something about that, hadn’t we?” “You’ve taken her under your wing more fully than I’d expected, Bea.” Javier lay sprawled on a divan in Belinda’s sunroom, one long leg kicked over its edge, the other knocked up rakishly so his free hand could dangle over his knee. Belinda sat tucked into a chair beside him, allowing him her fingertips to pluck and drop idly as he watched her household run.
In ten days her home had been transformed. Eliza, given her head and a budget, had stalked through the Lutetian streets to make tightfisted deals with merchants bewildered by the stacks of coin she left even when they insisted a friend of the prince couldn’t possibly be expected to pay for the wares she bought. She purchased cloth, bejewelments, threads, all manner of sewing material, and before the first day was out a quiet young woman appeared at Belinda’s door, jaw set with determination. She would not, she explained hastily, be able to come back for the gown herself, but she would send her serving-maid. As it was, her mother believed her to be on the way to visit a friend, but rumour had sparked in the streets and she had seen for herself the gowns that Eliza wore. She wanted to be the first outside the prince’s intimate circle to wear a fashion made by Eliza, and was willing to risk her mother’s angry hand to have that first gown.
Eliza, irrationally offended at the link to Javier, had opened her mouth to refuse and Belinda had stepped on her toes with a solid heel, accepting the commission while Eliza’s full mouth whitened with annoyance and pain.
“Don’t be absurd,” Belinda told her acerbically, once the girl was measured and gone again. “You’ve taken a loan out from me. I have no intention of letting you welsh on it through foolish pride. Now, unless you intend to sew every gown yourself, I’d suggest you turn some thought to hiring a seamstress or two, and if you’ve any sense you’ll take one from your old address.”
Eliza had spluttered, railed, and ultimately acquiesced. By morning she had three seamstresses, all from her old quarters, and Belinda had kept Nina running all morning to bathe the three more thoroughly than they’d ever known in their lives. Eliza’s mouth had tightened, but she hadn’t argued; there was no profit in staining expensive fabric with dirty hands, or holding it against bodies smelling of refuse and shit when there were baths to be had. One of the women nearly refused the hot water, until Eliza reminded her of the pay she’d be earning for a little cleanliness. Muttering about it being against God’s will, the woman had climbed into the tub and emerged forty minutes later looking a decade younger than she had going in. She’d asked twice for a bath since then.
“It’s not my wing,” Belinda said mildly. “It’s the chance unshadowed by your wings, my lord. I’m glad to help.” She was privately delighted at how true that was; watching tautness fade from Eliza’s stance as it became clear she could succeed on her own was worth the disruption to the household.
“Unshadowed,” Javier murmured. Belinda shrugged.
“Close enough for her pride. They come to her now because of your friendship, but in six months’ time they’ll come for her creations, and in five years most of them won’t remember she was your friend first.”
“Will she make something for you?”
Belinda arched an eyebrow. “If I pay her, but if you’d like another gown to ruin on your garden floor, my lord, I’d as soon wear a muslin shift that can be replaced more easily.”
“No.” Humour curved Javier’s mouth momentarily. “I want something to present you to my mother in.”
“Your mother.” Belinda’s heart gave a sudden uncharacteristic thump, filling her throat. A note of panic cut through that fullness, Beatrice’s shock at the idea of meeting the regent briefly overwhelming Belinda’s own tense delight, though as seconds passed her own emotions conquered those of the role she played. She ached to meet Sandalia; after months in Gallin’s capital city, waiting on the queen’s return, she would finally have something to report to her “dearest Jayne.” There had been no sudden move against Aulun in the months she’d spent in Lutetia; indeed, if a plot was moving at all, Belinda half felt it was she who lay at the heart of it. Perhaps Robert’s intelligence was overblown.
Or perhaps the plotting of a queen’s murder was a slow and careful thing. Belinda felt the prickle of hairs wanting to stand on her arms, and refused her body that tiny show of emotion. “I had not thought…” The protest was token, a whisper, something to ease the amusement on Javier’s face.
