The Art of Being Ignored
The ballroom of Lindqvist Hall glittered the way it always did for minor diplomatic functions—not the full blaze of a state dinner, but enough crystal and candlelight to make even third-tier ambassadors feel as though they'd arrived somewhere important. Gilt mirrors doubled the chandeliers' glow, and somewhere beneath the hum of polite conversation, a string quartet labored through something vaguely Mozartian, determined and slightly out of tune.
Prince Eric stood at the center of it all, which was, as far as anyone could tell, exactly where he preferred to be.
"You flatter me, Your Highness," said the Countess of Verenmark, a silver-haired woman with a reputation for being utterly unmoved by royal charm. She was smiling anyway, fanning herself with a lace fan that did nothing against the warmth climbing her cheeks.
"I assure you, Countess, flattery would require exaggeration." Eric inclined his head, the picture of sincerity, one hand resting lightly against the stem of his champagne flute. "And I have never once exaggerated in my life."
A ripple of laughter went through the small cluster of dignitaries surrounding him—two attachés from the Verenmark delegation, a visiting…