By Dark Deeds (Blade and Rose Book 2)

by Miranda Honfleur

  And perfectly matched to her own attire.

  She vastly preferred her trousers, shirt, and vest, and her well-worn riding boots, but this… This gown, this evening, everything, it satisfied some long-held wish from her childhood, one she hadn’t remembered wanting. Born, perhaps, from a storybook read by Mama, or a doll brought home by Papa. From memories and a time when she hadn’t known tragedy nor ever spent a single minute contemplating its possibility. Halcyon days.

  Jon glanced up at the window, catching her eye with a corner of his mouth turned up, and then disappeared from view.

  Her breath caught. Tonight is work only. Work. Only.

  A soft knock rapped at the door.

  “My lady,” Davina said, “His Majesty awaits you downstairs.”

  After a few breaths to gather her composure, Rielle smiled tentatively at her and nodded. “I’ll be right down.” Right after I put my eyes back in their sockets.

  Davina gave her a hopeful smile and gently shut the door.

  This was it. Tonight, she and Jon would draw out Shadow in the gardens, or they’d made fools of themselves for nothing. And if Shadow took the bait, she wouldn’t survive the night.

  It would go well. It had to.

  Fortified, Rielle headed for the door, but stopped at the mirror. She smoothed the skirt of her gown and brushed a fingertip over one of the many white pearl pins tucked into her hair. Davina, accompanied by a flock of maids, had taken great pains to style her to perfection, tucking fistfuls of white-pearl pins into the mass of curls upon her head, painting her fingernails and toes, and coating her face in a flawless powder.

  The last time she had been so meticulously styled, it had been for Farrad. With a poisoned hairpin to kill him. And she’d lost more than she could bear.

  She settled an uneasy, trembling palm over her belly. You would have been so loved, Sylvie. So loved.

  And Jon would be a wonderful father—would have been. She swallowed. Divine, was there really such a thing as “starting over”? After the loss, after the heartbreak, the pain? Or were they just fooling themselves?

  She met her own eyes in the mirror. I love him. I want to try.

  Finding her lips matte, she reapplied some rose balm. Would Jon be pleased? Would his eyes widen, take her in? Would his breath catch? She fingered the Sodalis ring on her thumb. It felt so much better there than on her necklace. More right, somehow.

  In jeweled slippers, she left her bedchamber and headed for the stairs. Over the honeysuckle-carved banister, she spied Jon chatting amiably with one of his guards.

  How like him to make friends with his guards. Or perhaps, since they were paladins, he’d already known them? Although he’d once been cold to her, a stranger, on the first days of their mission, his kindness and goodness had eventually won. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to push her away, to combat their growing love with coldness.

  It had proved a losing battle. She smiled.

  One of the paladin guards looked up at her, and then so did Jon. The wisp of a smile on his face gave way to wide sea-blue eyes, stillness, a mouth that fell open. His guard whispered something to him, but Jon only held out his hand and quieted him.

  Eyes on her, Jon strode toward the landing, arm outstretched in invitation.

  Her feet were already descending the steps before she remembered to breathe and gather her gown’s skirts in one hand, taking the banister in the other. Her huge smile, implacable on her face, made her lower her chin to camouflage it.

  On the landing, she released the banister and took Jon’s offered arm, but couldn’t meet his eyes for more than a moment.

  Just that moment made her heart race, her skin pebble with gooseflesh, her knees weaken. She bowed her head. The light of the sconces sparkled in the aquamarine of her necklace, catching and reflecting the brilliance. Another of Jon’s gifts.

  “It’s too beautiful,” she whispered, risking another glance at him as she touched the necklace.

  “The most beautiful jewel I’ve ever seen.” He didn’t look away from her.

  Her cheeks burned. Had she burst into flames? And yet that idiotic smile still paralyzed her face.

  “Shall we?” He covered her hand with his. When she nodded, he led her to the door, escorted by his guards.

  As they silently made their way down the drive, she turned to see Davina beaming in the doorway, and waved at her one last time before Jon led her to the coach and helped her into it.

