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Summary
“Your Excellency, may I present my son, Viktor Yakovitch Nikiforov, Prince of Rossi?”
Viktor took a robotic step forward and swept an equally robotic bow. It was only when he rose again that he saw the face of the man his father wanted him to marry.
It was not a face to make Viktor inclined to joy at the match. Handsome, to be sure; the man was almost preternaturally beautiful, round cheeks and a sweet chin and dark, dazzling eyes under arched brows. But those eyes were furrowed, narrowed, a shocking display of outright hostility at a betrothal meeting that set Viktor’s hackles up.
