Lady Diamanta Picot threw a gold-and-ruby pomegranate at Maxime's head. He ducked, but it still clipped the top edge of his coronet and rebounded into the wall of the receiving room before hitting the floor and spinning to a stop.

A handblown goblet whizzed by his ear; he flung up his hand and caught it before it could shatter against the ducal throne behind him. "Now, wait," he said. "That was a particular token of my esteem—look at all these beautiful cloud fish etched into the bowl—"

"Fuck you!" Lady Diamanta screamed.

"I'm afraid not," Maxime said. "I did not agree to this marriage. Therefore I will not marry you."

Diamanta vibrated with rage, her slender fingers clenched upon the next gift, a handful of ebony hair sticks topped with gold knobs, the rich coppery-red gold of the far south, seldom seen in the duchies. She snarled, "You have no choice in the matter."

"On the contrary," Maxime said. "I am a duke of the realm. I may marry whom I please. My charter clearly states—"

"You will marry at the king's command," Diamanta said, her voice going cold. She set the hair sticks back on the table, but continued to fondle them, as an archer might fondle arrows. "If you refuse me, my life will be ruined."

"No, it won't," Maxime said. "You hate me. You've hated me since we were both fourteen." He set the goblet down on another table, out of her reach.

Diamanta licked her lips. They were plump and pink and inviting. Her fingers trailed along the table and lightly caressed the marquetry lid of a box of caraway comfit