Joselyn was just ordering her father’s guards aside when his steward exited through the heavy doors. A haggard, frustrated expression dominated his battle-scarred face.
“Sir Richard.” Joselyn greeted the tall man with a curtsy. “I trust today’s negotiations weren’t too exhausting.”
Richard hesitated when he saw her, the corners of his mouth pulled into a frown. “Milady Joselyn. I am indeed as tired as I must seem. You, on the other hand, glow radiant as ever.”
Joselyn flashed him a polite smile.
He continued, “It’s no small wonder that you stand before me now, proud and fierce as ever.”
“And why would I not? Is this not a happy day for House Fury?” Joselyn asked. Go on. Tell me why I should be afraid.
Sir Richard regarded her. For a moment she thought she saw a flicker of regret cross his features. Or was it shame? In the end he only sighed. “As you say, milady.”
Joselyn watched him go, wondering what the man thought of the day’s events. Had he been like her father’s other knights, begging him to reconsider the alliance with House Viridian? Had he begged on her behalf? Not that it mattered. No one told a man like Marcus Fury what to do.
She turned to the door, blinked, and sucked in a steadying breath. A guard knocked for her. After a long moment, Lord Fury answered. Joselyn let out the breath, and her shoulders relaxed the barest of inches. The guards pushed the doors open.
Courage.
As she stepped over the threshold, her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. She scanned the cavernous room. The hearth lay empty, and Joselyn shuddered at the autumnal chill. Silken blankets were smoothed down to pristine perfection across the massive bed.
A bolt of lightning lit up the room, and Joselyn’s gaze landed on her father. His back to the window, he sat with his legs crossed upon a great carved chair, upholstered in rich crimson. To his side rested a lamp which provided the room’s only light save for the sconces at the entrance.
“Father?”
Marcus raised a hand, beckoning her.
Joselyn glided across the room with practiced grace. Beneath her swooping sleeves, she clasped her balmy hands together. His eyes stared her down as she approached.
Marcus Fury was a man early into the second half of his life. The years had not robbed him of his good looks, however. The lines upon his face were shallow. His hair, though faded, still contained brilliant streaks of red which, in addition to the cleft in his chin, were the only features Joselyn had inherited from him. His gray eyes held a constant severity that inspired men to obedience. That severity rested heavily upon her now as she waited. She knew better than to speak before he’d given her permission. Finally, Lord Fury arched a brow.
“Did you know?” Joselyn’s nails dug into her palms.
After a long moment, “Yes.”
Of course he knew. Marcus Fury was as shrewd as he was cunning. He would not enter into a marital alliance with another house without first knowing everything about its lord and people. Her legs began to shake. At least he’d spoken truthfully. It must suit him tonight.
“Your intended’s reputation for violence will not do.”
Joselyn’s heart withered at his flat tone.
Lord Fury went on, “When you marry you’ll mind he takes more care to clean up after himself. You may take his name, but the son you bear him will take our house. House Fury must not suffer for your husband’s perversions. Put him in check.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Are you prepared to do your duty, Daughter?”
Duty was Joselyn’s god and master, and she was the highest of priestesses. Her father knew this well. She swallowed. “Haven’t I always?”
“You’re a woman. Until now nothing significant has ever been required of you.”
No? Joselyn’s gaze dropped to her fingers, covered in black ink stains. She felt the throbbing ache in her neck from hours bent over one account book or another. All to ensure that Lord Fury was never troubled over affairs he deemed insignificant.
“I manage your estate, reconcile your logbooks, entertain your guests, give—”
“Any backwater lady can run a manor. Your mother was an expert in such things. You of all people know how little it meant in the end. Are you like your mother?”
Joselyn gritted her teeth. How could he ask her that? How dare he? “No.”
Her father huffed. “We’ll see.”
Joselyn shook her head, despair getting the better of her. “But, why?”
Marcus cocked his head. “Why?”
Dropping to her knees, she grasped at his hand. “Yes, Father, why?”
Lord Fury eyed her with irritation and Joselyn shrank. She folded her hands in her lap. Her father had a way of waiting people out until the silence had his opponents blathering over themselves. By the end of the discussion, he would have inevitably won whatever he was after, having said almost nothing at all. Joselyn would not be fooled into a one-sided conversation. Not this time. She remained totally still.
For once in your life, Father, take pity on me.
Marcus heaved a sigh and clicked his tongue. “As Lord of a dying house, Dante Viridian would do anything to preserve his legacy.”
Joselyn broke in. “Yes, a blood alliance between Viridian and Fury would no doubt give him what he desires. But what can you possibly stand to gain, Father?”
His lips thinned. Joselyn battled the urge to cringe.
Skies, Joselyn! Be silent.
“We gain nothing. What we avoid is the destruction of our house.”
Lord Fury turned toward the nightstand and poured himself a glass of wine. He swished the burgundy liquid in the silver goblet before taking an agonizingly slow sip. “Three weeks ago, Dante Viridian sent a missive to our keep. It contained a list of dates and locations as well as a number of anonymous testimonials lending credibility to the letter’s contents.” A few more languid sips and he continued, “The dates and locations correspond with the occasions I have met with Queen Arabella over the past three years.”
Joselyn choked as though she were the one drinking the wine. Her gaze tried to connect with her father’s, but he was pointedly ignoring her in favor of his cup.
“Father?” she whispered, her question unspoken.
“Yes, Daughter,” Marcus answered, still not meeting her eyes. “I’ve been plowing the king’s wife.”
Joselyn swayed. Had she not already been on her knees she would surely have fallen. When Marcus finally met her gaze it was Joselyn who looked away.
“I see,” she murmured. Her shoulders slumped, and she pressed a hand to the carpeted floor, trying to remain upright.
As a woman, Joselyn wasn’t privy to most of her father’s activities. Had she been the son her father longed for, she might have guessed that proud Lord Fury would only consider such an alliance under the threat of blackmail. And what a great threat it was.
Should King Travaran learn of her father’s indiscretions, Marcus Fury’s head would be lopped off immediately. Possibly without a trial. There was more at stake than the sanctity of the royal union. Though healthy, King Travaran was an old man, and his only heir was a son too young to rule. Should the king suddenly die under tragic circumstances, Queen Arabella would rule as regent in his stead. And Lord Fury, as her consort as well as third in line for the throne, would hold more power than any other man in the kingdom.