which was more grating on his nerves: the man’s abysmal poetry or the way he extended every syllable in his exaggerated posh accent.
Below her mask, however, Mina smiled. It was the first true smile Zayn had ever seen her wear, and it spread across the lower portion of her face, showing too many teeth for a proper queen’s smile, but all the more bright and breathtaking for it. It cut through him as if he were a storm cloud and she a literal ray of sunshine.
Only the fact that it had been a rain of asinine compliments that had somehow managed to make her glow kept him from falling under the spell of the smile himself.
“You are too kind, sir. I understand your family owns property in the South of England? I have always heard the country there is lovely.”
Both men started when she spoke. Her English was clear and understandable, if slightly North-American-accented, and Zayn found himself perversely pleased that, wherever she had learned the language, it had not been Britain.
“You speak English, Your Majesty!” the ambassador exclaimed. “When I learned you were native to Cyrano, I did not expect it—most citizens don’t, as you know,” he said, insulting their country with mock abashment. “Indeed, Your Majesty, Iamfrom the south of England. Thank you for noticing. And, yes, there is nothing quite like it. It would be my honor to host you there. I am certain I could give you a proper English time.”
A muscle in the back of Zayn’s neck twitched as the man’s words grew bolder with each passing moment. Establishing a bond between the two kingdoms had been one of Zayn’s many coups. Great Britain was a global power. The fact that it would acknowledge Cyrano as anything more than a Mediterranean backwater had been unprecedented.
However, now, as the ambassador undressed the Queen with his eyes, his voice dripping with suggestion, Zayn found himself wondering how necessary that diplomatic relationship really was.
Resisting the urge to put the question to the test, Zayn simply put himself between the other man and the Queen, responding for her, his voice as soft as velvet as it wrapped around the English words.
“Of course there will be tours in the future. However, I plan to keep my new bride to myself for as long as possible. Newlyweds—I’m sure you understand.”
He guided Mina away from the man with Roz following.
“Very subtle and diplomatic, Zayn,” she observed.
The humor in Roz’s voice eased the tension in his neck as if he were slipping into well-worn leather boot, gently reminding him that he was acting like a fool.
Rather than respond to that, though, he said, “I assume you’re behind Mina’s transformation?”
“Well, hello to you too, Your Royal Majesty.”
Mina’s voice matched Roz’s for dryness. Zayn shuddered to think what else she might have picked up from her time with the older woman.
“You were late,” Roz observed.
They were ganging up on him.
Zayn smiled, “And I thought you were early.”
Again, Roz snorted. “A queen is never early.”
She started to guide their group forward again—Zayn imagined to make more introductions. But he found he did not care to continue the rounds, filing away the name of each and every single man who stared overlong at the Queen, when he could have the golden star of the night all to himself.
Roz pointed them toward a cluster of popular musicians, but Zayn shook his head. “The Queen is wilting.” He nodded toward Mina who, if anything, glowed with her own inner light.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, irritation threading through her voice.
He shook his head distinctly, negating her statement. “You are a dimming sun. It’s time for you to set. You can’t be used to standing in heels for so long.”
Mina’s mouth dropped into the O of outrage he was so familiar with and he smiled. Roz lifted her eyebrow at being crossed, but gave a short nod, watching their interaction closely. She could add it to the list of transgressions he was sure he would hear about from her later.
Leaving her to act as hostess, he led Mina to the stage and helped her into the seat that had clearly been designed for her dress. She didn’t sit, exactly, as much as recline regally. A subtle golden spotlight beamed down on her where she rested, maintaining her haloed image even as a very human sigh escaped her.