Hilde
Deciding what to wear presented its own set of problems. Certainly not her only court gown, in which she had been presented briefly to the king for a perfunctory blessing.
It was most definitely out of fashion by now and had an unbearably itchy collar.
The dress the Harrier had sneered at was an option, but the sight of it depressed her spirits.
She settled instead on a plaid woolen skirt and jacket that she’d made up for the equinox feast that past autumn.
It wasn’t fancy, but it was respectable.
Lord Elmwood was a proper aristocrat, so he was certain to be a terrible snob about her shabby, unfashionable way of dressing regardless—though he hadn’t made any snide remarks about the common clothes she’d worn mushroom hunting in the woods.
Or rather, Charmer hunting, for that had indeed been her main intent upon setting out on the path to Merewyth.
It didn’t matter, she told herself firmly. She was planning to blackmail him, not impress him with her sartorial splendor.
She felt faintly embarrassed remembering their meeting in the woods.
He must think she was the sort of dim, doting woman who made a habit of saving wayward dogs and inviting lonely lords to dinner.
Really, if he didn’t want to be blackmailed while he was on the run from the law, he might try not wandering the neighborhood in broad daylight, letting his dog fall into a crevasse, and brazenly accepting impromptu dinner invitations from strange ladies.
If she was being honest with herself, she thought as she regarded her reflection and smoothed her skirts, it irked her that he must see her as a sort of motherly do-gooder, though she could not exactly say why it bothered her.
He was certainly no younger than she; he was perhaps even a few years older.
There was something about his face, even half-obscured by lightly colored stubble, that reminded her of the crumbling fresco of a Myran saint that still decorated the wall of the ruined shrine in the old hawthorn grove, a remnant of the Myran Empire’s brief tenure in Eldmere some thousand years past.
There had also been a weariness in his eyes and sad little lines around his mouth that spoke of pain, perhaps from his leg, which she assumed was a result of whatever incident had gotten him into trouble.
He’d been rumpled, dressed in a wrinkled linen shirt and buckskin trousers, and was in dire need of a shave and perhaps a haircut.
But despite all that, he was…compelling to look at.
That made him an ideal sort of person to paint, she told herself, and that was why his appearance was so much in her thoughts.
She’d had the Hall set for a private dinner and asked Cook to make one of her braises, which were always delicious. She had noticed that Lord Elmwood had a hungry sort of pallor that instinctively made her want to try to feed him until he looked better. Not that his health was any of her concern.
Should she try asking him nicely to help her before resorting to blackmail?
Please, my lord, won’t you reanimate this corpse out of the goodness of your heart?
Absurd. She had no choice but to lay out the facts as she saw them, and then he would come to the only viable conclusion.
Really, it hardly counted as blackmail. She was exchanging the favor of keeping her mouth shut for the favor of his Charm.
It was practically a business transaction!
She wished he hadn’t taken her hand the day before.
The strange sensation that had sparked between them must have been the Charm thrill.
She hadn’t experienced it before, never having touched anyone else with a Charm.
She’d imagined what it might feel like, of course, because of all the stories about Charmers using the thrill to inform on one another to the Crown, back when they still executed Charmers in Eldmere.
It was not the painful sensation she had always imagined.
It was like the sparks from dry air on a winter’s day, or the way a cat bristled when you rubbed its coat the wrong way.
It hadn’t occurred to her to avoid touching Lord Elmwood in the interest of hiding her own Charm, and now she felt like a fool. What if he tried to use the knowledge of it against her? What if he threatened to expose her if she turned him in? What if this one mistake cost her everything?
“Lady Croft, your guest is here.”
“Thank you, Ed. Please show him in, and then you can go down to the kitchen for your supper.”
“Don’t you want me to serve?”
“We can serve ourselves, like at breakfast.”
“As it pleases you, but do ring the bell if you need me for anything and I’ll be here in an instant.”
He went back out, and she straightened her skirts and squared her shoulders. She could do this. She must.
