Meanwhile, the statue of Llews Moonson, hero of the Imp War, loomed in silent judgment—his sword raised, his expression noble, and his lower half... aggressively sculpted.
Lady Isolde’s gaze flicked from Emmaline’s reddening cheek to the statue’s offending protrusion. A pause. Then, with the kind of slow, deliberate blink only the aristocracy could wield as a weapon, she tilted her head.
“I daresay that’s not the first time you've found yourself on the receiving end of such an… unfortunate positioning.”
A muscle in Emmaline’s jaw pulsed, and Lady Isolde smiled. It was going to be one of those conversations.
“My Lady, it’s not what you think.” Heat burned up Emmaline’s neck, her mortification twofold.
Isolde looked down the hall, then back. “It certainly seems like you were lying in wait for some poor soul to traverse this corridor, rather than, say, inventorying the floral arrangements that arrived for the ball… on the other side of the castle.”
Emmaline clasped her hands behind her back to hide the tremor in her fingers. “I was just waiting for…” Her brain scrambled, grasping for anything remotely plausible. “For the…”
Lady Isolde lifted a single, expectant brow.
“For me.”
The voice drifted from the far end of the hall, impossible to ignore.
Deyric strode in from the entrance to the family stables, boots striking purposefully against the hard floor. His deep emerald eyes landed on Emmaline, and the, no doubt, growing bruise forming on her cheek. His pace didn’t slow, but his lips quirked, the prelude to a remark she was sure to dislike.
Lady Isolde turned toward him with a slight incline of her head, but her disapproval didn’t waver. Instead, she looked between the two of them. “And what business do you have with… with…” She gestured toward Emmaline, hesitation palpable.
A beat. Then, with an almost pitying squint, “This one.”
Deyric wiped his hands on a small towel tucked into his waistband before folding his arms across his chest. “Miss Emmaline asked meto ensure all the horses would be freshly groomed and dressed in the latest fashion by next Friday. I was coming to confirm that the new tack had arrived and that the extra groom has been reserved to help get the ladies fresh and shiny for the solstice.”
Isolde’s expression barely shifted, but the slight downturn of her mouth spoke volumes. She seemed to know exactly why Emmaline had been lurking outside the stables—waiting for Caelith to return from his morning ride just in time for lunch.
The wretched woman let the silence stretch just long enough for discomfort to settle before giving another unimpressedtsk. “It's about time.” She looked at Emmaline. “You do enjoy dancing on the very edge of preparedness, don't you?”
“Yes, my Lady.” Emmaline bowed her head enough to appear dutiful while darting a glance toward Deyric.
He was smirking. Of course he was. Heat crept back up her neck.Frustrating man.What exactly did he think he was doing, inserting himself into her business like this?
Lady Isolde, either oblivious or—more likely—entirely aware, let her stare settle on Deyric. Emmaline watched as the woman’s eyes took in his broad shoulders, the way his shirt clung just so, the roughness of his hands as he wiped them clean. Isolde’s lips parted slightly, just enough to suggest appreciation, before she exhaled through her nose in a quiet, considering sound.
“Luckily, Deyric was able to accommodate your poor planning.”
Emmaline bit down on her tongue so hard she nearly tasted blood.
“Of course, my Lady.” Deyric, naturally, looked unaffected, his easy nod bordering on polite disinterest.
Her fingers tensed at her sides. The feeling, whatever it was, spiked when Isolde’s regard drifted back to the man, taking her time as if she were considering whether Deyric’s talents extended beyond the stables. Something hot and volatile coiled low in Emmaline’s gut, her pulse hammering in response to… what? The insult? The implication? Her body had an answer before her mind caught up—an irrational, unbidden itch in her muscles as if she needed to do something, to stop something.
Forcing herself to exhale, she smoothed a hand down her waist, grounding herself in the press of fabric beneath her palms. Best not to lift her head just yet. There was no telling what might be written across her face.
“And take off that ridiculous belt. It has no place on a servant’s dress.” Lady Isolde barely spared her a glance before turning back down the hallway.
“What?” Emmaline whispered, fingers brushing over the intricate loops of Margot’s carefully crafted piece. The belt had felt like armor this morning, proof that she belonged, that she could shape herself into something more. But under Lady Isolde’s scrutiny, it suddenly felt garish. Foolish. Like a child clinging to their mother’s jewelry, playing pretend.
Focus. She had more important things to worry about.
Lady Isolde had only taken a few steps before she paused, turning to look at them.
“Oh, and Deyric.”
“Yes, my Lady.”
