Chapter Three #3
My heart freezes. It’s a desperate explanation, but hopefully it’s believable. A faint smile pulls at Simon’s lips as the glint in his eyes tells me that he knows I’m leaving something out. I’m almost expecting him to confront me about it, but all he says is “It’s a pretty name.”
I can barely hide my sigh of relief. Simon watches me, his eyes still searching. I want to know what he sees.
“What are you thinking?” I ask him.
His gaze eases as he pivots slightly, opening my view up to the rest of the party. “I’m thinking that you’re very different from who I thought you were.”
My breath catches at his words. I shouldn’t be happy. If I’m different, then I’m not doing a good enough job at being Catherine. But I also can’t fight the satisfaction I feel at his potentially seeing or sensing me and not her. At least a little bit.
“You’re different, too,” I say, attempting to cover my tracks. “I’m actually glad you brought it up because now I don’t have to feel bad when I tell you that you also seem extremely different.”
Simon smiles as he takes another drink. “Am I? In what way?”
“I think it’s the hair. Your hair is much browner today, and it has a shine to it. It’s very healthy, though. Good for you.”
He quietly chuckles at my obvious lie. “A sweet face and a jesting wit. The first, you’re famous for. The second is a surprise.”
His assertion matches what Bartholomew and William implied, that people see Catherine’s beauty before all else—if they even see anything else at all.
“Maybe I always had a jesting wit but chose to keep it a secret.” My tone is teasing but also defensive.
“It would seem so,” Simon answers. Then he drops his voice a little. “Is this our first secret, then?”
For some reason, my eyes shift to his hand where he’s holding his cup. It’s calloused, probably from all the training he mentioned, but still inviting. Like it’s equally capable of eliciting good screams and bad screams. Bad ones for his competitors. Good ones for . . . not me. definitely not me.
“I guess it is,” I tell him. I turn my eyes up and promptly deem his hands a visual no-fly zone.
His shoulders tilt back toward me, subtly turning enough that I can feel how close we are, and I lean into the sensation. “Should we keep another?” he asks.
My own hand fidgets along the material of my dress as my brain buzzes in uncertain anticipation.
I’m about to answer when Bessie suddenly arrives beside me, clearing her throat with the subtlety of someone who is violently choking to death, prompting Simon and I to break apart to a more formal distance.
“Am I interrupting?” she says once she’s simmered down.
I twist my body to face her, turning Simon’s and my quiet exchange into a group circle. “You’re not interrupting at all. Simon, have you met Bessie?”
“I have,” he says with a courteous bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you this evening.”
Bessie curtsies and glances between us with a coy glint in her eyes. “I didn’t realize you two were so closely acquainted.”
Really, Bessie?
“We’re not closely acquainted,” I clarify. “He just helped me yesterday when I fainted in the hall.”
Bessie’s gaze goes from teasing to alert. “You fainted in the hall? When did you faint in the hall?”
“Sometime in the morning. I don’t remember the specifics. Long story short—I fainted, and Simon helped me.”
“Well, we’re very lucky Simon was there.” She says his name like it’s a scandalous, and the silent weirdness that falls between us afterward is palpable. Bartholomew arrives a few seconds later.
“I have drinks,” he cheerfully announces, handing a cup to me and then Bessie.
“Great. Is this wine?” I take a big gulp before he can nod, and holy freaking hell, the sticky sweetness goes down like a punch to the throat.
“Oh, wow,” I cough out. “There is a lot of honey in there. Like, a very intense amount of honey.”
Bessie takes a sip without issue. “It tastes as it always does to me.”
“Yeah, me too,” I agree, biting down my inner agony. “It just went down the wrong pipe.”
A heavy silence consumes our circle, and Simon is the first to act. “The hour is late,” he says, placing his cup on a nearby table. “I should be on my way.”
“Indeed, rest up for the tournament,” Bartholomew says. “I have two pence on your victory.”
Simon looks down at the floor before glancing up again. “I thank you. I’ll do what I can.”