  Sitting opposite her, he signaled the coachman, and they departed for Trèstellan. The fading light shone on his black leather boots, and her gaze wandered along his fitted white trousers, coupled with the ultramarine velvet waist-length overcoat, its coattails elegantly tucked behind him. Fine golden embroidery adorned the velvet, its fasteners elaborate knots, and lined the closure up to his standing collar, where a white cravat peeked.

  The fine tailoring of his attire showcased him to perfection, covering a large frame and chiseled muscles like a gift begging to be unwrapped. Her fingertips wriggled.

  When her gaze traveled up to his face, he raised his eyebrows, a playful gleam in his eyes.

  At least he had the courtesy not to call attention to her behavior.

  His lips twitched. “See something you like?”

  So much for courtesy. She wanted, very much, to disappear. Right now. She tried to turn away, but then he lowered his own gaze. He gave her the same treatment, looked her over with soft, placid eyes, exploring her slippered feet, the sprawling fabric of her skirt, her corseted waist, her décolletage, to at last settle upon her face.

  She pulled aside the drapes to look out the coach’s window… between curious glances at him. “See something you like?” she asked him back.

  “Favrielle Amadour Lothaire.”

  She laughed. “How bold.”

  “The joy found in life is measured by the boldness with which it is sought.”

  Beneath his dauntless gaze, she shivered, masking it with a small smile. It was far too easy to melt beneath his intensity.

  If their second try was to work, it would have to be slow. Careful. She’d always wanted him, and she wanted him now. She’d loved him, and she loved him now. But she couldn’t let her wanting sabotage the recovery of their relationship. If she tumbled into his bed too soon, they wouldn’t be starting fresh; they’d simply be resuming where they’d left off… with all their issues ready to resurface at any moment. That couldn’t happen. They had to resolve them, take the time to heal, and only then rebuild upon a steady foundation.

  If only this mission weren’t such a complication. She sighed.

  They passed the rest of the ride in comfortable silence, watching Azalée go by the coach windows. Night had fallen by the time they arrived at Trèstellan. Their trap had been meticulously planned, and Divine willing, all would go well. Once they went to the gardens for their midnight walk, they’d trap Shadow, and this would all be over.

  He escorted her to the Grand Ballroom, matching her in every way; like a prized pair of birds, they paralleled each other in color and trim, differentiated only by the vestiges of gender.

  Through the open doors, sapphire and golden decorations dominated every available space. Flowers in massive arrangements, ornate tapestries, and priceless art bedecked the room, an extravagant display of wealth.

  A large string ensemble played a gentle tune in triple time, supporting the two virtuoso musicians the palace was currently hosting. Trestle tables piled high with food rimmed every wall, stacked with beautifully crafted hors d’oeuvres; entire roasted ducks, pheasants, and pigs; bowls of exotic fruits; cakes, pastries, and confections; and delicacies she hadn’t seen nor tasted in years. She shouldn’t have forgotten Trèstellan’s exquisite splendor, but the lavishness before her served as an exemplary reminder.

  A herald announced them. “His Majesty, King Jonathan Dominic Armel Faralle of Emaurria; Prince of Pryndon; Zahibshada of Zehar; Duke of Guillory, Verneuil, and Ornan; Count of Guigemar, Langue, Buis, L
omiere, and Sauvin; Baron of Milun, Laustic, and Bellegarde; Nawi of Ashram and Khairi; and honorary Paladin of the Order of Terra. And Her Ladyship, Lady Favrielle Amadour Lothaire, the Marquise of Laurentine, master mage of the Divinity of Magic, and the honorary Champion of Courdeval.”

  The blood drained from her face as over four hundred heads turned in her direction, a hum of whispers filling the air. Champion of Courdeval? On the gleaming ivory marble floor, a throng of luxuriously clad guests turned and bowed—courtiers, the Grands—a beaming Olivia among them, the local lords, ladies, and knights. Indeed, the crowd was overwhelming.

  The attention she and Jon had courted seemed to have arrived in force. She tried to catch her breath. The mission was succeeding on one count, at least.