The Earl of Elmwood swept into the Hall, an entirely different person by candlelight than the one she remembered from the forest. By the light of day, he had seemed a slightly whimsical, defeated sort of creature. She had assumed him to be a frivolous man who would be easy to bend to her will.
By night, he was transformed. His hair, clearly washed, was a soft yellow and had a flippant sort of curl.
It was escaping riotously from the black ribbon he’d used to pull it back.
He’d shaved, exposing the planes of his face, which was frankly so beautiful she wished the stubble were still there to obscure it.
His skin changed from pallid to luminous in the flickering light from the candles, and he was now dressed in a vine-embroidered waistcoat that was a bit too large for him but was cut from fine sage-green velvet that made his eyes mirror the same color.
He still limped, leaning on his cane, but he made the movement of it seem jaunty as he entered, as if he was only affecting the injury because walking sticks were the height of fashion.
He now appeared, she thought, like the lord he was. It should have instantly hardened her heart and honed it to the task at hand, only he made such a show of stopping short to admire her, and his blatantly appreciative regard caused her skin to heat up in a most perplexing way.
The hot flush that gripped her was accompanied by a sudden pang of trepidation. She was…flustered. This was not the time for being flustered!
“Lady Croft, good evening. I must say, that ensemble suits you very well. It brings out the sienna of your eyes.”
“Won’t you come in, Lord Elmwood?” she said, trying not to stammer.
She had never even heard another person use the word sienna before and only knew it from having read it in the single volume about fine art in Croftholde’s modest library.
She knew from the book that true sienna was made from clay mined someplace far to the south, in Paladoor or Avengrace, but the idea of spending money on imported paints seemed quite inconceivable, so she had figured out a way to mix her own version, using clay from the banks of the millpond.
“Please, call me Elmwood. All my friends do.”
She led him over to the sideboard, grateful to turn her back on him so she could have the space to think. Why was he being so ingratiating? Did he suspect her intentions?
“I’m afraid we must serve ourselves. This braise is my cook’s specialty.”
“That sounds delicious,” he said. “How clever of you to ensure we’d be alone.”
Oh no. He did suspect that she was up to something.
But he couldn’t have any idea what she wanted.
No one but she and Han knew about Thorgoode.
Did he mean he wanted to talk about her Charm?
This was ridiculous. She needed to regain the upper hand.
Perhaps she should hint that she knew about his troubles.
“Our cook is very talented. I suppose you’ve been eating Mr. Nimsby’s cooking, which is very brave of you. But then, I suppose you learned bravery during your time in Relance.”
He paused spooning braise onto his plate to look at her, and there was a pain shining in his eyes that made her regret her words, even though they had had the intended effect. She did indeed sense that she had taken control of the situation again, but she was somehow sorry for it.
“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” he managed to say, casting his eyes down.
“Only that it takes courage to go to war,” she said quietly.
He took a deep breath, and then the pain was gone, but his gaze was less open than it had been before.
“On my part, it was entirely foolishness. Come, let’s sit down, shall we?”
They settled at the table. She pushed food around her plate, her heart beating much too fast as her mind volleyed from one approach to another. How was she meant to begin?
“These paintings are wonderful,” he said, startling her. She looked up at him to find him staring at the wall to their right.
“Paintings?” she said, confused. “Oh, you mean my murals?”
“Your murals? You mean to tell me that you painted these? They’re marvelous!”
She glanced at her handiwork, trying to gauge whether he was being serious or making fun of her. He surprised her by getting up to examine the one over the fireplace more closely. It was a scene of the willow trees down by the millpond.
“Stunning,” he said, lifting a candlestick to illuminate it.
His admiration seemed genuine. After years of Thorgoode’s occasional visitors making fun of her murals behind her back or even scoffing at them openly, she didn’t know what to make of praise for her efforts.
Even Thorgoode, who always encouraged her drawing as a ladylike pursuit, had thought her a little silly to paint directly onto the walls, as large as life.
It was considered an antiquated fashion.
“You’re too kind,” she said.
“I’m not being kind.” He returned to his seat, lowering himself with care. “You have a real gift.”
Accepting compliments from him seemed disingenuous. She needed to get this over with.