Beatrice might have stood her ground, but Belinda knew better than to fall for the taunt. She found herself eyeing the fabric more covetously despite herself, and had ignored Eliza’s triumph. It was frothy muslin, so light it would take layer after layer to give it a decent weight. That, Eliza had agreed with, though the final dress still all but floated, and with the afternoon sun behind her Belinda knew full well her figure would be visible through the gown’s layers. It was not at all innocent.
And yet, looking at herself in the mirror, her hair piled into ringlets that fell around her shoulders, even feeling lush and sensual, Belinda’s reflection to her own eyes looked virginal and soft. Pure. The costume was so far from fashionable it would very possibly horrify Sandalia, but if its outrageousness passed muster, the effect was exactly as Javier had asked.
“What I want to know is what’s beneath all that diaphanous material.” Javier spoke from her bedroom door, his reflection appearing in her mirror only after his voice wrapped around her. Belinda tilted her head toward his image, smiling.
“I thought you were waiting for me at the palace.”
“I thought I’d better investigate Eliza’s creation, to make sure we weren’t both to be humiliated.” He came into the room, drawing the knot free from her cloak and catching it as it fell. “My mother may have a stroke, Beatrice.”
“You said innocent,” Belinda said lightly. “Would Eliza deliberately humiliate me in front of the queen?”
“No,” Javier said so steadily Belinda believed him. “Mother likes Eliza, so far as she grasps her existence at all.” He dropped a curious kiss on Belinda’s bare shoulder. “Perhaps I should warn her you’ve been dressed by my friend. It might alleviate her shock somewhat.”
“I have other, more ordinary gowns, Javier,” Belinda murmured. “If you disapprove-”
“On the contrary. I approve enough that I’d prefer to keep you here and discover what’s beneath that dress.”
“I am, my lord.” Belinda turned around with an impish smile and stood on her toes to brush her mouth against his ear. “Nothing you’re unfamiliar with.”
“You’re a woman, Bea. It’s a woman’s gift to be eternally mysterious.”
Belinda laughed aloud and kissed Javier a second time before threading her arm through his. “Your mother’s taught you well. Shall we not keep her waiting, my lord prince? I do not,” and for once Belinda spoke with all honesty, “want to make a bad impression.”
“You won’t,” Javier promised, and with the murmured words, escorted her to the Gallic queen’s court. Sandalia, Essandian princess, queen of Lanyarch and regent of Gallin, was not a tall woman. Javier had done her a disservice with his teasing about her figure; even in the straitlaced corsets that were fashionable, her petite curves were hinted at. Nut-brown hair, richer than Belinda’s, was neither dyed nor powdered to hide signs of aging; unlike Lorraine, Sandalia had years yet before age began to catch her. She’d borne Javier as little more than a child bride, her husband lost to battle within weeks of Javier’s conception, and she had ruled Gallin in her son’s name and with her brother Rodrigo’s support for more than two decades.
Belinda was surprised to find her heart beating rapidly as she approached the throne. The assembly was far from the formal audience at which she’d met her own mother ten years earlier, but her own anticipation of the event was far more acute. Then, she had been preparing to kill a man for the first time, with no idea that meeting the Titian-haired queen would bring understanding to a vivid memory from the first moments of her life. Today she met another target, much higher in rank than the unfortunate Rodney du Roz had been.
Du Roz. Of the rose. A startling clarity and question fell over Belinda even as she heard Javier murmur her name, even as she curtsied deeply and kept her eyes lowered, waiting for Sandalia to assess her. In nearly all her guises she called herself Rose, or some variation thereof, stealing her father’s pet name for her in deliberate deference to him, and making a purposeful connection to the girl she’d once been.
How much of it, she wondered for the first time, was an homage to the first man who’s life she’d taken? Surprise burned her cheeks and she reached for stillness, then let it fade again: the flush might do her good under Sandalia’s watchful eye. Let the Gallic queen think her a Lanyarchan provincial, shy and overwhelmed at meeting the woman who was arguably the rightful ruler of Belinda’s homeland.
“Rise.” Sandalia’s voice was sweeter than Lorraine’s, a soprano of operatic quality, if it could be trained to sing. Belinda straightened from her curtsey, daring to lift her eyes to the queen’s for an instant, then dropping her gaze again as benefited her station. “We presume our son’s little friend designed your gown, Lady Irvine.”
