Chapter 2 #3
I hate asking her to stare at this wretched excuse of a gown.
Foolishly, I want to be beautiful if she’s the one studying me.
Not tattered. Not smelling of a dead man’s ashes.
The stitching of my gown is torn at the waist, and several slashes mark the skirt and bodice.
Mud clings to the hem like an adornment.
“How do you still look so lovely in this mess of a frock?” Isabeau murmurs, as if she can read my mind. More likely, she sees my nervousness. She could always read my face too well.
“Is there any more blood?” I pivot slowly.
“No.” Isabeau shakes her head. “Why was there blood at all?”
I press my lips together and then say, “There was a man in the wood. My father is telling His Grace.”
“Were you attacked?” Isabeau reaches out as if to pull me into an embrace, and I swear my heart cracks inside my chest. Even now, her instinct is to protect me.
Although I have no doubt that the rumors of duels and stealing out windows and brawls are all true, Isabeau is as chivalrous as she is perilous.
I hold a hand out to stop her approach and look down at my dress. “I am merely wet and mud coated.”
“You are still the loveliest of women, even with twigs and leaves upon your person,” Isabeau says, voice dropping into a familiar seductive register.
I laugh, despite everything. “Perhaps you have learned a bit of charm since last we spoke.”
“And enough decorum to offer you a replacement dress to travel home,” Isabeau adds quickly. “I have dresses. I no longer have need of them, and yours is”—her eyes dart to the missing swath of fabric—“damaged.”
“Are you trying to get me out of my dress, my lord?”
“No!” Isabeau fumbles her words, and against all logic, she’s more alluring for it. “Not that I would not be . . . Not that . . . I mean to say, you are still the loveliest of creatures, Gabrielle. I would—”
“Lady Gabrielle.” The duchess has entered the room without any noticeable sound. She has long had a disconcerting ability to do so.
I drop into a curtsy. The duchess is the only woman I have encountered in all of Alveus who expects me to act like she’s my superior. The other nobles I see in Regina Centrum are my peers. There are other duchesses, of course, but none I regularly encounter.
And none whose daughter I let fondle me, my guilt whispers.
The duchess shoots Isabeau a stern look.
“Your father is concluding his business, and the earl would like his daughter present, so I thought I might find Lady Gabrielle. Instead, I find you once again on the verge of . . .” She pauses and stalks toward me.
“What is that wretched thing you wear? Has your family fallen upon hardship?”
“No, Your Grace.” I curtsy again. Never too often with the manners for this woman. “My father and I were roused early to carry news to His Grace about most pressing matters.”
“That does not explain your dress.” The duchess circles me. “When I overheard your words, I thought my daughter was being careless in her dalliance with you yet again. His Grace’s health does upset her, and her tendency to behave in rakish ways is no secret.”
“Mother.” Isabeau visibly flinches at her mother’s words. “Gabrielle was—”
“Lady Gabrielle,” the duchess corrects.
“Yes, Mother. Lady Gabrielle was rather battered by her travel through Brimmond Wood, and I was simply offering her one of the gowns that I have no use of.”
The duchess gives us both an incredulous look. “I sincerely doubt your clothing would fit her. You have notably different silhouettes. Is this a ruse to drag her to your chambers? We spoke about the rules when here at—”
“I am quite fine in my current gown, Your Grace,” I interrupt loudly. “Your daughter was merely being kind.”
Isabeau shoots me a smile that does little to quash my interest in the idea that I could have had an excuse to go to her chambers.
“You do appear to inspire that in her, don’t you?” The duchess summons a servant. “Go to the east wardrobe for one of last season’s gowns. You’ll have to hem something, as even beside me she is more petite, but our bosoms are more similar.”
To me, she says only, “Go to the study first. My daughter can show you to the door, but His Grace has requested that she not join you.”
“I do not need a replacement gown, Your Grace,” I start, but the duchess ignores me and walks away.
The affront on Isabeau’s face is marked, but she still walks me toward the study.
Again, my hand is on her elbow, and again, my heart aches at this simple touch.
I can find my way to the study without escort, but I don’t mind her presence.
At all. I should, but I tuck each moment away in my memory to treasure.
“The duke is unwell?” I ask as we walk. “Is that the cause of your heartbreak?”
“He has lived eight decades.” Isabeau’s voice is harsh as she admits, “The illness in his chest grows worse. I fear . . .”
I step in front of her and embrace her tightly. “I’m sorry, Isa. I know how close you are.”
A sob chokes Isabeau as I hold on to her. It feels as if we are girls again, closer than friends, foolishly swearing to stay that way unto eternity. Of course, now, Isabeau towers over me, tucking me under her chin.
A few tears slide from her eyes.
“If you need a friend, send a messenger,” I whisper. “Despite everything, I would still offer you my friendship.”
“Despite everything?” She jerks away from my embrace. “Thank you. I . . . apologize for my behavior. I’ll leave you to your meeting with my father.”
She pivots, and I watch her stride away, seemingly offended, but I can’t chase her. I know what conversation awaits me, and it’s not the conversation I once dreamed of having with both of our fathers.
Being the Hunter comes first. Now and always. Everything else must wait when Hunter business is pressing.