Chapter 10
“[She] lifted [a] hand and made a sign to the people, and instantly the sweetest music sounded near her and around her, and the young [wo]man took her hand, and they danced and danced till the moon and the stars went down.”
I slip from behind the curtains after Isabeau departs.
The queen has her back turned, and I cannot pretend I do not see her weeping.
I have questions—about the curse, about why the death of Isabeau’s father would cause such a thing.
Curses are rare; the ones that still happen are typically the familial sort, old curses that are bound to a family line.
Since the treaty, the kinds of faeries who can place curses do not often come through the gate, and if the queen had hoped the curse would not afflict Isabeau, that means that Queen Morag has prior knowledge.
Is this a familial curse? Is the queen afflicted?
Was the late duke? I have questions aplenty, but my once-beloved’s inability to see the stars is not a priority when there is a killer of men in Brimmond Wood.
I will turn my research to Isabeau’s curse, but a curse that simply causes one to sleep at night is not overly burdensome. Murders come first.
Once the killer is stopped, I can be Isabeau’s friend and help her.
That’s all she’ll want once she knows what I am.
Perhaps, I can ask Morag to tell her my secret once I explain the duke’s requests.
But this afternoon, the queen is in no state to even acknowledge me, and I cannot ask Isabeau for more details without admitting to having been eavesdropping.
That’s twice in one day I’ve listened in on her private conversations, and in both cases, I am left worrying about a woman who has lied to me repeatedly.
She’s the only one I have ever considered marrying, but instead of coming to ask for my hand, Isabeau vanished from my life without a word of explanation. She rebuffed me all those years ago.
Of course, the thought of her wanting to marry someone else does little to quell the indignation I feel. Adding jealousy to the mix does not ease my mood.
How many Emmas were there?
I shove the unwanted thoughts away as I rejoin my sister and mother, who do not ask about my audience with the queen. I stand at Mother’s side, a masked noble with no interest in the dance. My sister swirls away, only to return with flushed cheeks at the end of the song.
“You have only to glance at them, and they will carry you back to the dance,” I suggest as my gaze takes in the crowd. “Enjoy it.”
“We have the same face. You could do the same,” Rylan counters, her gaze lingering on a noble in the crowd.
Mother coughs in such a way that I know she is trying to hide a bark of laughter.
I want to believe they are right. I do. However, the scars on my skin are mild compared to the ones on my heart.
I cannot tell strangers what I am going to become, so courting requires lies.
And I cannot guarantee that Father is wrong about his belief that my duty could pass to any person I wed.
Neither my mother nor my sister understands the weight on my shoulders, and most of the time I am grateful for that.
“Sister.” Rylan nods to the far side of the room, where Maudite has swept into the ball. Her step is still unsteady. “The cursed duke has arrived.”
Isabeau captivates me, so I allow myself a moment to admire her.
Why shouldn’t I look at her? Isabeau in a well-cut formal suit is beautiful.
The tendrils of hair that curl along her neck look as if she rode to the palace at a pace that only the wind travels.
Curls knot into impossible-to-untangle locks, and a wicked thought crosses my mind.
I would not mind trying to unravel those—or to unravel her.
The duke prowls like . . . well, exactly like her reputation for seduction is true, and every ounce of logic I possess urges me to avoid the woman who introduced me to the art of kissing in a long-ago dark room.
My mind is a jumble of thoughts, made worse for seeing another woman touch her, and made chaotic by hearing her talk about seeing me fight and thinking I am lovely for it.
Every countering thought runs together in a litany that makes me want to rush to her and avoid her all at once.
She saw me in the park.
She’s already heartbroken about her father’s passing.
She’s newly cursed.
She knows of the two deaths.
The last duke bade us wait to tell her.
Isabeau and I agreed to be friends.
Maybe she won’t even recognize me.
I want my hands on her to erase Emma’s touch, my jealousy whispers.
“I’m better than this. I am.” I try to tuck behind Mother, who is seated on a chair that servants delivered during my absence. I cannot guarantee what I would say or do in this moment.
I am masked, bad impulses urge. Unlike the guards, who are trained to recognize me and my father, the duke would never know who I am.
I surreptitiously continue to study the duke.
I noticed earlier that she was wearing breeches at court, but I can see the curve of her hip, the muscles in her calves, and I can’t stop staring.