Irritation flared in Javier’s eyes, as open to Belinda as the impulse for a hard look that she doubted he would dare lay on his mother. A sting of sympathy went through her; Belinda, in Eliza’s place, wouldn’t care for the condescension in Sandalia’s tone, either. That Javier felt outrage spoke better of him as a man than Belinda might have thought, and for an instant her heart softened toward him. There was nothing he could say, certainly not in public, that would not make him look the fool and insult his mother. One might be rude to street urchins, even, or especially, when they weren’t present, but offending the queen was a mistake no one would dare.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Belinda’s whisper barely reached the throne. Sandalia leaned forward, brushing her fingertips against her thumb, not quite a snap of sound.
“Come forward, Lady Irvine. Let us examine Eliza’s artistry.”
Javier’s chagrin faded at the interest-no more than polite, but there-in Sandalia’s tone, and at his mother’s use of Eliza’s name. Belinda took two careful steps up toward the throne, its daised height helping to make up for Sandalia’s diminutive size. Jav’s throne, angled to the right and a step below the queen’s, still put his head nearly level with hers; she was, indeed, not a tall woman. “Turn,” Sandalia ordered, and Belinda did, eyes cast out and up to examine the throne room briefly and thoroughly from the closest she might ever come to royalty’s vantage.
Courtiers and hangers-on watched with envious eyes, belittling gazes, anger, and lust; they were a wash of colour, coveting Belinda’s position above them and resenting her for it. It took no gift to understand that; she could see it from their expressions, painted with politeness that lay too thin over rage: there were daughters who belonged where she now stood, favoured of the prince. There were sisters who had been overlooked. Belinda would find no friends within the Lutetian court, though should she hold her place with Javier, she had no doubt that dagger-smiling women would flock to her side.
“Pink,” Sandalia said when Belinda had completed her circuit. “An unusual shade for a woman, Lady Beatrice.”
Sudden impishness caught Belinda with a smile. “It was that or a tartan, Your Majesty. Mademoiselle Beaulieu thought the dress better suited to pink.” She let the Lanyarchan burr come through strong in her Gallic, everything about her delivery bright and delightful, though her heart hung between beats and she felt nothing but calculation as her gaze flickered to the queen again, seeking approval at her audacity.
Her heart crashed into motion again as Sandalia lifted an eyebrow so discreetly it didn’t so much as mar the smooth skin of her forehead, then allowed herself a full-mouthed twist of a smile that reminded Belinda unexpectedly of Eliza. “We are inclined to agree.” Sandalia’s voice warmed a little more, her brown eyes curious on Belinda’s face. “It is not an unattractive shade for a woman of your colouring. We’re not certain we would see it as pink at all, if there were not so many layers to enhance it. Tell us, Lady Beatrice, do you think we would look well in Mademoiselle Beaulieu’s fashions?”
Hope surged from Javier, so sharp and controlled it cut through Belinda’s heart. She kept her eyes from him, knowing that the answer couldn’t be tainted by seeking his approval; Sandalia would see that, and think less of her, and even more, less of Eliza, for it. But the queen had called Eliza by a title, far from the belittlement she’d first used, and that, combined with the question, emboldened Belinda to lift her gaze and study Sandalia’s petite form with a cautiously critical eye.
“Your Majesty…” Belinda tilted her head, then took a deep breath, risking her place in Sandalia’s court on a moment of truthfulness. “Your Majesty, if you will forgive a blunt Lanyarchan assessment, you have a form that women envy and men covet, and very likely the other way around as well.” Dismay sparked from Javier’s direction, but Belinda went on, eyes earnest on the queen. “This style of gown would enhance Your Majesty’s finest assets and help to prove that youth’s bloom is not yet gone from Your Majesty’s face or figure. That said, Your Majesty is not especially tall, and truthfully, I would have to see one of mademoiselle’s gowns on Your Majesty to say whether the straight lines of current fashion lend a gravitas and height that a woman of power might feel necessary, or whether the soft femininity of looser lines might enhance her strength in its own way. I would like very much to see it,” she finished, deliberately wistful, then added a twist into her smile. “If for no other reason
