23

23

Aimee sat perched atop the low wooden stool which had been set to one side for her to take her ease as they set up the pavilion. She felt far too uncomfortable to sit observing them with any contentment as frankly her backside was aching like the devil from five hours in a saddle.

Aimee shifted onto her other buttock and winced, clasping the edges of her seat. It felt like she would never get comfortable again! A bee buzzed loudly in her ear and she gasped, waving a hand about to dislodge it from wherever it had landed.

Really, it felt particularly disobliging that, in a positive sea of meadow flowers, this bee had decided she was the landing spot it most desired. She regarded the pretty summer’s view with a jaundiced eye. It was a very pretty spot, she acknowledged. The green grass was scattered liberally with harebells and daisies and even the odd poppy. The afternoon sun was low in the sky, but it was still warm, and she had long since abandoned her cloak and hat into the long grass.

Another loud buzz had her sharply turning her head as something winged skimmed past her nose. She wondered if a night sleeping outdoors would mean being crawled all over by insect life and shuddered.

Aimee had not much appreciated her only other previous stay in the countryside last year with the Wycliffes, then again, they had not spent much of it out of doors. She remembered the pastures surrounding their ancient home had smelt extremely strongly of dung at the time, as the land was being prepared for planting.

Of course, cities could smell pretty objectionable too, Aimee reflected fairly, but she was used to the smell of Caer Lyoness and knew whereabouts she needed to hold her breath or press a scarf to her nose and walk quickly. The countryside was unfamiliar to her and seemed to assail her senses with fresh outrages at every turn.

She shifted again on her seat in a vain attempt to get comfortable. The pavilion was taking shape now, and though the shape and size was impressive, she was a little disappointed by the drab brown color of the Kentigern tent. It ought to be blue and yellow by rights, she decided. Maybe if his tournament abode were decked out in his colors, then he would stop hankering for his wife to parade them on her person!

Biting her lip, Aimee wondered if he was going to be really put out when she was forced to confess she had not brought along a new heraldic gown. She would not feel guilty about it, she told herself. She was entirely justified in wanting to avoid repeating that whole debacle. No reasonable man would expect such a thing from his wife!

Then again, she was not entirely sure Lord Kentigern was a reasonable man. She sighed, plucking on the large silver brooch which she had pinned to the center of her bodice. Freda’s gift was barely recognizable these days, she thought glancing down at it and the double rope of pearls that swathed her upper body. She was decorated like a noble these days, if nothing else!

She would have to wear her grandest gown to dinner, she thought with determination. If she was expected to take precedence over a genuine princess of the blood! Aimee knew precious little about the last of the royal house of Blechmarsh, but she had seen the ill done renditions showing the popular image of Una wearing full armor astride a horse. What would it be like being sat down to supper with such a warlike creature, she wondered.

She had not missed her husband’s thunderstruck response to the fact that the northern princess was present at Beres Caple, and she had felt a nasty jolt of something she was worried might be jealousy. He had gone to war for the Blechmarsh cause, she thought with a cold feeling in her stomach. He had lost everything and nearly died for it. If he were to win the joust here, she already knew who he would award the crown to, and it would not be his wife.

“Aimee!” She looked up to find Lord Kentigern – Konrad, as she should think of him by now, regarding her critically as he stood at the entrance to the tent. “What ails you, woman?” he asked with a frown. “You look sour as curdled milk.”

She stood up bristling all over. “I assure you I am quite well,” Aimee answered huffily, sticking her nose in the air. “It is only that I am a little stiff and sore from the journey.”

He grunted and held out his hand to her. “Come and see if there is enough here for your comfort.”

She made her way gingerly through the long grass toward him. “Well, it all looks very nice,” she said uncertainly as she stepped into the interior. In truth, she was not sure what she had expected, but the low bed stacked up with blankets and furs and the pile of saddlebags and armor was not it. “Are there not any chairs to be had?” she asked.

Konrad turned to the two servants hovering to one side. “Two chairs,” he said succinctly before turning back to Aimee. “Anything else?”

His tone was rather dry, but she considered the matter seriously a moment before making her reply. “A small table,” she said resolutely.

“You heard my lady,” he said, turning back to the servants again. They bowed and hurried away, and Aimee wondered where she was supposed to put herself as Konrad moved to his pack and started untying the strings.

“Where is Jakeman?”

