Late spring had become Dean's newest enemy.
Not because Alamina was particularly hot.
The palace gardens had only just moved fully into bloom, the mountain air still cool enough in the mornings that the terraces remained pleasant, and most people continued carrying light jackets after sunset.
Dean, however, was apparently running several degrees warmer than the rest of the country.
He stood in front of the dressing-room mirror that morning and regarded his clothes with growing resentment.
At eighteen weeks, the pregnancy was no longer something he could conceal simply by standing carefully.
There was a bump. Not enormous. Certainly not enough that a stranger would immediately assume pregnancy beneath the right clothing.
Unfortunately, Dean's usual style involved fitted trousers, narrow waists, and formal shirts and coats designed specifically to emphasize rather than disguise his slight build.
Most of those now betrayed him immediately.
