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“No doubt. But I’m asking about your other needs. The ones that come with mating. Will he meet those as well?”
“Ask him.”
“He won’t tell me.”
“What makes you think he told me?”
“Because that’s what he does.”
She knows. Somehow, my sister knows he stated how he feels about me. “How well do you know him?” My heartbeat is erratic, my pulse drumming in my ears.
“Well enough to know he will tell you how he feels, and if not tell, he will show you. He is not the kind of male to torture females. If he’s cooking for you, he’s either showing you affection or he’s following orders.” She walks to the window. “My problem with him bringing you meals is that that is the first step in the courting ritual, and D’Artaron doesn’t court females. He’s married to his duty.”
I tell her word for word and watch how she will react. My sister doesn’t even flinch at finding out he never loved her, but whips her head toward me. “He said that?”
I nod.
Claudette blinks. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Me either, so what do I do?”
“I don’t know. I got pregnant and lied when I said it was his, so that’s how I got out of the arranged marriage with him.”
At first, I stare, and when Claudette starts laughing, I laugh with her.
She sits on the bed and takes my hands into both of hers. “You are my little sister, my queen, and I came here in good faith to serve you as best I can, but if you want me to leave, I will. I will go right away. Keep the staff I brought, please. They’re loyal to you.”
I squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“I understand. You like him.”
“Most females like him.”
Claudette taps her nose. “Did you get a whiff of him this morning?”
We giggle. “I sure did. Good thing I was sitting down, or I’d have fainted.”
“I think Lolta might’ve.”
We laugh even more.
“Shall I let the girls in? Are we staying?”
I hug my sister and inhale her familiar scent of wildflowers under the homemade rose water soap and freshly baked apple pie. “Mmm,” I mumble. “You baked a pie.”
“I didn’t, but someone else did. You should eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
While I do that, the females file back inside and fuss over my bath and wardrobe. They roll in dresses in a portable closet, and while some of those are from my closet in the princess quarters, the others I don’t recognize.
I swipe a short, glittery, pink, little dress designed not to hide much of anything besides a bare bottom. “This is definitely not mine.”
“It is now.”
“How so?”
“Some of these come from the Summer Court, and before you think they’re last season’s, they’re not. D’Artaron took them off the future racks.”
“I’m not wearing this.”