“He’s seeing to the horses. The Howards have offered us the use of their own stables.”

“That was nice of them.” He grunted. “They seem very much in awe of you,” Aimee added.

Konrad snorted. “Like I say, they don’t get many knights from other parts travelling here.”

“Well, this year it seems they have. You said their mother presides over the feast?”

“Aye, for her late husband, Sir Bortram Howard, had no sooner set up the tournament here then he died of the ague. His widow continues it now in his memory.”

Aimee watched as he started removing several things from his pack. Most of the objects were wholly unknown to her, and she guessed they were for treating his weapons. He looked up as though aware of her scrutiny. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Where?” she asked pointedly, glancing around the bare interior.

“On the bed.”

“Oh.”

The corner of his mouth on the uninjured side of his face tilted up in that lopsided smirk he seemed to favor. “You seem a little disappointed by the pavilion.”

Aimee sank down onto the bed with a grimace. Her rump really was painful, and the mattress was very low to the ground. Once she made contact with it, she was relieved to find it was reasonably soft. Her expression must have registered this, for he gave a short laugh.

“It is stuffed with grasses, so it should be comfortable.”

“Yes,” she hastened to assure him. “It is.”

“If you dislike it out here, I am sure Lady Howard would offer you a bedchamber within,” he answered picking up his sword and examining the hilt.

“What about you?” she asked.

He looked up. “What about me?”

“Where would you sleep if I go within?”

“Out here,” he answered with a trace of impatience. “Where else?”

Aimee swallowed down the bitter taste in her mouth. Obviously, her presence or no would make little difference to him. “Of course,” she said blankly and rose from the bed. “How silly of me.”

“Where are you going?” he asked sharply when she took a step toward the tent entrance.

“I thought I would just take a step around the meadow,” Aimee said, brushing aside the flap to the entrance and exiting before he could voice any objection. Not that he would object, Aimee thought furiously, dashing her forearm across her eyes as she stalked away, when he did not care remotely about her whereabouts!

The ground was sadly uneven in the meadow, and Aimee winced over every bump which she felt in her sadly jolted spine and sore behind. She was just picking her way over a particularly lumpy patch which must surely have been churned up by horse’s hooves after rain, when she felt herself seized and whirled about so fast, she nearly lost her footing altogether.

“Don’t be a little fool,” her husband growled down at her, a thunderous frown at his brow. “You can’t wander about the place wearing a king’s ransom in jewelry! This may not be Caer Lyoness, but people are still robbed in the country and wind up dead in a ditch!”

Aimee glared up at him. “Very well,” she said, reaching for the pearls and starting to draw them up over her head. She had lifted them no further than her ears before she was roughly seized and slung over a large and burly shoulder. “Konrad!” she shrieked. “Put me down!” She might have even added ‘you brute’ at this point, but her necklace was swinging about her face and a mouthful of pearls prevented her.

He made no reply, just swung about to return to his own tent, when a cleared throat in the vicinity made them both freeze in their tracks.

“Kentigern,” said a deep, pleasant voice. “Well met.”

Aimee found herself rotated again as her husband turned to face the speaker. Shoving her palm between Konrad’s shoulder blades, Aimee levered herself up to squint over his shoulder at a tall, good-looking couple who were stood arm-in-arm and regarding them with varying degrees of curiosity. While the male’s gaze was curious and amused, the female’s expression was full of lively horror.

“De Bussell,” her husband answered through clenched teeth, his grip on her buttock tightening momentarily and making Aimee yelp.

“I believe you know my wife,” de Bussell continued with a lift of his eyebrows.

Konrad cleared his throat, clearly at a loss how to address the former princess now her station in life had quite altered.

“Indeed, we are old friends,” Princess Una said hurriedly in an attractively full-bodied voice, which sent another pang through Aimee’s being. Of course, the princess would be a tall and majestic auburn beauty, Aimee seethed. And look absolutely nothing like those slanderous likenesses that flooded the marketplaces of Caer Lyoness, lambasting her for an ugly fright! “How are you, my lord?” Una continued warmly. “Well, I trust?”

A horrible realization flooded Aimee’s being that they were going to ignore her embarrassing presence. Likely, they thought her some buxom serving wench that Lord Kentigern was dallying with! An awkward silence fell over the group.

“This is my wife, Aimee,” Konrad said as though the words were dragged from his lips by wild horses. Aimee closed her eyes in mortification, and suddenly Armand de Bussell gave a hearty laugh.

