Brandth almost didn’t hear Perri’s dismayed reaction over the appreciative gasp that rippled through the females present in the room. The bard strumming his instrument for a third and final time… his lips stretching into a knowing sensual smile. Fan fluttering picked up to create a typhoon level breeze.
The bard? Was that who Perri had been so desperate to see? Had they been lovers? The thought annoyed Brandth violently, only because clearly the man was such a… poseur. He was about to pepper Perri with questions but the bard launched into a song. Swinging his attention around and fixing it upon Lady Cecelia.
“Beauty steals my breath. Eyes like quicksilver that pin my heart to a display, joining all the other hearts there, like we are garden flits caught and imprisoned by beauty too beauticious to almost bear.”
Did Brandth hear that correctly? Beauty too beauticious to almost bear? Was that even a word? Next to him, Perri issued a soft dismayed groan as if she were in pain, all but lost amongst the feminine sighs of longing that slipped from almost every lady present, young and old. Egads.
“I dream every night of hair like a river of snow, encasing me in a kingdom of clouds. White too pure, too perfect for the mere earth. Only the heavens and my dreams could ever be so blessed.”
Cruddy hell. None of that drivel made the least bit of sense. But high colour was tinging Lady Cecelia’s cheeks and her lips were lifted in a rare, pleased smile. Clearly the bard was savvy enough to know whom to flatter if he was seeking patronage at the Palace.
Perri released a barely audible whimper. It seems she was the only woman present with some sense. Yes, the bard could play, but his lyrics were beyond dire, bordering on the heinous.
“Do you know of the bard?” Leaning sideways, whispering into where he thought Perri’s ear might be. This close he noted the intricate weaving of her glossy thick red hair. With two thin braids woven along her temples, where she’d then incorporated the rest of her hair into a thick plait, the tip finishing down between her shoulder blades. It was a lush beautiful colour. His fingers itching to take out all the pins and undo it.
“Yes. He spent last summer at the Lair.”
“And you and he formed an attachment?” For some reason Brandth was picturing beating the bard to death with his own mandolin. The image made him happy.
“Me and him?” Horror and amusement tinged Perri’s tone, the red hot wave seizing Brandth’s gut receding. “Please. The only love that man has is for himself. Pretentious prat. He made the mistake of targeting Alia. Decided he liked the idea of being Lord of the Lair. Thinking we would be his adoring subjects, insisting that he sing to us each evening, showering him with praise and applause.”
“What happened between him and your sister?”
“Rumour was that she’d killed him. I knew she’d only sent him on his way… but now I wish she’d gone with her first instincts. This won’t end well.”
“Maybe he won’t remember her.”
“The six feet and four woman who rejected him and advised that he should consider another career, since she found his songs to be, and I quote – torturous and diabolically bad?”
“Um, no, I can’t imagine a man such as that would forget… or forgive such a slight. Maybe there are other entertainers, perhaps by the time she gets here, he’ll have withdrawn.” Even as Brandth spoke the bard finished the song with a flourish, bowing, the applause from the female half of the audience thunderous.
“More. More.” Lady Cecelia could be heard insisting. The bard of course complying, launching into a song that mixed a multitude of metaphors. Seeming to have something to do with midnight rendezvous, forbidden love and eternal admiration. The ladies sighed, fanning themselves languorously, lapping it all up.
The bard moving around the room slowly, crooning, smiling, working the ladies, never lingering, but letting each feel as if perchance his song might be meant for them. He was on his second circuit of the small ballroom, delivering a line about whispers that were more potent than kisses, beating against his skin like rain and flit wings when he whirled about coming face to face with Alia. Who stood at the entrance to the small ballroom, making no attempt to slink, just standing there, boldly announcing with her proud stance to everyone that she was very, very late.
Silence descended with a thud. The bard forgetting to strum or sing.
“Oh, no.” Perri’s whispered words too muffled and low to carry to anyone but Brandth’s ear.
Heaven be praised, Brandth was having the best time. The Gloomenthrall women were proving endlessly entertaining. Yes, there were several annoying mysteries he had yet to solve surrounding them. But in the interim, he was about to watch Alia Gloomenthrall deal with a bard that all but made Brandth’s ears bleed. Better yet, Brandth was sitting next to the delightful, never a dull moment, Perri. Who was probably right about now imagining her day couldn’t get any worse.
He almost felt sorry for her… almost. But if Perri thought Alia confronting the bard was going to cause problems, just wait until the Prince turned up, that was when things were going to prove very interesting indeed.
Sincerely, Brandth was having the best day… ever.
Chapter Nineteen
Two hours ago…
Allowing Perri to have complete control of her wardrobe and hair had been a mistake, and not a small one. Alia stared at her reflection when Perri declared her ready, forcing a smile of appreciation, though her teeth were ground together so tightly she was surprised they didn’t turn into gemstones.
Using the excuse she needed to check on her horse, swearing that, yes, she would be at the first familial bridal candidate event on time, Alia had slipped out of their shared suite and hightailed it for an exit.
She needed fresh air. She needed to come to grips with this… stranger Perri had transformed her into. One she suspected who looked like a complete ninny.
Perri had requested Alia trust her when it came to wardrobe design… but this outfit. It was too foreign. Too different. Cruddy hell, it somehow made Alia look even taller, Gods help her. And drew attention not only to her bosom, she could have lived with that, but also her scars. Seeming to make them a… feature, similar to a large – couldn’t look away – necklace, but only scarier and more stomach churning for those of a delicate nature.
What had Perri been thinking?
