For that was a real risk.
I clung tightly to my confidence as I approached the entrance to my home, but fear ate away at it like rats in a grain barrel, sharp little teeth biting away at the plans Marc and I had made in the quiet hours of the night. Lying twisted in the sheets and the comfort of his arms, it had been easy to believe that I could trick my father. That I could best him at this game of politics and deception at which he excelled. But as I passed into the foyer, the faint smell of gardenias from the atrium filling my nose, I no longer believed that to be the case. And my fingers closed around the tiny steel knife hidden in my skirts, praying my hand would have the courage to strike if the duplicitousness that was my heritage should choose to fail me.
My father was in the dining room, as was his custom, a steaming cup of tea in one hand and discarded tray of breakfast sitting to his left. At the sound of my approach, his gaze left the pages he’d been reading, one eyebrow rising as he looked me up and down.
“Well,” he said, setting aside his cup. “I’d ask where you’d been all night, but the state of your appearance is answer enough.”
I sat across the table from him, smoothing my skirts out of habit, though the rumpled and water-stained silk was beyond repair.
“Was the night wasted on kisses and sweet nothings, or is the deed done?”
The mockery in his voice was simultaneously humiliating and infuriating, but the question was expected and I needed to give the truth where I could. “It is done.” And because he’d accept nothing less than plain speech, I added, “My relationship with Marc has been consummated.”
His nose wrinkled as though he smelled something distasteful. “Your sacrifice for the good of our family is duly noted.”
I wanted to slap the expression off his face, but I forced my gaze to remain downcast and nodded.
“Who else is aware of this development?”
“Only you.”
“Not his parents? Is there any chance they suspect?”
I shook my head.
“Good.” His gloved hand moved to his teacup, the sound of him swallowing loud and repugnant in my ears. “The Comte has several prospects in mind for his son, and he won’t want those jeopardized by an entanglement with the likes of you. It will be hard enough to convince those girls that a close liaison with the crown is worth night after night with that.”
I clenched my fingers around the hilt of the knife, only Lessa’s appearance preventing me from plunging it into his smirking face. She picked up his discarded tray, but he caught her wrist. “Have Ana?s escort Roland to his tutors, as I’m otherwise occupied. They should leave now – it would not do for him to be late.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lessa replied, skirts swishing as she strolled from the room, tray floating carelessly behind her in gross disregard for her place as a servant. Fear roiled through me, because Roland’s lessons began whenever he bothered to arrive. His promptness mattered far less than getting Ana?s out of the house. So she wouldn’t hear my screams.
We sat in silence, him sipping his tea and me kneading my skirts until we heard the rapid patter of Roland’s boots on the stairs. Sweat trickled down my spine and my stomach tumbled beneath my ribs, every instinct telling me to call out for my sister.
Play the game.
Coming home at all had been a dangerous choice, although to call it such was a misnomer, because there was nowhere I could go where he couldn’t find me. Though I’d not planned to do so, last night I’d discovered the proof my father had wanted – there was now enough information floating in my head to bring down Marc, Tristan, and the sympathizer cause itself.
But I had no intention of letting that happen.
Human I was not, so lying was impossible, and my father would tolerate no vague words that hid the truth. The only chance I had was to lead him down a path of my choosing and hope it would distract him enough not to ask questions that I couldn’t answer.
Picking up his ever-present cane, my father leaned back in his chair and rested the slender column across his knees. “And what, pray tell, did you gain from this tremendous sacrifice of yours?”
I hesitated, then said, “I doubt what I gained from it you’d consider of any value.”
He snorted, the sound full of derision, but before he could say anything, I blurted out, “Will you help me, Father? I’m afraid I’m going to lose him.”
That surprised him. One of his eyebrows rose. “Help you how?”
You can do this, Pénélope.
“Tristan sees no future in a relationship between me and Marc,” I said, allowing the hurt I’d felt when Marc had told me this was the case to shine through and give validity to my ploy.
“Why would he? You’re afflicted – hardly a suitable match for his right hand, no matter what he looks like.”
“I know,” I whispered, hating to the very depth of my core that I had to use my vulnerabilities as a weapon. “But it’s what we both want.”
“And you believe His Highness is standing in your way?”
“I think he’ll try to put an end to our relationship when he discovers how serious it’s become.” Which was true – Tristan might well have approved of Marc pretending to court me to keep me safe, but he hadn’t approved of our affair becoming reality.
“Likely,” my father responded. “And he isn’t the only one.”
“I know,” I said. “But you could make it happen.”
He rubbed his chin, then asked, “Is he in love with you?”
“He is.” And that it was so was a beautiful thing to me, and I hated turning it to this purpose, but there was no choice. “He’s told me so. But what difference does that make? If Tristan tells him to end it…” I allowed a sob to steal away the rest of the sentence.
He steepled his fingers, eyeing me. “It’s in your best interest to convince the boy to keep this development in your relationship a secret. If it ends, so does your usefulness in this endeavor.”
I clenched my skirts, the fabric straining under my grip. Now had arrived the moment that I’d most been dreading. But the crux of our plan was making him believe that I had something to gain from Tristan’s downfall. And something to gain from my father’s success. Taking a deep breath, I said, “I don’t want it to be a secret, Father. I know bonding him isn’t possible, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be his wife.”
I held my breath, waiting to see if he’d take my bait.
“That’s precisely what it means under Thibault’s rule. And under Tristan’s,” he said.
Lifting my face, I met his gaze. “I know. But if I help you rid Trollus of them, Marc will be pulled down in the process. I can’t win.”
“You’ll be alive,” he pointed out.