  His hand tightened over hers on his arm, and he gave her a reassuring look and a nod. “I’m here,” he mouthed.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she nodded and raised her chin. As long as he held her, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself.

  Well, any more of a fool of herself.

  He escorted her through the splitting crowd to a dais, where behind the head table a grand high-backed throne awaited, along with a smaller, simpler upholstered chair, both gilded and carved with the dragons that graced Emaurria’s royal coat-of-arms. Jon helped her to the seat before taking his own. Olivia, Torrance Auvray Marcel, the Proctor, an older man she didn’t recognize, and a few strangers took the remaining seats at the head table.

  This was what his life had been for the past four months?

  “I welcome you, one and all, to this celebration of Veris,” Jon proclaimed above the din. The crowd applauded. “I encourage you all to enjoy yourselves beyond all limits tonight.”

  The crowd applauded again, and he motioned to the musicians, who resumed the music. A line of courtiers gathered near the throne.

  Numb, she didn’t move, but Jon held her hand through the masses approaching for brief greetings and niceties. After hundreds, she drooped, her head lolling to rest against his arm.

  Her hand in his, he gently stroked her knuckles with his thumb. If not for him, she’d be asleep already.

  “Good evening, Your Majesty,” Brennan’s rich, cultured voice greeted. “Lady Favrielle.”

  Her tired eyes quickly found him, clad in sharp black velvet from head to toe but for his white silk cravat, the fitted tailoring suiting his lean but muscular physique. She hadn’t seen in him days, and seeing him again breathed some life back into her. Swallowing, she offered her hand, and he kissed it.

  “It’s a pleasure,” Brennan intimated, maintaining eye contact as he held her hand. “You look stunning.”

  Jon gave her other hand a squeeze.

  A servant approached with drinks, and Brennan released her as they each accepted and drank a goblet of Vercourt sparkling white. At least with Brennan there, she and Jon wouldn’t need to worry about poison.

  The orchestra began the overture of the dance suite.

  Jon drank deeply and then turned to her. “Shall we dance?” He raised an eyebrow and inclined his head toward the dance floor.

  A twirling blur of night sky, haystacks, a bonfire, and apple trees spun in her head—Jon dancing with her at Vindemia last year. She took a deep breath, a feeble attempt to slow her already racing heart, and nodded.

  The orchestra played the second movement of the dance suite, the first dance—the quessanade, of moderate tempo.

  The couples stood facing each other in two long rows, lords on one side and ladies on the other. Jon led her to the front, where they took their position as the leading couple, his fond eyes upon her, their sea-blue brilliance brightened by his ultramarine-dyed overcoat. Tall, confident, he cut an impressive figure down to his high-gloss boots, his misbehaving foot tapping to the beat.

  Although she’d been well trained in dance, it had been years since she’d taken part in a formal ball—since… that horrible night at Tregarde. Dancing the sarabande with Brennan, only to presage the ridicule she’d faced later that night.

  Jon raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

  She nodded.

  He took her left hand in his, her right in his. As the lively music played on, he chose a beat of the bar, extended their paired hands forward, and led her down the row with three springing steps and a hop—the quessanade courante, a livelier version than the usual. The other couples fell in line behind them.

  For four bars they moved forward and posed, catching each other’s eyes, a wisp of a smile, her heart fluttering as they danced from the left side of the floor to the right for the last bars and turned. Jon led her in a circle for four steps round and took her arms overhead for a quick turn, leading her his way before he turned her and chased her way.

  His lips twitched.

  What was so funny? He looked about to burst into laughter, and Divine damn him, he made laughter bubble in her own throat. He drew her in and led her forward.

  “What are you laughing at?” she whispered.

  He changed hands quickly. “I’m not laughing,” he replied through pinched lips.

  “Just tell me,” she hissed.

  He turned her, drew her in again, and led her back slowly to turn and pose. “I’m happy.”

  He let the smile free for one bright moment—his eyes sparkling, dazzling, lit with an inner glow—before donning his regal mask once more.

