“Hm.” His eyes drifted to her gloved hands. “Is it unusually cold at Frogmore this spring, or have you taken to fashioning yourself a nun?”
She blinked once, then slipped her hands beneath the edge of the table. “It was drafty, yes.”
He arched a brow at her evasion, but made no further demands. He merely sipped his wine and leaned back in his chair, his smile returning. “Well, even if the Queen did grow tired of your company, you cannot possibly have returned without some tale to tell. You may as well admit it—there was someone. Some romance. Your face gives you away.”
She did not reply.
He set down his utensils with exaggerated care. “Come now. I may be your father, but I was once a young man myself. There is a look about you—you’ve either had your heart bruised or your pride wounded.”
Elizabeth kept her gaze on the tablecloth. “The gentleman did not return my affections.”
He scoffed immediately. “Then he’s a damned fool.”
Her eyes flicked to his, startled by the vehemence.
“I mean it,” he said, waving his fork for emphasis. “Name the fellow. I shall see to it he understands what he has thrown away.”
“I would rather not.”
“Afraid I’ll duel him?” he teased, clearly warming to his own narrative. “You must give me more credit. I have attorneys now. I let them handle my grudges.”
Elizabeth forced a smile, then rose to her feet. “It truly is of no consequence. And I am… very tired. May I take my leave?”
He waved a hand, already reaching again for his wine. “Of course, of course. Ah—one thing. Your bedchamber will be uninhabitable for a time. A fire. Nothing serious, but the furnishings were ruined and the walls rather scorched. Select any of the other rooms you like.”
Her breath caught faintly. “I heard about it. And… Alice?”
He lowered his glass. “Alice?”
“My maid. I hope she was not…” Elizabeth swallowed. “That is, I hope no blame fell on her. She is not… dismissed, I hope?”
“Ah.” He cut a bit of his meat and pierced it with his fork before replying. “I suppose she is around somewhere. I doubt she had anything to do with the fire. But if she’s not to be found, someone else will see you settled. There is always someone.”
Suppressing a sigh, Elizabeth rose and made her way up the staircase, her footsteps soundless against the plush runner. The house was quiet—too quiet. Every portrait along the corridor seemed to watch her pass, their painted eyes judging her as an interloper in her own home. When she reached the guest wing, she bypassed the grand chambers with terrace views and ornate balconies. No vistas. No trees. No French doors. She needed four walls and a single latch she could set herself.
The room she chose was modest, narrow, and square, with a single window that overlooked nothing but the inner courtyard and stable roofs. She closed the shutters before she crossed the threshold, twisting the latch firmly and testing it twice. The lamp on the bedside table cast a soft glow, flickering as though uncertain it had the strength to last the night.
She moved to the dressing table on legs that barely felt her own. The stool creaked faintly as she sat. The mirror offered her no comfort—only the dim outline of a woman she scarcely recognized.
She reached for the buttons at her wrists and slowly tugged at the gloves. The fabric caught where scabs had dried against the lining. When she finally pulled them free, she stared at the damage.
Her hands were a ruin—scraped raw across the knuckles, the pads of her fingers lined with angry red. Deeper gouges along her palms had reopened in places, the skin puffed and dark with bruising. There were cuts she did not remember getting. Scars that would stay.
She laid them palm up on her lap for a long moment. Then she turned back to the mirror and reached for the cloth and dampened it with the basin.
One pass took off the worst of the powder over her cheeks. Another revealed the truth. A dark bruise bloomed across her left cheekbone, half-hidden by clever cosmetics. A faint line at her hairline, where a shard of glass had nicked her. A smear of dried blood behind her ear.
She dabbed carefully at each spot, ignoring the sting. She did not stop until the cloth was stained, until every effort to look untouched had been undone.
Then she sat back.
And stared.
The girl in the mirror was not the one who had curtsied before royalty and danced under chandeliers. She was not the whispered-about heiress with the London suitors and the diamond pins. She was not the Marquess’s daughter, or at least—she no longer knew what that meant.
She was a girl who had run through dark woods. Who had fought off trained killers with her bare hands. Who had hidden in floorboards with the man she loved, waiting to die.
Her throat clenched.
