“No,” I say. “The racetracks, gambling halls, and doxy dens. Even in the quiet chambers where Icanbe found, I hear word of your exploits, Isabeau.”
“You wound me.” She looks away, seeming almost embarrassed. “I am not so awful as the gossips say.”
We drift to silence, and I think that surely, this is not the resolution my father bade me to seek. In truth I was not prepared to see her, to walk with my hand on her arm, to hear her voice again. I’m not sure I could be. Not to see her. Not to touch her.
Gods above, the touch of her arm through the fabric of her suit coat and blouse is not going to unsettle me so. The curl of her ear, the spark in her eye, the curve of her calf, even the way her tongue wets her lips because she’s nervous ...
“Your hair is longer,” Isabeau blurts out.
“Yours is shorter. Have we nothing more significant to discuss?” I release her elbow and walk to the fire. I keep my back to her as I toss the cloth into the flames and salt my hands.
“How are you?” she manages. “Truthfully.”
I can feel her watching me. She’s never been subtle when she studies me. It used to send a frisson of excitement through my body. Honestly, it still does. “I am restless. Ready for the cold months to end. You?”
“Heartbroken. Weary. I’ve moved to the castle.” I turn to face her, and her eyes hold mine as if she is daring me to pursue the conversation, but I cannot.
I stand, shoulders back, chin up, and ask, “Would you let me know if there is other ... red on my dress?”
I hate asking her to stare at this wretched excuse of a gown. Foolishly, I want to be beautiful if she’s the one studying me. Not tattered. Not smelling of a dead man’s ashes. The stitching of my gown is torn at the waist, and several slashes mark the skirt and bodice. Mud clings to the hem like an adornment.
“How do you still look so lovely in this mess of a frock?” Isabeau murmurs, as if she can read my mind. More likely, she sees my nervousness. She could always read my face too well.
“Is there any more blood?” I pivot slowly.
“No.” Isabeau shakes her head. “Why was there blood at all?”
I press my lips together and then say, “There was a man in the wood. My father is telling His Grace.”
“Were you attacked?” Isabeau reaches out as if to pull me into an embrace, and I swear my heart cracks inside my chest. Even now, her instinct is to protect me. Although I have no doubt that the rumors of duels and stealing out windows and brawls are all true, Isabeau is as chivalrous as she is perilous.
I hold a hand out to stop her approach and look down at my dress. “I am merely wet and mud coated.”
“You are still the loveliest of women, even with twigs and leaves upon your person,” Isabeau says, voice dropping into a familiar seductive register.
I laugh, despite everything. “Perhaps you have learned abitof charm since last we spoke.”
“And enough decorum to offer you a replacement dress to travel home,” Isabeau adds quickly. “I have dresses. I no longer have need of them, and yours is”—her eyes dart to the missing swath of fabric—“damaged.”
“Are you trying to get me out of my dress, my lord?”
“No!” Isabeau fumbles her words, and against all logic, she’s more alluring for it. “Not that I would not be ... Not that ... I mean to say, youarestill the loveliest of creatures, Gabrielle. I would—”
“Lady Gabrielle.” The duchess has entered the room without any noticeable sound. She has long had a disconcerting ability to do so.
I drop into a curtsy. The duchess is the only woman I have encountered in all of Alveus who expects me to act like she’s my superior. The other nobles I see in Regina Centrum are my peers. There are other duchesses, of course, but none I regularly encounter.
And none whose daughter I let fondle me,my guilt whispers.
The duchess shoots Isabeau a stern look. “Your father is concluding his business, and the earl would like his daughter present, so I thought I might find Lady Gabrielle. Instead, I find you once again on the verge of ...” She pauses and stalks toward me. “What is that wretched thing you wear? Has your family fallen upon hardship?”
“No, Your Grace.” I curtsy again. Never too often with the manners for this woman. “My father and I were roused early to carry news to His Grace about most pressing matters.”
“That does not explain your dress.” The duchess circles me. “When I overheard your words, I thought my daughter was being careless in her dalliance with you yet again. His Grace’s health does upset her, and her tendency to behave in rakish ways is no secret.”
“Mother.” Isabeau visibly flinches at her mother’s words. “Gabrielle was—”
“LadyGabrielle,” the duchess corrects.