“Armand!” the princess murmured to her husband in reproach. He sobered at once. “Perhaps, if you put her down, Lord Kentigern?” she suggested sounding flustered. “And perform our introduction?”

Aimee felt Konrad’s shoulder stiffen beneath her. Her face turned as red as an apple as she prepared herself for the inevitable and humiliating descent from his shoulder. She just hoped her legs would be able to hold her up.

“We have some business to see to back at our tent,” her husband replied shortly. “I am afraid the introductions must wait until supper.” With that, he turned around and started back up the bank toward their tent.

Aimee gasped, inhaling her necklace, which she hadn’t realized was still in her mouth. She spat the pearls out. “What are you doing?” she choked in a furious undertone, venturing one glance back at the couple watching them with open mouths. “You can’t just –”

“Actually, I can,” he responded. “And I just did.” He ducked into the entrance and then turned, releasing some strings so the material swung shut. Then he carried her to the bed and lowered her down onto the mattress, so they were face to face. “Not another word,” he warned, and rolled her over onto her stomach.

Aimee felt her gown lifted up over her legs and settled at her waist, followed by her shift. He made short work of the strings tying her fine linen under-clouts and dispensed with them altogether. “In case you’re confused, I’m not about to spank you,” he rumbled.

“Then what are – ?”

“Not good at following orders, are you?” His tone was strangely relaxed now. Aimee turned her head to look at him, but at that moment, his big, warm hands settled over her bare buttocks and started to rub her so firmly, he startled a surprised exclamation out of her.

“Too hard?” he asked.

“N-no – ow!”

“There?” His hand paused a moment before concentrating on the spot that had caused her to cry out, circling the pads of his fingertips against the sore area. “This is where it hurts the most?”

“Yes,” Aimee admitted, tears starting to her eyes, but his carefully rotating fingers felt good. Her breath came raggedly as he continued his ministrations, switching to his strong thumbs and then back to the palms of his hands. He took his sweet time about it, and it felt so nice Aimee was tempted to admit she had brought her lotion with her should he wish to use it. By the time he had finished, Aimee was lying there like a limp rag, her face pressed into the blanket. It was the first time she’d felt comfortable all day.

“I will do it again before bed,” he promised.

“I cannot believe I have to ride all that way home again,” Aimee groaned. “Riding is torture.”

He gave a short laugh and drew her shift and then her skirts down, resting his hand on her rump over her clothes. “My poor, spoiled little wife. I suppose you will require a carriage to convey you north to Bartree,” he said thoughtfully. “When it’s finally habitable, that is.”

Aimee felt the warmth from his hand through her clothes and strangely did not even feel embarrassed. “Did your sister ride all that way?” Aimee croaked. Oh, my gods, she could not even imagine a weeklong continuous ride. Did not want to imagine it!

“She and Freda were raised in the country. Both were taught to ride in their infancy.”

Aimee pulled a face. Yet another thing she would have to improve on. She filed it away next to music and embroidery. She had so many shortcomings as a baroness that it was becoming alarming. “I expect Princess Una is a good horsewoman,” she heard herself say, and to her shame, she sounded a little sulky about it.

“She attended a good many battles,” he answered, swatting her backside and rising from the mattress. “If she had not been able to ride well, her life would have been in grave peril. Well, more in peril,” he added wryly.

Aimee turned her head to watch as he peered out of the tent. “Who are you looking for?”

“Jakeman.”

A horrible thought occurred to Aimee. “He – he would not have looked in just now when you were –” she broke off, her face flooding with color.

Konrad shook his head. “He will not come in if the entrance is unfurled.”

She rolled onto her side. “Is that some sort of signal between the two of you?” she asked with sudden suspicion.

He glanced back over his shoulder at her. “What are you implying?” His tone was sarcastic. “That I drag lots of women back to my pavilion?”

Aimee plucked at the blanket, not quite meeting his eye. “No, of course not,” she huffed, though that had been what she was thinking. Was she turning into a jealous harpy now? On top of all her other shortcomings. She groaned, rolling onto her back, and covering her face with her hands.

He turned from the tent entrance and regarded her. “What now?”

“You made me look like such a fool in front of the princess!”

He snorted. “Pretty sure you should not refer to her as such anymore.”

Aimee lowered her hands. “What is her new title again?”

