A woman’s voice cuts in, “Since when do we need a man to manage our money?”
“A lot of deaths is all I’m saying,” the raspy voices rejoins.
I walk away from the group. Nothing they say brings any new clue or comfort to me. The weight of being the Hunter, of protecting my mother and sister, of fulfilling my duty, of telling Isabeau, of learning what truths the queen hides, of researching to understand Isabeau’scurse, of commanding soldiers ... It all spins like unfamiliar words in my mind.
And I want to make it all pause.
Not stop.
Not quit.
Not fail.
I simply want to set aside the weights that are crushing me for a few scant hours. With a muffled expletive, I pull off the rings and shove them deep into the hidden pocket sewn into my gown. They clatter softly against a small, sheathed knife, because even at a ball, even in my mourning period, I am always armed.
I take another aperitif and drink it too fast to taste the bitterness. Then I ask another servant, “Wine? Somethingmorenumbing?”
And while I’m waiting for the young man to return, my thoughts falter as Isabeau appears and cuts through the crowd. My father’s rules for conduct in public call out loudly in my mind: Rule the first, ladies do not gallivant; rule the second, ladies do not place themselves in peril; rule the third—the most critical rule of all—ladies are delicate. Smile demurely. Flutter. Float.
Outside of society, the gallivanting, the peril, the delicacy are all the opposite of what I am to be. But knowing the rules is sometimes all that keeps me from giving in to wild impulses, and those impulses are even more prevalent when I see Isabeau. I wonder if that is exactly why my father disliked her. As the Hunter-in-Training, I was to obey him, not follow her. But as a girl, when I saw Isabeau, all sense of decorum vanished.
Now, as Isabeau stops in front of me, I sound anything but decorous as I ask, “May I help you?”
“Lords above, I hope so.” Isabeau blows out her breath loudly. “You must have mercy on me, Gabrielle.”
“So bold.” I lick my lips, thrilling at the way her gaze is now fixed on my mouth. Not even rich liquor has made me feel as brash and impulsive as Isabeau’s mere presence.
The servant is back with a glass of a clear liquid. I lift it to my lips and drink deeply, fascinated by the way it burns through my chest and toward my stomach. This is not an aperitif but something stronger.
“Auntie Mor knows I want to marry you,” Isabeau says baldly. “I told her.”
“Truly?”
Isabeau shrugs. “Truly. The first time I told her, we were still children.”
“And were you surprised she refused? Shocked not to be granted your every whim?” I try to keep my voice light, but my heart speeds at Isabeau’s audacity. No wonder everyone finds her alluring.
I should tell her about Emma,I think, but how do I do so without admitting I saw them at the palace?
Isabeau grips my chin, holding me in hand, forcing me to stare back at her as she proclaims, “Whim? Never once think my interest is a merewhim.”
I finish the drink, feeling uncommonly impetuous. “If we can agree on terms, perhaps we can remedy one of your complaints. A kiss perhaps?”
Isabeau pivots toward an alcove and grabs my wrist. “I haveearnedmy kiss.”
“Your Grace!” I stumble as she tugs me after her, but I don’t resist. Laughter feels like a gift, and I am a stumbling, giggling mess as I try to keep up with her. “Your seduction skills are rather unusual.”
“Yet I believe they will gain me what I most desire eventually.” Isabeau moves close enough that her hand can glide over my hip. People surround us, but most eyes will not see. The duke whispers, “I desperately want to touch you, love.”
The queen said I must attend, not that I must stay,a wicked voice reminds me. I can no longer feel the compulsion of the magic that forced me here.I can leave now!
“Be careful what you offer, Your Grace.” My voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger, husky and full of an unfamiliar need. “Do you like that, too? Being touched?”
“I do, but most noblewomen do not—”
“You may notice that I am not quite the same as most noblewomen, Isabeau. Let us leave this place.” I walk quicker than her, even in my heavy dress, leading her outside. “My home is empty. My mother and sister left for the manor.”
We say nothing more as we hurry toward my town house, and I wish we could simply run. The distance is short, and my pace quickens. Isabeau manages to keep up with me, and I am thrilled that she can do so.
