Isobelle, sitting in the box beside and below his, contemplated her guardian with a faint scowl. She’d realized recently she didn’t know all that much about him, beyond the hat collection. Herparents had entrusted her to his care three years earlier, but Olivia had been far more parent and guardian to her than Whimsitt had. He didn’t believe in educating women, and Isobelle didn’t believe in dealing with boring men, so they’d avoided each other by mutual agreement. Until he’d taken advantage of her parents’ absence and put Isobelle and her dowry up for grabs in his tournament. Now, she deeply regretted her failure to pay attention.
Isobelle shivered and looked away from her guardian.Smirk all you want, she thought, lifting her chin.I’ll find a way out of this yet, you’ll see.
Sir Ralph had not left. Instead, he’d walked his horse over to stand before Isobelle’s box. He raised his visor, revealing a pair of predatory hazel eyes that swept over her, hair, dress, and all, and then fixed back on her face with an unnerving intensity.
Lord Whimsitt had informed Isobelle that she must show herself at each stage of the tournament, even the qualifiers. Now she wished she’d bothered to defy him, because she would’ve rather not seen just how easily Sir Ralph had won.
“My lady,” said Sir Ralph—and though the words were a standard greeting, Isobelle could not help but hear the slight emphasis he placed on the word “my.”
He already believed he’d won her.
Isobelle did not even notice her own reply, though she must have said something, for Sir Ralph inclined his head in a bow, gracious and courtly in front of his fans, and slammed the visor back down before turning his horse to ride for the exit to the lists.
One of Isobelle’s companions, Sylvie, laid her fingertips on her friend’s arm. “Are you all right?” she murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.
Isobelle forced air into lungs that were trying to shrivel away from the cold seizing her body. “You never know, he might get knocked out before the finals,” she said brightly. “Or fall into the moat and find himself eaten by one of those lizard moat monsters the servants claim live there. The possibilities are endless.”
Sylvie squeezed her arm but correctly interpreted Isobelle’s desire to avoid speaking about the man who would almost certainly claim her as a prize in a few weeks’ time.
Meanwhile, the next two knights had ridden out into the lists. One was Sir Evonwald, somewhat older than the other knights but formidable in experience. The other was a knight Isobelle didn’t recognize, mounted on a gorgeous bay stallion, immaculate save for a tuft of mane that stuck up insistently at the front. Isobelle was familiar with the challenges of styling stubborn hair, and so was rather taken with him.
The horse and his rider were readying themselves for their first charge as the cheer girls fanned out into a half circle, creating...
“Is that supposed to be a dragon’s flame?” Hilde was on Isobelle’s other side and hadn’t heard the exchange between Isobelle and Sylvie. She was too busy leaning forward and frowning sweetly with the effort of artistic interpretation.
“Wait for it,” said Sylvie, leaning back in her chair, as cynical as the other girl was soft.
The girl at the center of the formation flipped a new layer down over her skirts and was suddenly clad in the bright pink that was Isobelle’s signature shade. As she marched about triumphantly, the others scattered to all corners of the list, clearing the way for the joust, and—presumably—demonstrating the power of the sacrifice to safeguard Darkhaven from draconic influences.
Isobelle kept her features smooth as a halfhearted smattering of applause started up around them, then died away.
Whatever she was forced to give them—and there was almost no limit to that—she would not let them have her composure.
The flag dropped, and Sir Evonwald and Sir Gawain—as the announcer had introduced him—prodded their horses to a rolling trot, gathering momentum as they charged toward each other from opposite ends of the lists. Their lances wavered and then firmed, and the two men braced themselves in their saddles, as they—
“I’ve got snacks!” a cheery voice announced from behind them. “Oh, someone open the gate, my hands are full!”
Isobelle leaned backward to open the little gate and let in Jane, who was accompanied by an unholy amount of food. The perfect distraction from the unpleasantness of Whimsitt’s machinations and Ralph’s cool possessiveness.
“Did I miss anything?” Jane asked brightly, squeezing herself in beside Sylvie. Isobelle turned back to find the two knights had passed each other and were slowing once more.
“Nothing,” Sylvie drawled. “Or rather,theymissed something. Each other.”
“It’s their first run at it,” said Hilde, ever-forgiving. “They’re just warming up.”
The pair were wheeling around once more to face each other, and Isobelle popped a toffee into her mouth and studied Sir Gawain. His opponent was familiar enough, but the younger knight—for he certainly moved more nimbly than old Sir Evonwald, and his build was slimmer—was a new name to her.
Once more the two horses began to accelerate, and when SirEvonwald’s lance banged off Sir Gawain’s shield, sending the young challenger reeling back in his saddle, a ragged cheer went up from the crowd.
“Are they against Sir Gawain?” Jane asked, still handing out her snack haul.
“I think they’reforany kind of action,” Sylvie replied.
Isobelle said nothing, still leaning forward and studying Sir Gawain as he shook his arm out, trying to ease the pain of the collision. She wasn’t sure why her attention had fixed on him, but if there was one thing her maid, Olivia, had taught her—and Olivia’s advice was always to be heeded—it was to pay attention to whatever caught your eye. Especially if you didn’t know why.
“Where is Toussaint, anyway?” Hilde asked, thoughtful. “It sounds French, I think?”
“I don’t think it’s going to matter much longer,” Jane replied. “Pity, he at least looks younger than Evonwald. He could’ve been good for some fun! Then again, he’s about to have some spare time on his hands, so...”
