and overjoyed and a hundred other emotions that had nothing to do with grief. But such elation had been short lived. The viscount had sent for her, and the moment she appeared at court, the man had begun directing her to use her cursed beauty to snare the secrets that he desired.
The maid returned with a simple over-partlet that was little more than a yoke, sewn at the shoulders with a collar. It fit perfectly on top of the dress and tied beneath her arms. The maid used pearl-topped pins to secure it at the center front of the neckline. Constructed of silk, the fabric covered her breasts up to her collarbones, leaving only a slim inch of skin on display where the two fronts met. It was set with a collar that had lace edging and more pearls.
“That should meet with her highness’s approval.” The maid had spoken before she thought, and ducked her chin when she realized that she had indeed uttered her thoughts without being asked for her opinion. She hurried to finish dressing her and Justina remained silent.
They were both caught in the net of rules that held them down. Just because she was addressed as a lady made little difference. She was a servant as sure as the woman fussing with her cuffs.
The other maid had dressed her hair and Justina moved to the door the moment they both stopped picking at the details of her dressing. At least going to attend the princess was not a horrible thing. She would save her hesitating for times when the viscount pointed her toward truly sordid things.
Brandon ... she thought of her son and her lips lifted with true joy. No one need know why she smiled.
Curan Ramsden, Lord Ryppon, stood on his front steps to watch his second in command take leave of the castle for the final time.
“I believe I shall miss Synclair. He’s served me as a second in command very well, I shall be hard pressed to find anyone as skilled.”
His wife, Bridget Newbury, drew a quick jerk from him because he had been so focused on the knight making ready to leave. His wife offered him a slight curving of her lips as she joined him. The minx enjoyed being able to sneak up on him.
“Synclair has performed his duty with honor. It is time for him to return to his family.”
“That isn’t where he is going.” Bridget kept her voice low so that it would not carry. His wife was the model of submission except for when no one else might hear her.
Curan admitted to enjoying that facet of her personality quite well behind the closed door of their chamber.
“Synclair didn’t say where he was going, and he owes me no telling of what is on his mind now that his time of service is finished.”
His wife smothered a small sound of amusement. “You choose not to ask because we both know full well that he is going to pursue Lady Wincott.
“We do? I am not certain of any such thing.”
His wife frowned at him. “I see, my lord husband, then am I to understand that you gave him a parchment, sealed with your crest, to deliver to the King because you expect him to ride to his lands and hand it over to a rider there?”
Curan chuckled softly. “I didn’t ask him, but in the event that he does go to court, I sent the missive with him. You are too concerned with others’ affairs, Wife.”
Bridget offered her husband a calculating glance; he returned a guarded one that she answered with a widening of her eyes and a flutter of her eyelashes. Bridget offered him a sweet smile that held no more meaning, nor intelligence, than a springtime duckling. Curan laughed, his rich voice full of amusement.
Bridget waved one hand in the air and allowed her features to return to normal. “I am also not simple, and you like that too much, Husband.”
“That is true, even if I find your ability to mask your thoughts quite entertaining ... that is when it is being directed at someone else.”
Curan reached down to where his wife’s belly was gently rounding. Their first child was growing in spite of the winter closing its grip over the land. Snow flurries drifted in the air, melting when they made it to the ground. Synclair was tense, the knight intent on checking his horse before he mounted. He reached out to tug on a strap and then another, walking all the way around the horse before nodding with approval.
That had always been the man’s way. Synclair left nothing to chance, no detail overlooked. He had served out his time with a diligence that was worthy of the knight’s chain he wore. Synclair lifted one booted foot and placed it in the stirrup before rising in a single fluid motion to gain the saddle. His body was powerful and accomplished the task with ease, giving testimony to the years the man had trained. Two white plumes topped his helmet, proclaiming his rank to anyone approaching him.
Somehow, Curan didn’t think that Lady Wincott needed to see Synclair riding toward her. Unless he missed his guess, the lady would feel the knight closing in on her. His own sister had gifted her mare to Justina so that she might flee back to court. Curan wished Jemma hadn’t interfered. One more day and Synclair would have been free to claim the lady.
Synclair never looked back but set his spurs into the belly of his stallion and leaned down low over the neck of the animal when it lunged forward. A small party of men followed the knight newly released from service. These were Harrow retainers, men who had been waiting for their lord to finish his sworn duty.
“I do hope Justina is looking over her shoulder, Husband.”
“Come now, Wife, do you wish her to be any easier to bring to heel than you were?”
His wife frowned at him. “Bring to heel?”
Her complexion darkened as she chewed on his choice of words. “I was attempting to be a dutiful daughter.”
Curan felt his own mood darken. “I believe Justina feels she is doing the same, but I for one hope Synclair can interfere in that duty.”
His wife lost her annoyed look. “As do I.”
For love was worth the sacrifice of pride.
The palace, despite being full of people, was unnaturally hushed. Justina made her way through the hallways, feeling the eyes of the people she passed rest on her. They inspected her, critiquing her poise and every detail about her person from the position of her hands to the angle she held her chin. Fans lifted and ladies leaned closer together to whisper about her, not really caring if she noticed. When one was at court, it was simply best to expect to be talked about; when one did the things that she had done, gossip was sure to follow.
“Lady Wincott.”
Francis de Canis drew her name out in a low tone that left no doubt in her mind that the man was debating just how high her price was. He was a dangerous man, one who sold his services to high-born nobles and didn’t quibble over spilling blood in the process of delivering what he’d promised.
He didn’t wait for her to offer her hand but instead reached out and captured it while she was completing her curtsy.
“I must say, it is a delight to see you gracing these hallways once more.”
“How kind of you to say.”
Justina didn’t tug on her hand; resistance would only encourage a man such as he. He thrived on making conquests, and putting up a fight was sure to cause him to double his efforts