“But winning isn’t everything,” I decide to throw in, even as Bartholomew gives me a subtle glare. “I’m just saying, if Simon doesn’t love jousting, there’s no pressure. Bird-watching is a respectable hobby, too.”
Bessie and Bartholomew are both confused, but Simon just looks at me, his eyes smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replies.
Our glances brush before he bows, saying, “Good evening,” and walking away.
Bessie calls out after him, “Good evening to you, Simon.”
He disappears into the crowd, and I shoot Bessie a scowl. “Was that really necessary?”
“You tell me,” she counters. “You were the one using the full force of your appeal on Simon Gainsford.”
“I was not.”
She barks out a laugh. “Of course you were! Your eyes were sparkling, and you smiled whimsically. Did she not smile whimsically, Bartholomew?”
Our new friend playfully squints his eyes in mock thought. “I may have noticed a touch of whimsy from my angle. And her eyes do seem to be less sparkling now than they were when Lord Gainsford was here and we weren’t.” He turns to face me. “Is it because I don’t joust?”
“Medically speaking, her pupils may still be dilated from her head injury.”
Bartholomew turns to Bessie with unfettered excitement. “Are you a healer?”
She shrugs. “Of sorts.”
“Would you take a look at my cousin? He broke his leg, and the pointy bone is pushing out through his thigh skin.”
“How long has he been in such a state?” she asks.
“Just a month or so.” My horrified eyes shoot to Bessie, but she isn’t alarmed. “He’s down the hall, if you’ll follow me.”
Bessie hands me her cup. “We’ll be back shortly.”
They walk off together, leaving me with two drinks and no company.
Maneuvering through the crowd, I lean in between an opening of people to place our drinks down on the table.
Everyone sends me barely furtive glances as I move along the frame of the room, and it’s hard to observe others when you’re the main attraction.
I think about speaking to a group of younger women, but they flinch uncomfortably when I start to approach.
The last thing I want is to bother anyone in their downtime, so I switch gears and exit out the door Bessie and Bartholomew went through.
Finding myself in a somewhat deserted corridor, I take my time as I pass several rooms. I’m halfway down the hall when I pass an open door, and my curiosity gets the better of me as I glance inside.
If I was filming the pilot episode for Hoarders of Hampton Court Palace, this would be a solid place to start.
I step inside the room, and my eyes don’t know where to land first. Even with the clutter, it’s still appealing.
It reminds me of an antique shop—chaotic chic.
There are hundreds of books stacked and shelved and discarded piles of papers in every direction.
The walls are splattered with dark tapestries and slightly damaged paintings.
I’m taken aback by a humongous set of stag antlers mounted above the dwindling fire when I hear the voice behind me.
“I won that in a bet.”
I gasp and lurch back toward the sudden sound.
A smiling man in his mid-thirties is looking up at the trophy animal.
There’s an air of mischief inlaid in his edged face.
His eyes are sharp, so dark they’re almost black, and his brown hair is cut short and a little uneven.
He shouldn’t be handsome, but somehow he is.
“The earl who lost it tried to steal it back, but I’m very good at hiding things.”
His playful gaze lands on mine, and I can only hope that he’s not planning on hiding my dead body next.
“I’m sorry. I was just going.” I’m fumbling toward the door when his unbothered voice reaches me again.
“No need to rush off. I know that you’re lost.”
I pivot to look back at him. “That’s really nice of you, but I’ll head out this way. I remember where the party is.” Even when faced with the possibility of murder, I’m still inclined to be polite.
He holds up a hand like he’s trying to calm me down. “You misunderstand. I know that you’re lost lost. Here . . . in time.”
My heart stops mid-beat. My throat goes dry. “Have we met before?”
“Have you and I met?” he asks. “No. Have I met the person whose body you’re now inhabiting? Yes, I have.”
Well, fuck.
He takes in my blank, stunned stare and gestures to the two chairs near the fireplace. “Let’s have a drink.”
“Okay,” I answer unsteadily. Not because I want a drink, per se, but because I have the sneaking suspicion that in a few seconds, I’m really going to need one.