Maybe I am weak because of her rescue in the wood, or because of hearing her talk to the queen about me, or maybe I am simply still enamored of her.
I know only that it is not the curse, not my duty, making my attention fix on her.
Isabeau’s mask is no more than a sliver of silver with onyx stones.
It’s more of a gesture of a mask than an actual mask.
She makes no effort to even try to hide her identity.
Although, of course, it would be a lie to suggest she could.
My gaze drops again to marvel at the way the breeches cling to Isabeau’s thighs.
She’s dangerous.
I’ve grown used to facing any number of monsters.
I’ve broken bones and bruised soft tissue.
The duke in her formfitting breeches and coat ought not be the thing that intimidates me, but I touch my mask to ascertain that it’s still securely in place as I watch her seem to size up the nobles in the room, not in a quarrelsome way, though.
“What is she doing?” Rylan asks as she leaves the dance floor again and rejoins me.
“Hunting.” Even had I not heard her plan to locate the woman in the park—to locate me—I recognize the way Isabeau prowls.
Rylan makes a humming noise. “The Misses Borthwick said she is nearly engaged to Lady Fiametta now that her father has passed. Perhaps she is auditioning for mistresses.”
“Hush,” Mother interjects.
“I am not interested in court gossip, sister.” We are careful to avoid names with the masks in place. Although Mother is more identifiable if she is standing because of her cane, she is currently seated with her cane resting in the folds of her own seafoam-and-orange-hued dress.
Rylan is whisked away again for another dance. Even masked, suitors rarely resist a chance to twirl her around any ballroom. Tonight, she is particularly vivacious. I watch her with a fondness that makes me forget to keep alert.
“Dance?” The word draws me out of my mind and back into the room, where the duke is now peering at me with an extended hand.
“That is kind of you, but n—”
“She’d be delighted, Your Grace,” the Countess of Fleuriste says, speaking over me in a voice that will not accept objections. She waves a hand toward the floor. “Go on.”
I shoot a surly look at Mother before standing. “Certainly.”
I ignore Isabeau’s hand and instead rest my own lightly on the duke’s forearm as we walk onto the already crowded floor several moments into a song. The dancers part around us. Recently inherited or not, Isabeau is a duke. The world is her oyster.
My touch is as light as can be as I try not to notice the lines of muscles under Isabeau’s jacket. She’s always had the sort of form that makes me sigh longingly. Tonight is no exception.
She thought I was lovely in battle, my heart sings.
None of that! my logic orders.
The duke faces me and bows. Her poise is enough to heighten the feelings already plaguing me. I want to be immune to her.
I curtsy to her. “Are you sober enough to lead?”
Isabeau scowls. “Is that foul temper why you were playing the wallflower?”
When the duke’s hand curls around my side, perilously close to where I was stabbed, I flinch.
Let her think it’s from her words, I hope.
I rest my arm atop Isabeau’s and let my hand touch her shoulder lightly. With my other hand, I grasp Isabeau’s free hand.
This hand touched my chest years ago.
Those arms clung to me at her castle mere weeks ago.
And she does not recognize me . . .
As we start to move, I fumble for a way to think of safer things. Isabeau moves like something feral and powerful, and I have always liked it far too much.
“I was at the wall because I have no interest in dances or any of this . . .” I glance around the room, desperate to focus on anything but her. “I will make my vow to the queen and depart.”
Isabeau is silent a moment. “Your eyes flash when you are irritated.”
I smile despite myself and hint, “You should see what my weapons do.”
The laugh from Isabeau is followed by a tightening of her hand, as if to stop me from fleeing. She smirks before asking, “Do you enjoy swords, then?”
My escaping laughter is a mix of shock and genuine amusement. When I can control my amusement, I ask, “Was that your way of asking if I prefer the company of men? Or do you mean literal swords?”
“Both.”
“I have no preference for men or women.” I meet Isabeau’s gaze. “I have kissed both.”
I wish Isabeau would ask who, almost as much as I wish I could stop thinking of our long-ago kisses and caresses.
“I am not looking for a spouse, however,” I offer quietly. “I am not seeking entrapment.”
“A lover, then?”
“I have had a lover.” I thrill at the freedom the mask is allowing me in making such a bold confession. “Despite many attempts at intimacy, I was not impressed by him.”
This time, it’s Isabeau’s burst of laughter that draws glances our direction. “Is that a challenge? I would not disappoint you.”