Ivy and Lady Whitmore settle into the two empty chairs across from us on the other side of the small table, their presence one more thing I have to be nervous about.
“Ignore her,” Marion whispers as soon as I sit back down. “She’s just trying to get under your skin.”
Mission accomplished.
I nod, trying to steady my breathing and think about something else. Anything else.
Marion motions to a cluster of women seated at the far end of the room near the fireplace. I try to focus on the gossip she spills between bubbles of laughter, but Ivy’s presence is too big, too much like Stephanie’s. Every time she laughs, every time she glances our way, I feel like a little girl playing dress-up in a world I don’t deserve to be in.
Attendants fan out with trays of sweets, and McDougall approaches, a platter of delicate pastries balanced in his hands. He pauses between Marion and me, and we whisper hellos as he brings the plate to the small table in front of us.
A delicate pastry topped with glazed strawberries wobbles on the edge of the tray. McDougall moves to catch it, but it lands in my lap with a soft thud, splattering cream and strawberries onto my dress.
The room goes silent for a heartbeat, all eyes turning to me.
McDougall’s cheeks are beet red, his fluff of hair quivering on his head as he rushes to pick up the sweet with a pair of gold tongs. “I beg your apologies, Lady Ashwood.” The glaze sticks to my velvet skirt, and the fabric lifts as he tries to gently peel away the pastry without causing further damage.
Heat floods my cheeks, and I force a hollow laugh as I unstick the food from my dress. “Looks like I’m the dessert now.”
Across the table, Lady Whitmore gasps, her jeweled fingers flying to her mouth, and Ivy flicks open her fan to shield her catty snicker. My heart skips a beat, embarrassment stretching the moment into an eternity as I sit there, pastry outstretched to McDougall, milk and sugar staining my dress. Ivy watches, waiting like a spider in her web for me to make the smallest mistake.
The weight of her gaze, of my past with Stephanie, of the pressure to be Lady Ashwood—it all presses down on me like an anvil.
Without thinking, I clear my throat, my voice cutting through the nobles’ hushed whispers. “Mr. McDougall, must I remind you to be more careful? We cannot afford any more mistakes.”
There’s a slight, almost-imperceptible crease between McDougall’s brow, his eyes flashing with hurt. He quickly masks it, his back rigid as he takes the pastry and bows with painstaking care. “Of course, Lady Ashwood. My sincerest apologies.”
A pang of regret twists in my gut, but I keep my chin lifted, my expression neutral, embodying Lady Ashwoodthe same way I should have embodied a killer marketing maven while at Posh Pulse.
My gaze flicks to Ivy. She continues to sneer, whispering to Lady Whitmore behind her fan, and I nearly wince as the two women laugh, no doubt at my expense.
McDougall retreats, the tray of pastries still in hand, his shoulders slightly hunched as if to protect himself from further humiliation. Regret squeezes my heart, but I can’t afford to show any weakness.
I glance back at Kane for reassurance, for anything more than the emotionless stare he’s leveled at me since the barn.
“Unnecessary, don’t you think, Fawn?” His jaw is tight, voice low, but his disapproval is loud enough to make my lungs squeeze.
I clear my throat, my heart sinking. “I thought…I thought that’s what they wanted. What I was supposed to do.”
“And for their approval, you would compromise who you are?”
Before I can respond, the double doors at the far end swing open. There’s no time for apologies or explanations. The moment has passed, leaving the bitter taste of guilt in my mouth.
The herald steps forward, his voice ringing out. “Her Majesty, Queen Lockhart!”
Every head turns as the queen enters. Long white hair cascades around her sunken cheeks and sharp shoulders. Deep lines draw a map of grief around her thin lips and pale blue eyes. Her presence commands the room, a ghost of former grandeur wrapped in a scarlet gownthat flows like liquid fire with intricate gold embroidery along the hem.
The room remains silent as we rise from our seats in unison. We bow and curtsy while the queen moves with a grace born of habit, her back straight, her steps slow and measured. Her crystal-blue eyes are unfocused and tired, scanning the room without truly seeing it.
As the Queen Mother nears, Kane bumps me with his elbow. I follow his direction, dipping my head and deepening my curtsy as she passes and practically floats to the high-backed mahogany throne in front of the window.
She takes her seat next to her own personal tea table complete with a porcelain tea set and a spread of delicate pastries and fruits. Her nod is slight, and I rise from my curtsy along with Marion and the others.
“Be seated,” Queen Lockhart says, her voice melodic yet commanding.
We comply, the rustle of fabric and the soft scrape of chairs the only sounds as we resume our places.
McDougall rushes to her side. He pours the queen a cup of tea, the liquid steaming as it cascades into the porcelain cup. With meticulous care, he adds a single lump of sugar, then finishes with a splash of milk before retreating to join the other attendants lining the wall.