“Lady de Bussell,” he scowled.

Aimee regarded him a moment, her heart in her mouth. “You do not care for her husband?” she asked, striving to keep her tone light. Gods, she hoped it was that and not anything else.

“He’s wholly beneath her notice,” he growled. “Or should be.”

Aimee remembered de Bussell’s laughing countenance and undeniable good looks and held her tongue. To her eye, the princess had looked well matched. “She doesn’t look a thing like they depict her,” she complained. “She isn’t at all masculine, and her hair is quite different.”

Konrad shrugged. “She used to wear a wig,” was all he would say on that score. “Here’s Jakeman now,” he said.

Aimee sat up, tidying herself, for she was sure her hair must have come loose in the exertions of the past hour. Jakeman carried in a basin of steaming water with cloths over his arm. “There’s a table and two chairs outside the tent, my lord,” he said. “I will fetch them in –” But whatever he was going to say he left unsaid as his master went out to fetch them himself.

Jakeman hovered while Konrad found the most even ground for the table’s four legs, then set the basin on top of it.

“You wash first,” her husband said as Jakeman retreated, and Aimee made haste to make the necessary reparations to her disordered appearance. She washed, redressed her hair, and changed into a gown of royal blue which she thought showed off her brooch and its new sapphires to perfection. When she added her pearls and two little copper portcullis badges to secure them at either side of her neckline, she gave a nod of satisfaction. A short, gauzy veil with a gold embroidered border was the final touch, and she pinned this to her coiled braids with pins topped with blue glass.

It was only when Lady Howard exclaimed over her appearance as they were welcomed into the manor house that it occurred to Aimee she might be rather overdressed.

“Baroness,” the older lady exclaimed, her hawklike gaze raking over her. “You put us all to shame with your finery!”

Aimee glanced about with sudden misgiving and realized the only other ladies at the table were dressed a good deal more plainly. She gulped and sent a vaguely accusatory gaze up at her husband. He might have told her!

“Oh, to be a cosseted bride again!” Lady Howard continued as she led Aimee to a prominent seat at the table. “You must sit here to my left, Lady Kentigern, and then Lady de Bussell and Lady de Crecy can take their seats further down from us.”

Aimee looked up sharply at the mention of Lady de Crecy. Had Sir Jeffree brought his wife here too? It seemed strange how he was dragging her about the tournaments considering his open contempt for her. Sure enough, that lady stepped forward, emerging from the shadows in a dress just as shabby as the one she had worn at the last event. It was not brown this time, but a faded green which suited her just as ill.

“Is everyone acquainted?” Lady Howard asked, her gaze sweeping over the company that had been shepherded toward the dais. In addition to the guests, Lady Howard’s two sons joined them at the top table. As they were unaccompanied by ladies, Aimee could only assume they were unwed. As their mother received no immediate answer, she went ahead and introduced Aimee first to Sir Jeffree, who looked as mutinous and arrogant as ever. He gave her a rather hard look at their introduction as though committing her face to memory before he gave his short bow.

Aimee, whose confidence had dipped considerably, thought he must have been glaring at her over-ostentatious appearance. Perhaps the pearls and the brooch combined together were too much? Lady de Crecy acknowledged the introduction with a curtsey but otherwise avoided Aimee’s eye. To her discomfort, Aimee found herself wondering if that lady was recalling the business of the tourney crown and felt herself turn rather pink.

Sabina de Crecy’s features were regular enough, but she was clearly no outstanding beauty. Aimee thought she would look better with her hair worn in a more becoming style rather than scraped back under the stiffened torque that she wore to secure her opaque veil flat to her brow. She wore no ornamentation and seemed to give little if any thought to her appearance. Certainly, she made no effort to match her handsome husband in his doublet of orange and black.

The princess, or Lady de Bussell as she should think of her, bestowed a warm smile on Aimee and greeted her as though their previous meeting had not been a source of embarrassment for them both. Aimee returned her welcome as best she could with a horrible suspicion that the princess must be heartily pitying her. Either that or judging her as gauche for the fact she was strewn about with jewels when she, through whose veins royal blood flowed, wore no necklace or brooches at all.

Una de Bussell wore only a simple bronze circlet at her brow which kept her white veil in place, and this was studded with simple garnets. A single diamond ring adorned one finger, and Aimee felt even more ridiculous in her excessive finery by way of contrast.

