The Ring and the Crown (The Ring and the Crown 1)

“Need a lift, gorgeous? Told you we were your fairy godfathers,” he said. “My, my, the princess is going to face some stiff competition with you in that.”

“I only have one question,” Archie said, after kissing Ronan on both cheeks.

“Yes?”

“Do you think it would look better on me?”

“Shut up, queen. Let’s go see the queen,” Perry said.

The royal ball was held in the Crystal Palace, a cathedral of glass and steel—a steel skeleton with glass panels. It had originally been built in 1845 for the Annual Exhibition of Scientific Inventions, but that yearly ritual had ceased years ago, by order of the Merlin. Now it was only maintained for the express purpose of hosting this annual event, after the ballroom at St. James had been deemed too small to fit all the courtiers and guests.

A huge, cheering crowd of commoners lined the circular streets leading up to the palace, waiting to catch a glimpse of sparkle and glamour. The open-air carriage ferried the happy trio to the entrance, where gaily-dressed guests—aristocrats, royals and prominent friends of the empire—disembarked from a line of coaches and hansoms. Ronan was awed by the size, the grandeur. The great hall loomed over the park, over the trees. Its barrel vault stretched a dozen stories into the sky, and the long axis of the ballroom ran nearly a half mile in length.

Through the entry, beneath the great barrel vault, liveried servants stood in long lines, waiting to take coats, hats and canes, or offering sparkling drinks and platters heaped high with delicacies. Velvet drapes and richly tufted rugs decorated the interior. Oil lamps hung at intervals were akin to stars flickering in the sky. Music echoed from every direction. The long axis stretched from the left to the right, ending with the podium where the queen sat with her court.

Ronan tried to breathe deeply, having found the oxygen was thin at such great heights. She was glad to have the two boys with her, who made fun of everything and cut it all down to size, although she could tell that they too were impressed and awed by the spectacle inside.

Fountains bubbled not with water, but pink clouds. Dancers resembling sculptures, their faces chalk-white, pranced like living marble creatures. The Crystal Palace was too large for a single band of musicians to fill the hall, and so a dozen or more bands were assigned to the task, playing the same tune in a glorious symphony. The room was alive with half-heard conversations, trumpets and strings.

Everyone was so beautiful. Ronan admired a few girls who were laughing and talking in a huge circle; they were each more beautiful than the last, and they had a ring of admirers around them. “Ah, the Montrose girls, the ducal daughters,” Archie said. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

“Loud,” Perry dismissed.

They walked toward the dinner setting on one side of the hall.

“A lot more magic this year,” Perry said, switching the place cards at the table so they could sit together. He did it so deftly, Ronan was certain he had done this many times before. She would have been too afraid to meddle with a seating arrangement, but it was clear Perry had no problem with it.

“Princess is getting married,” Archie reminded him.

“No more war.” Perry nodded.

“Come on, let’s find the champagne,” Archie decided.

Ronan followed their lead, still feeling dizzy, although she couldn’t help but notice the many admiring glances thrown her way. Their table was one of the farthest from the queen’s table at dinner, but it did not matter. She would have her two minutes with the queen when she was presented. Anything more and she would probably have fainted from happiness.

The queen was seated on a throne on the podium. She was flanked by her Merlin and a slew of attendants: white-robed sisters from the Order, and courtiers in their finest plumage. Ronan had only seen photographs of the queen, and was struck by how they did not do Her Majesty justice. The queen had an otherworldly beauty; her skin was the color of pure alabaster, her red hair fiery and thick. Her gown, a vibrant emerald color, was deep and rich. The crown on her head was enormous, and studded with the largest emeralds and sapphires (green for France, blue for England) Ronan had ever seen. The Merlin was frightening: a somber man in black, with a face like a mask.

“Ronan Elizabeth Astor, of New York,” the herald announced.

Ronan stepped in front of the throne and curtsied to the floor, just as she had practiced, her head almost brushing Her Majesty’s feet.

“Rise, child,” the queen nodded. “What a pretty dress. Moonstones have always been my favorite.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Ronan held up the edges of her gown tightly. Slowly, as she had practiced, she walked backward, never taking her eyes off the queen.

“Bravo,” Perry said when it was done and she was back in their circle. She was trembling from the roots of her fair hair to her fingertips.

“Americans tend to overdo it, don’t you think?” a voice said. “Look at that one, she looks like a bank exploded and rained diamonds.”

Ronan stopped and turned around to see a beautiful French girl regarding her with a sullen frown. The girl’s dress was understated and elegant, a simple dress of the palest pink; no waist or corset was discernible, as it was cut in the daring new loose style, and she wore her dark hair in a low chignon. She was exquisite and perfect and tiny, and Ronan felt like a lumbering American giant next to her.

“Now, now, Isabelle. Jealousy doesn’t flatter you,” the boy beside the French girl said. He was dark-haired and strikingly handsome, his hair falling into his bright blue eyes. There was something familiar about him, but Ronan could not place him until he winked—and then—

“You!” Ronan gasped. It was him—Heath—the fighter from the boat—looking even more devastatingly, knee-tremblingly, breath-caught-in-throat-handsome than he did when she had last seen him. A handsome devil. What was he doing at the royal ball? He looked dashing in a red coat with a golden sash and epaulets, a ceremonial saber on his hip. Why, he looked every inch a…but she couldn’t form the word. She blushed to think of their intimate moments together—the way they had lain across that billiards table…“Heath!”

The boy smiled. “Cathy.”

Isabelle—the French girl who had made the nasty comment about her dress—curled her lip. “You two know each other?”