  Separated, she took her position before him and swung one foot to the side, sprang onto it, and swung the other foot against it in a pas de Bellanzole, four times, and turned.

  Happy? It could have been for the sake of the mission, but that smile cradled her heart, embraced it, and if a pretended smile could do that, then she would never know him for genuine again.

  He still loved her. And despite the pain of that night, despite the hurt, despite the bleak picture of their possible future together, one smile from him, and she swayed to the breeze.

  All graceful arms and intimate holds, they wove their way across the dance floor in a dizzying kaleidoscope of patterns, turning, leading, circling, posing to cheery notes until the music closed.

  Breathing hard, she bent to him and he to her, bows that leaned toward one another, that beckoned, invited. He offered her his hand, and she took it.

  He pulled her in. “Dance the courante with me, Rielle,” he whispered in her ear between breaths, and she hadn’t caught hers yet but nodded eagerly.

  The orchestra played a movement in triple meter, playful and joyous. Jon lured her in, charmed her into steps that sped with longing, hope, expectation, and jumped into passion, soared—taking her heart along. His gaze never left hers, heartfelt, soft despite the faster tempo. His touch heated her body, warmed through the fine silk, hardy herringbone, and soft linen, and his gentle caresses and firm holds graced her body with equally delightful mystery, one she cared only to revel in and never to unravel.

  Caught in his gaze, she tumbled into it as her body danced the steps, and he caught her in his strong arms, safe, secure, loving, and invited her deeper. Resonance.

  She gasped, every fiber of her being longing to accept his invitation, but—

  Not here, or now, but somewhere quiet, alone with him… What had possessed him to—?

  Eyes shadowed in smoky darkness, he held her, breathless, rippling, hungry, and Divine help her, she wanted to let his appetite run rampant. His hand slipped to the small of her back, a touch she longed for on her bare skin, and a whimper escaped her throat, barely audible.

  The courante ended, just as the rest of the room and its myriad guests came back into her field of vision.

  Jon helped her to her seat and kissed the crown of her head. “I have to take a few key guests to the dance floor for the gavotte, the bourrée, and the furlana. Will you join me for the volta and the gigue?”

  The dance suite included the volta? It was scandalous, even for Silen where it had been choreographed.

  But if anything would affirm their pretense of happiness and love, it would
be the volta. Relishing his near heat, she nodded. “My pleasure.”

  He flashed a wicked grin. “I should be so lucky.”

  Then he swept away to the dance floor toward a young woman clad in Pryndonian fashion. The moderate tempo of the gavotte began, and they danced.

  Rielle explored the many twirling couples, recognizing a few faces, admiring a few others, and when a servant offered her wine, she accepted it and drank deeply. As she returned the empty goblet, Brennan strode toward her from the dance floor.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it. He knew the importance of tonight. He couldn’t take her aside here—couldn’t risk the appearance of access or intimacy. Especially not after that… whatever that was outside Jon’s quarters. And yet—

  She straightened, scanning the ballroom for Jon.

  But Brennan approached her anyway, and once at her feet, he knelt before her.

  Knelt!

  Her eyes widened. There was no way—but she blinked, and he was still there. For a long moment, he didn’t say a thing, and a ripple of guests turned their attention to him, whispering behind their hands.

  A Marcel did not kneel. Brennan Karandis Marcel did not kneel.

  But here he was.

  At last, he looked up at her gravely. “Marquise Laurentine, would you do me, unworthy cur though I am, the great honor of a dance?”

  Her mouth fell open. Divine… He’d just—

  Her eyes darted about the room, taking in the gasps and blanched faces. He’d humbled himself before her, in the presence of every courtier in Trèstellan Palace. Humbled.

  If she turned him down, he’d be humiliated. Utterly. He risked social ruin with this gesture.

  Ruin…

  Three years ago, before a handful of nobles, he’d humiliated her. Ruined her reputation.

  And now…

  Now he gave her the same power.

  She could make the same choice he had made, and ruin him…

  Or she could let him save face. Some small measure of it.