“You look beautiful,” Nimbus said. His fingers kept tempo with the pavane. The tutor was apparently oblivious to the waves of hatred crashing over them.
She sighed. There was nothing to do now but struggle through the night as best she could. Sitting up straight, Amilia reminded herself to breathe, which was no easy feat in the tight bodice.
Amilia wore the gown the duchess had presented to her that morning. Far from just an ordinary dress, it was a work of art in blue silk. Ribbons woven into elaborate designs resembling swans adorned the front. The fitted bodice pressed her stomach flat and led to a full, billowing skirt that shimmered like rippling water when she moved. A deep neckline left the tops of her breasts exposed. To Lady Genevieve’s dismay, Amilia wore a scarf, covering them and the exquisite jeweled necklace the duchess had lent. Perhaps to avoid a similar concealment with the diamond earrings, the duchess had sent three stylists to put Amilia’s hair up. They spent the better part of two hours on the coif and were followed by a pair of cosmetic artists, who painted her lips, eyelids, cheeks, and even her fingernails. Amilia never wore makeup of any kind. She never styled her hair, and she certainly never exposed her breasts. Out of respect for the duchess, she complied, but she felt like a clown—a buffoonish entertainment on display for those one hundred and twenty-three sets of eyes.
One hundred and twenty-four, she corrected herself. There had been a last-minute addition.
“Which one is he?” she asked Nimbus.
“Who? Sir Hadrian? I squeezed him in over there. He’s the one in purple and gold. Saldur is passing him off as a knight, but I’ve never met a man so unknightly.”
“He’s cruel?”
“Not at all. He’s considerate and respectful, even to servants. He complains less than a monk, and while I am certain he knows the use of a blade, he seems as violent as a mouse. He drinks only moderately, considers a bowl of porridge a feast, and rises at dawn. He is no knight but rather what a knight should be.”
“He looks familiar,” she said, but could not place him. “How is he coming along?”
“Slowly,” Nimbus told her. “I just hope he doesn’t attempt to dance. I haven’t found time to teach him, and I am certain he hasn’t a clue.”
“You know how to dance?” Amilia asked.
“I am exceedingly talented, milady. Would you like me to teach you as well?”
She rolled her eyes. “I hardly think I will need to know that.”
“Are you sure? Didn’t Sir Breckton seek your favor for the joust?”
“Out of pity.”
“Pity? Are you certain? Perhaps you… Oh dear, what have we here?” Nimbus stopped as Sir Murthas navigated the tables, walking straight for them. Wearing a ribbed burgundy doublet that was tight in the waist and sported broad, padded shoulders, he looked quite impressive. An elegant gold chain with a ruby hung around his neck. His dark eyes matched his coal-black hair, and his goatee appeared freshly trimmed.
“Lady Amilia, I am Sir Murthas of Alburn.” He held out his hand, covered in thick rings.
Confused, she stared at it until the man awkwardly let it fall. Amilia noticed Nimbus cringing beside her. She had done something inappropriate but did not know what.
“I was hoping, dear lady,” Sir Murthas said, pushing on, “that you would honor me with a dance.”
Amilia was horrified. She sat rigid and stared at him without saying a word.
Nimbus came to her rescue. “I believe Her Ladyship is not interested in dancing at the moment, Sir Murthas. Another time, perhaps?”
Murthas gave the tutor a loathing look, and then his face softened as he returned his attention to Amilia. “May I ask why? If you are not feeling well, perhaps I could escort you to a balcony for some fresh air? If you don’t care for the music, I will have them play a different tune. If it is the color of my doublet, I will gladly change.”
Amilia remained unable to speak.
Murthas glanced at Nimbus. “Has he been speaking ill of me?”
“I have never mentioned you,” the tutor replied, but his words had no effect on the knight.
“Perhaps she’s put off by that bit of rat hair on your chin, Murthas,” Sir Elgar bellowed as he too approached the table. “Or perhaps she is waiting for a real man to ask her to the floor. What do you say, my lady? Will you do me the honor?” Elgar dwarfed Murthas and brushed the smaller knight to one side as he held out his hand.
“I’m—I’m sorry.” Amilia found her tongue. “I choose not to dance.”
Elgar’s expression darkened to a storm, but he said nothing.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, ’tis I she is waiting for,” Sir Gilbert said, striding forward. “Forgive me, my lady, for taking so long to arrive and leaving you in such company.”
Amilia shook her head, stood, and hurried away from the table. She neither knew nor cared where she was going. Frightened and embarrassed, she thought only of getting away. Afraid of catching the eye of another knight, she focused on the floor, and it was in this way that she stumbled once more into Sir Breckton.