Sir Armand’s eyes danced when their introduction was given, and Aimee found herself echoing his smile in spite of herself. He seemed eminently likeable, and as they took their seats, Aimee decided with a sinking heart that the only possible reason her husband could have to dislike him must be jealousy.

“Baroness Kentigern,” Lady Howard began, leaning forward from her position at the head of the table. “You must tell us about this extravagant love token,” she said gesturing toward Aimee’s brooch. “For surely it was a betrothal gift.” She cast an arch look in Konrad’s direction, but as he was looking elsewhere, he missed it. “You must prize it highly.”

Aimee cleared her throat. “It was a betrothal token, yes, but for my husband’s grandmother,” she explained. “It is an heirloom and was gifted to me by Mistress Freda Bartree on the occasion of my marriage.”

“But how generous,” Lady Howard commented, gesturing for the goblets to be filled with wine. Servants hurried forward to comply, and Aimee glanced at her husband, but Konrad seemed to have abandoned her to her fate, for he was absorbed in gazing about at the knights present, possibly trying to gauge his competition from those gathered within.

There were several burly looking fellows eating at the long tables that ranged throughout the hall. Aimee noticed that a good deal of them were gazing toward the high table with great interest. She guessed that Konrad, Sir Jeffree, and Sir Armand must be the persons to beat.

“Forgive me,” Una de Bussell said, leaning forward to address her with a faint pucker between her brows. “I did not think Lord Kentigern’s sister went by that name.”

Aimee waited a moment to see if her husband would answer, but he made no attempt. “No, indeed,” Aimee explained. “Freda is my husband’s first cousin. My sister-in-law’s name is Magnatrude.”

“Ah,” Lady de Bussell replied, her frown clearing. “That was it, and how is Mistress Magnatrude? Did she journey south for your wedding?”

“She did,” Aimee replied, making a concerted effort to be lively and engaging. All she really felt like doing was withdrawing into herself to lick her wounds. She almost envied Sabina de Crecy’s severe wimple which swathed her head so thoroughly that only her face showed. Her neck, chin, forehead, and even the sides of her face were concealed from her fellow diners altogether. It might be unbecoming, but at least it provided protection against attack!

No, that was not fair, Aimee conceded as the meal continued. Una de Bussell and Lady Howard were doing their utmost to keep conversation flowing at the table despite the general awkwardness. Konrad was taciturn, Sir Jeffree aloof, and Lady de Crecy stubbornly mute. As for the sons of the house, Chaucey and Darby Howard seemed tongue-tied in their exalted company and addressed themselves to their trenchers more than their guests.

Aimee found that, despite her greatest efforts, she could only bring herself to join in fits and starts, and she wasn’t sure she contributed much. Her growing awareness of being overdressed made her feel awkward and out of place. She fidgeted in her seat, wondering if the rest of the hall was whispering behind their hands about Lord Kentigern’s low-born bride.

Sir Armand gamely assisted his wife and their hostess, but conversation frequently fell flat, and to Aimee at least, it felt painfully obvious how mismatched the company was. She found herself heartily envying the less favored guests, though once upon a time she, too, would have gazed with envy at the dais. How times had changed!

By the time the final course was brought to table, Aimee had fretted herself into the beginnings of a headache.

“My dear Lady Kentigern,” Lady Howard said, lowering her goblet. “I meant to say earlier that there is a spare bedchamber for you in the house if you should prefer it to sleeping out of doors. I know Lady de Bussell positively revels in the experience.” She pulled a face, and the de Bussells both laughed. Aimee noticed the way Sir Armand reached for his wife’s hand. “But not all of us relish such things,” Lady Howard continued smoothly.

Aimee thought their hostess inclined her head slightly toward Sabina de Crecy as she spoke, and she wondered if that lady had accepted a room in the manor. “That is very generous of you, Lady Howard,” she replied hesitating and shot a look at her husband. He paused in his conversation with Chaucey Howard to throw a glance her way.

“As I said earlier,” he remarked coolly. “If you would prefer it, I am agreeable.”

Aimee swallowed hard and turned back to her hostess. “In that case, Lady Howard, I would be very glad to accept your kind offer.”

“Of course,” Lady Howard cried, clapping her hands for silence in the hall. “But as a forfeit, my dear Lady Kentigern, and as the highest ranking of our lady guests, I must demand a song from you as payment of your board.”