“You can’t go skulking about the back halls of the palace forever, and,” he lowered his voice, “I have no intention of putting you aside just yet, for reasons you know well. Better you meet her,” he said more briskly. “Become a part of the court. Perhaps you’ll even find yourself a better match than Marius.”
“Would you take me from him, then?” Belinda asked, allowing the question to distract her for a moment. “It’s cruel enough what you’ve done. Would your friendship survive handing me to another noble?”
“Even if it were Sacha,” Javier said with arrogant confidence. “Marius’s heart would break, and in a week he’d find a new love. He’s my man, Beatrice, and his soul is a true one.”
“All the more reason to treat it well.”
Javier sat up, copper hair falling into his eyes. “Beatrice, are you telling me you’re in love with Marius? Do I keep you from your heart’s match?” Teasing and jealousy both tinged the question, Javier’s will flexing unconsciously toward her, as if to bend her to the answers he wanted to hear.
“No,” Belinda said, neither influenced by his extended power nor lying. “But a loyal man should be treated well, not used callously for his good heart.” As she’d used him, she reminded herself without rancor. His visits now were a paroxysm of discomfort, the merchant youth barely able to keep his eyes from Nina, nor willing to allow himself to look at her. Belinda’s work on the serving girl’s memory seemed to have held, and she showed no discomfort or interest in Marius’s presence than was dictated by their classes. Belinda lifted a shoulder and offered Javier a smile, letting thoughts of Marius slip away. “No matter. I would be honoured to meet your mother, my lord prince. Is she…is she like you?” Belinda drew her fingers over his, the question light and cautious. He chuckled.
“Flat-chested and redheaded, you mean? No.” A judicious pause. “She’s a brunette.”
Belinda laughed aloud, taken entirely by surprise. “I’ve seen paintings. She’s not flat-chested, either. You know what I mean, Jav.” Her voice lowered. “The witchpower.” There was no more vital piece of information. She’d come to Gallin expecting the challenge of-Better not to think it, not when her own gifts could pluck thoughts from the air around someone she touched. She withdrew her hand from his, knowing Javier might keep a similar secret close to his own heart.
“Is your mother?”
Belinda thought of Lorraine, slender and elegant on her throne. She was fond of pearls, their creaminess playing up her pale skin. Belinda shook off the image as surely as she’d forbidden herself thoughts of her duties in Lutetia. “My mother died when I was born.”
Javier shrugged, languid motion of dismissal. “Then there’s no comparison to be made there. You and I are what we are, Beatrice. We won’t worry about others, except in the impression you’re to make on them. Have Eliza make you something innocent, Bea. Mother will know better, but she likes the illusion that the women I keep are nothing more than youthful playmates.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
There was nothing innocent to the gown’s cut.
In a decade of learning to dress to hide herself, to please men, to make herself beautiful or plain, she had rarely worn something that made her feel as unrestrained as Eliza’s design did. It was not that it was overly immodest, or lacking in underlayers; the gown Belinda and Javier had ruined had been more daring in that respect.
Part of it was the sleeves. Capped and ruffled, they followed the curve of her shoulder, just covering it, and left her arms bare. Belinda had objected: it was October, and the palace was often cold. Eliza sniffed without sympathy and handed her a cape.
Even that enhanced the gown. The cloak’s ties, stretched across Belinda’s collarbones, made the round scooped collar’s dip seem all the more extravagant. Her breasts were shelved high, a new corset tucked beneath them, and a broad ribbon made a waist of the dress immediately beneath her bosom. It flowed loose from gathers below that, and above offered a shocking expanse of bared skin before a lace ruffle that scraped her nipples made a nod toward propriety.
Most extraordinarily, it was pink. Belinda had gaped at the fabric when it was brought in, unable to stop herself even as smugness played at Eliza’s mouth. “I thought you were putting away mannish things,” Belinda’d managed to protest, and earned Eliza’s laughter for it.
“Who says only men can wear pink? Or would you pretend that you’re too weak for the color, as they say women are?”
