“I understand your desperation,” I say, for how is it any different from my own? From my need to fulfill the vengeance I was born to enact? “But you need to let him go. Winning him back won’t prove anything. It won’t magically make your life like it was before. It won’t makehimlike he was before. You made sure of that.”
She purses her lips, the only sign that she’s listening at all.
“Don’t interfere with them.” I nod toward the riders ahead of us. “Don’t get in the way of their betrothal.”
She bares her teeth in a vicious grin. “Why would I do that,Thorny, when I can leave it to you?”
I bristle at her use of Monty’s irksome nickname, but as she races ahead to ride beside Angela, her words crawl under my skin. She’ll leave what to me? Did yesterday’s dance reveal too much after all? Does she have the wrong idea about my feelings for Briony?
I refuse to acknowledge the train of thought that lies just beneath. That maybe—justmaybe—her suspicions aren’t entirely off base.
30
BRIONY
We reach the northern edge of Thorne’s property, which ends in a white picket fence that separates Blackwood Estate’s rolling fields of green from a similar expanse of land dotted with fluffy sheep. There we pause atop our mounts and take in the view. The slight elevation of our current location provides a look at the land we traversed. It truly is a stunning property with ample farmlands, gorgeous woods, and even a lake. The sun is high, but with the wash of fluffy white clouds painting the sky, it isn’t overly warm. Or perhaps the Earthen Court’s climate is always like this. The perfect weather to enjoy the outdoors.
My mood is further amplified by my success in reaching our destination with none of Thorne’s worries materializing. Betty has proven to be a perfectly obedient horse, never once fighting against the reins or compromising my position sidesaddle. My thighs burn slightly, as it has been months since my last riding lesson at the convent, but other than that, I’m perfectly unscathed.
“You’re a lovely girl,” I whisper, stroking Betty’s silky neck. I glance up to find Thorne’s gaze locked on me. I meet it with a smirk.See?I silently convey.You were wrong and I was right.
His only reply is a narrowing of his eyes.
“I hope you aren’t too disappointed.” Angela’s voice draws me from my battle of stares with Thorne. I tilt my head at her question, and she shakes hers as if reconsidering her words. “Not in Blackwood Estate, but that our manor isn’t quite as impressive as this. We do have other houses, though, and one has a particularly lovely view. Besides, I believe you and Monty will have a place of your own once you marry.”
My stomach tumbles, a sour roiling that I try to keep from showing on my face. I glance at the back of Monty’s head. His horse is several feet from mine and Angela’s, and he doesn’t seem at all aware of our conversation, as engrossed as he is in droning on about the rising cost of imported Brettonish liquor to Cosette. I applaud her for pretending to care about a word he says, the only evidence to the contrary in the way she blinks in rapid succession, as if trying to keep awake. I’d think he was purposefully annoying her, but he and I held small talk on our ride, and I can safely say he is not an engaging conversationalist. Enraging, yes. Boring at best.
Stars, I can’t imagine living with this man, much less marrying him. Panic slashes through me, and I’m struck with a sudden desperation to get out. Get away. Call this off. I…I can’t do this—
This is how it must be, I remind myself, halting my anxiety with a steadying breath. I have to dislike him. I have to continue being averse to our union, otherwise marrying him will cease being a sacrifice. And I’ll be unable to break the sleeping spell.
My panic is simply a sign that my plan will still work.
As much as it sinks my heart and ties my stomach in knots, I accept it. Then, gathering my resolve and molding it into a smile, I face Angela. “I’m sure my future dwellings will be more than adequate.” Vague words for a contrived truth. Anything more direct would be a lie.
Angela beams. “I’m so glad you think so. I know we don’t know each other well yet, but I feel a fondness for you, Highness. I’ve always wanted a sister.”
Her kind honesty reminds me of some of the students back at the convent. Not Lina, of course, for her honesty always grated. Angela is more like Dorothy and many of the other girls I’ve had to say goodbye to over the years. I can see myself growing fond of her in the same way, and it would be nice to make a friend I won’t have to lose.
My grin turns slightly more genuine at the thought. Perhaps one good thing can come from my marriage.
“Oh, I do wish we brought a picnic basket,” Angela says, tone wistful. “Is this not the perfect hill for a picnic? I saw a field of strawberries on the way. Thorne’s aren’t nearly as delicious as the famous Davenport Berries, but you must taste them anyway. Do you love strawberries as much as I do? If not, what is your favorite fruit?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Monty interjects, turning his horse to the side. “No, dear Angie, those are not the kinds of things I care to know about my future bride.”
She casts him a good-humored glare. “We weren’t even talking to you, brother.”
“Yes, but I was in earshot, and I’ll not tolerate such boring conversation.” This, of course, coming from a man who readily complains about the cost of liquor and his least favorite breed of dog for minutes on end. He waves a dismissive hand. “Favorite foods, colors, fragrances—none of that will tell me whether Her Highness will make an acceptable bride.”
“And what will?” Thorne asks, his expression devoid of amusement.
“Our game, of course. I want to see how well she rides.” He says the last part with a wink for me. I’d like to stab him in the eye.
“You’ve seen,” Thorne says. “Now award her the win and let’s get on with our day.”
Monty taps his chin. “Hmm. No, I don’t think I will. My future wife must do more than simply enjoy a smooth ride. She must keep up with…a rapid pace.”
My gloved hands tighten around the reins as I catch the meaning behind his words. That insulting son-of-a-harpy—