So sunk in misery was Aimee by this point that this did not even register as the source of terror to her that it would usually. She smiled rather wanly and rose to her feet before the enormity of the request could catch up with her.

Aimee thought her husband made a movement as though to speak, but the noise of her dragging back her chair drowned out whatever he had started to say, and she followed Lady Howard to the front of the dais as a hush fell over the hall and all faces turned her way.

A short man with very red hair stepped forward offering Aimee his lute, but she waved this away. She had no intention of trying to pluck any tune with her own untutored fingers. “Do you know The Tree, the Moon, and the Lover’s Promise?” she asked him abruptly.

According to the Wycliffes, it was unsuited for decent company, but Aimee no longer cared. She knew the song suited her voice, and she could sing it in her sleep. She could sing it now, even though her head felt heavy and clouded and her heart ached as though it bore a fresh wound.

The little man scratched his head. “I think ’tis a tune we call The False Lover in these parts, milady,” he ventured. “At least the refrain to that one mentions a tree, the moon, and a broken promise.” He strummed a few chords to illustrate, and Aimee nodded.

“That is the very one,” she said. “I think my version may differ, but doubtless the tune is the same.”

“Aye, milady,” he said and started to play the lilting, haunting melody. Aimee lifted her head, drew in her breath, and let the song flow through and out of her. She sang the tale of sweetness, longing, and love as though the tale was in truth her own.

Her words rang out with the piercing conviction of one who had once believed in a love so strong that it swept away all other considerations, only to have her hopes and dreams dashed by a seemingly broken promise. Never before had Aimee’s voice swelled with such haunting sweetness, even with her sister at her side, marrying her voice to hers.

Indeed, Aimee could almost believe that she could hear Ursula singing beside her now. Nay, not Ursula, she realized, but instead three Aimees singing side by side, as the words were echoed and bounced off the high vaulted ceiling, reverberating back to sound almost as though they were being chanted in a round. At the end of each verse, her own words were repeated back to her in a mournful echo before dying away so she could start the next.

Aimee had always enjoyed the bittersweet tale, but previously, when she had sung the words, she had not known what heartbreak truly felt like. She had sung the words as a maiden happy and secure with her lot. Now her voice throbbed with the emotion of a woman who knew both sorrow and disappointment.

When she sang of the tree bursting into blossom and the fullness of the moon and the babe she carried beneath her heart for her true love’s sake, a single tear spilled down her cheek. It was only when she reached the final verse that her voice lacked conviction. Usually at this point, Aimee lifted her voice joyfully to tell of the lover’s triumphant arrival to claim his bride.

This time, she sang it softly and sadly, her words taking on a dreamlike quality as though the happy ending was mere wish fulfilment on behalf of a broken woman who had lost everything including her grip on reality. She sang of the lover’s return as though he were a ghost or a wraith who had come back too late to keep his word.

By the time her last word died away, a deathly hush had fallen over the hall. Aimee let her head drop and stared down at the scented rushes strewn underfoot. Someone sniffed. The musician turned toward her and bowed low. The applause started as one sole pair of hands and then raised to a thunderous clamor.

“My dear!” Lady Howard said, appearing at her side and clasping her hand. “I had no idea!” She pressed Aimee’s fingers, and to her surprise, Aimee saw her hostess’s face was wet with tears. “Sublime!”

The musician cleared his throat. “If you permit it, milady,” he said humbly. “I would be honored to commit those words to parchment. I have ne’er heard that version before. It is far superior to the one I know.”

Aimee cleared her throat. “Of course,” she said huskily. “Though if I could confer with you on the morrow … for now I am a little tired.” The pressure behind her eyes had not actually bloomed into pain but remained a lingering heaviness, weighing her thoughts and reactions down as though a heavy blanket had been dropped over her head.

“Of course,” Lady Howard was quick to agree. “I will show you to your room myself –”

Here she was interrupted by the appearance of Lord Kentigern. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “My wife is coming back to the tent with me.”

Aimee nodded; in truth, she felt too exhausted to do anything else. She stumbled as she moved to his side, and once again, Aimee found herself swung up into his arms. As he carried her past the table, she heard Una de Bussell declining to perform next for the company.

“In truth, I do not think you will find anyone willing to follow that,” she said apologetically to Lady Howard. “Lady Kentigern’s turn is not one easily followed.”