Curves that shifted and slid under her clothes, making the fabric strain and stretch and hug her flesh at one spot, then suddenly ripple away to find a new curve to caress. A woman might notice the curves also, but she would also notice that the blond hair was tied up in a severe bun, the pale skin of her face showed only a trace of makeup, the blue eyes were every bit as cold as her reputation, and the lips, when she looked at the assembled suitors, were set in an expression of seemingly permanent disdain. Men did tend to notice these things, too. Eventually. It usually required three or four looks—sometimes as many as nine—before the average male could raise his eyes to Rebecca’s face at all. She was, in truth, just a little bit on the heavy side. But the extra weight had been distributed well. Her waist was narrow, so the extra padding on her hips and breasts simply exaggerated her hourglass shape.

“My God,” murmured Bigelow. “To think when my father mentioned the mountains of Deserae I thought he was talking about the countryside.”

“Shush,” said Kevin. “Be nice.” Rebecca’s dress was of a lightweight watered silk, sky-blue to match her eyes, and thin enough to reveal that there was nothing to conceal. No wire or whalebone supported that lush figure. It was all girl.

The Princess and her entourage reached the table and stopped. One of the officers stepped forward and pulled out her chair. She sat down, looked around the room, and nodded. The two ladies-in-waiting took their seats on either side of the Princess. There was a great rustle of skirts as the rest of the women in the Banquet Hall sat down. The men remained standing until Hepplewhit gave the toast to the King. The music started. Hepplewhit sat down. Everyone else sat down. The officers withdrew. Conversation resumed.

A waiter with a tureen and a ladle appeared between Bigelow and Kevin. “Soup, sir?”

“Just dump it in my lap,” said Bigelow. “It will take my mind off what I’m missing.”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Nothing. Just a joke. What is this, turtle? Yes, I’ll have some soup. What do you think, Timberline?”

“The turtle soup here is always good.”

“I mean the Princess, you twit.”

Kevin gave her an uninterested glance. “A pretty girl.”

“Dammit, man, are you giving up or what? Look at Logan hanging over her every word. You’re going to have to lay the charm on pretty thick if you don’t want to lose out.”

“Lord Logan can pitch woo to the Princess all he wants, but it will help him not one jot. It is her father that needs to be persuaded.