“How are you feeling?” she asks, trying to ignore the guilt nagging at her. He looks miserable, and she did that to him. She needs time alone with Lord Savelle, she reminds herself. Still, the guilt doesn’t recede completely.
“Oh, a little better, I think,” Pasquale says, his voice hoarse. “I don’t think I’ve vomited in the last quarter hour, so that’s an improvement.”
She lets out a small sigh of relief—if she’d gone too far with the ravelroot, he’d be vomiting more as time went on, not less.
“I feel terrible, abandoning you for the evening. Are you sure you don’t mind if I go to dinner without you?”
He waves her concern away. “No, I know you wanted to hear more about Temarin and Sophronia—will you ask after Leopold as well? We’ve lost touch over the last couple of years, but he is my cousin.”
“Of course,” Beatriz says before biting her lip. “Would you like me to ask the servants for anything? Some bread, perhaps, now that your stomach’s calmed?”
He nods slowly, though his grip on the basin tightens slightly at the mention of food. “Maybe in another hour or so? I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”
“Of course,” she says, lingering by the door. Part of her wants to comfort him, the way he comforted her after she faced down his father in the throne room, but she isn’t sure where to begin. Whenever she or her sisters were sick, her mother always kept them isolated, even from one another, to keep the disease from spreading. The isolation was usually worse than the illness itself. Should she approach his bedside? Rub his back, like he did for her? A small, foreign part of her wants to kiss his forehead for some reason she can’t understand. Instead of doing any of those things, she stays by the door, her hand on the doorknob.
“Feel better,” she says, with a small, strained smile. “I’ll be back soon.”
* * *
—
Though dinner is set up in the smaller dining room attached to Beatriz and Pasquale’s rooms, smaller is a relative description. The table could hold at least a dozen people comfortably, and when Beatriz enters, she finds three places set at the far side, with Lord Savelle already seated to the left of the head. When he sees her enter, he rises to his feet and bows.
She waits for his gaze to sweep over her, and especially over the bare shoulders and décolletage her gown shows off so splendidly. She knows the rich violet color sets off her auburn hair, and she’s carefully applied an arsenal of powders and creams to best complement her features. But Lord Savelle’s eyes don’t linger or leer the way other men’s have. Stars, even when she’s wearing her most demure dress, she can feel the king’s lecherous gaze, watching her every move. Why is it, she wonders, that the two men she needs to ensnare are the two who don’t show her the least bit of interest?
Well, she failed with Pasquale, there is no hope for that, but she refuses to fail here as well.
“Your Highness,” Lord Savelle says. “Thank you again for the invitation.”
“Thank you for joining us…” She pauses. “Well, me, at any rate. I’m afraid Prince Pasquale is a bit indisposed at the moment, but he sends his regrets and says we should carry on without him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lord Savelle says. When Beatriz takes the seat opposite him, he sits down as well. “I haven’t been to this part of the palace before—it’s stunning.”
“You haven’t?” Beatriz asks, frowning like she’s surprised at that, when she actually could have guessed as much. From what she’s heard, no one at court makes an effort to extend invitations to Lord Savelle, least of all the royal family. Pasquale seems to like him well enough, but then Pasquale isn’t exactly known for hosting dinners or parties. If she hadn’t suggested this dinner, it never would have occurred to him. “Well, I’m very glad you made it.” She gestures for a servant standing near the door to bring wine, and once their glasses are full, she lifts hers and offers him her most beguiling smile.
“To you, Lord Savelle,” she says. “And to the blossoming of new friendships.”
A touch of color graces his cheeks, but he lifts his glass toward hers, sending a clink echoing through the otherwise quiet room.
“You flatter me, Your Highness, but thank you,” he says before taking a sip of his wine. “I confess—I was surprised by your invitation.”
“Oh?” Beatriz asks, raising an eyebrow. Idly, she traces a finger down the length of her neck while meeting his gaze—a trick she learned from a Bessemian courtesan who claimed it could lure a man to her from across a crowded ballroom. But if Lord Savelle takes any notice of the curve of her neck or the flirtatious look in her eyes, he gives no sign of it.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m sure you haven’t had the opportunity to notice yet, but I’m not very popular here at court.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Beatriz says with another bright smile. “I see nothing about you that I don’t like, Lord Savelle.”
“Again, you are too kind, Your Highness—”
“Oh, you must call me Beatriz,” she says, reaching across the table to place a hand on his arm. Lord Savelle doesn’t jerk away from her, but he doesn’t lean into the touch, either.
“Very well, Beatriz,” he says, looking only slightly nonplussed. “But as I was saying, people have long memories. There are many here who haven’t forgotten their…troubles with Temarin, who still see me as the enemy.”
“That’s silly,” Beatriz says, retrieving her hand and masking her mounting frustration by taking another sip of wine. “The war has been over longer than I’ve been alive—surely no one holds a grudge that long.”
“You are very young, Your—Beatriz, I mean,” he says, shaking his head. He looks at her again, and this time it’s plain that there is no attraction in his gaze. Beatriz is beginning to suspect that she could walk through the room stark naked and he would barely blink. The knowledge grates on her. This is what she was raised for—her beauty is supposed to be her best asset—and yet it has done her no good. “You remind me of someone, actually,” he says, tilting his head to one side slightly as he watches her. “My daughter.”
“Oh?” Beatriz asks, frowning as she sifts through everything she knows about Lord Savelle. “I didn’t know you had any children.”
“No, why would you?” he asks, shaking his head, and Beatriz wants to kick herself. “She was born about two years after I came here—her mother was my…” He trails off, looking at her warily. “She was my mistress,” he says after a second. “I’m not terribly proud of how she came into the world, but I did give her my last name and all the privileges I could. She was raised in my household, given the same lessons any noble child had—truthfully, I spoiled her rotten. Fidelia was her name.”