Kevin the Bad. That would be good. Kevin the Nice would be the worst.”

“Beg pardon, sire?” said his valet.

“The hot babes don’t go for nice guys,” explained Kevin. “They think they’re boring. Girls like bad boys. They think bad guys are exciting.”

“Yes, sire.”

The Prince of Rassendas carefully adjusted his cuffs, flicking an imaginary speck of dust off the lace. His expression, when he looked at himself in the mirror, was perhaps a trifle smug. Light brown hair flowed over the carefully starched pleats of his collar and tumbled about his shoulders. His strong hands adjusted the satin waistcoat over his hard, flat stomach. The dark cloth of his trousers draped smoothly down long, straight legs to meet the highly polished black calfskin of his boots, breaking just above the silver ornamental spurs. Prince Kevin cut a dashing figure, and he knew it. With great precision, he twisted a lock of hair around his finger and let it fall over his forehead. In doing so, he saw, behind his own reflection, his valet approaching with a piece of folded silk.

“Will you be wanting your diplomatic sash, Your Highness?”

Kevin considered it. “I think not, Winslow. Makes the whole thing seem a bit too mercenary, don’t you know?”

“It will be a marriage of convenience, sire.”

“Yes, but no sense rubbing the fact in the girl’s face. May as well maintain a pretense of romance, however thin it may be.” He saw a cloud pass over his valet’s face and turned away from the glass. “You disagree?”

Winslow did his best to sound neutral, but his look of fatherly concern was plain to see. He hesitated before speaking, his gray eyebrows drawing together. “Sire, I realize your father wants the match very much, but I have a concern, arising from my longtime—erm—service.”

“Friendship, would you say?”

Winslow permitted himself a small smile. “Yes, sire. That is, I cannot feel honest enthusiasm at the betrothal of yourself and Princess Rebecca. From all accounts she is quite unsuitable in temperament.”

“A cold-hearted bitch, I believe is the term.”

“Um. Yes, sire. Even her own people call her the Ice Princess.”

“Well, maybe she’ll warm up to me.” Kevin turned back to the mirror and gave his cuffs one final tug. “Come, Winslow. We mustn’t keep the court waiting.”

“Certainly, sire.” Winslow put the scarlet sash away. “Will you be wearing your court sword this evening?”

The Prince reflected on this. “Logan is quite the martial hero, isn’t he, Winslow?”

“Yes, sire. I expect him to be in dress uniform, with full miniatures.”

“And he’ll have a sword, of course. No, no sword for me.