“Molli, Lord Aaron,” she says with a smile that shows a deep dimple in one cheek. A quick hesitation. “Danica.”
“Cynthea,” I say, dropping a curtsy as well as the requisite Lady, and suppress a smile at her not-quite-concealed grimace. Lady Cynthea Lefurgey is the daughter of a royal duke—though she’ll only become Your Grace if she achieves similar high office for herself. The first time she found it socially expedient to address me as Your Grace, I thought she might choke on her tongue. She can’t always get away with it, but she goes out of her way to call me by only my given name as often as humanly possible—to emphasize that in spite of everything, I remain technically untitled.
“You know Lady Nuala and Lady Giselle, yes?”
“Indeed,” I say, inclining my head. Daughters of high nobility, of course; nothing but the best for Lady Cyn.
I have to stare hard at them for nearly ten seconds before they exchange glances and drop into shallow curtsies. As Lady Nuala rises, she fakes catching her slipper on her dress quite dreadfully and tips her hands forward so half a glass of wine splashes onto my chest.
The liquid pools between my breasts, surely coating the cylinder of Glitter nestled there, and I can feel the drops working their way downward and sopping into my underclothes. Insult by proxy. I should have seen this coming. Lady Cyn, as my rival, can’t be seen stooping so low—decidedly bourgeoise—but her friends are another thing entirely.
“Quick, Lord Aaron, a handkerchief. Perhaps we can hide Lady Nuala’s error,” I hiss, plenty loud enough for the trio to hear me.
A burgeoning smirk freezes on Lady Cyn’s face.
“Thank goodness my dress is red, Nuala,” I say patronizingly, dropping her title. “How humiliating for it to be known that you staggered so ungracefully. Not to mention ruining my gown. I know poise has always been a challenge for you.”
I blot the handkerchief across my skin, but it’s Lady Nuala’s face that’s flushing. There must be a clumsy moment in her past of which I am unaware.
“Allowances must be made for the stress of our Wednesdays. Besides, I do so respect your mother, the countess.” I could not for my life have come up with the name of Lady Nuala’s mother, but somehow my memory serves up her rank.
Lady Nuala stammers an apology, and when I turn to get Lord Aaron’s confirmation that the stain isn’t visible, I see her shoot an angry glare at Lady Cyn. “Come,” I say, tucking Lady Nuala’s arm into my elbow while gesturing for Lord Aaron to join our chain on Molli’s other side, “Let’s stroll for a bit, and no one will be any the wiser.”
I lead off, and our walking four abreast leaves Lady Cyn and Lady Giselle no choice but to follow us like sad hangers-on.
When Lady Cyn finally speaks, she has to pipe up from behind me. “I hear your circumstances have improved of late. Much good may it do you. The bedroom of Marie-Antoinette herself. Tell me,” she says, getting just close enough that I can hear her but no one outside our group can, “do you think the woman is spinning in her grave to have a commoner sleeping in her bed?”
My move to the Queen’s Rooms must have been a blow, but Lady Cyn won’t accept anything as permanent until the ink of our duly notarized signatures has dried on the marriage contract. So she’s waging a war to push me off a throne I’ve yet to sit on, and to set her own backside there instead.
She’s welcome to it.
I pause and turn halfway so I can look at her over my shoulder, holding her friend tightly in place at my side. “I like to think she’d be happy that her place is being filled by someone deserving,” I reply. “It could so easily have gone another way.”
I watch with satisfaction when two pink circles show on Lady Cyn’s cheeks, though her expression remains fixed.
It’s become a bit of a court-wide joke how obviously Lady Cyn is throwing herself at the King—aiming to get him to break his betrothal. But beyond their very public trysting—which she’s certain must be such an embarrassment to me—she’s no closer to the throne than she was the night the King and I were bound by blood.
“But since you mention it”—I continue walking and force Lady Cyn to keep up if she wants to hear—“Molli and I were just discussing my upcoming social. I’m hosting a tea party next week to warm my new quarters. Yours was the first name we thought of, of course.”
“Of course,” Lady Cyn echoes. Because who in the world would not want her at their party?
I can feel Molli’s arm—still linked with mine—trembling as she holds back laughter.
“Send me a com with the details. I’ll see if I can fit it in.”
Meaning she’ll clear her entire schedule if need be.