“Harlowe.”
I paused.
“My daughter’s lucky to have you.” He grimaced, then swallowed, as if the sentiment had sliced his tongue on the way out and now required him to gulp down a mouthful of blood.
Probably not far from the truth. “Thanks,” I said, then smiled thinly and closed the door, leaving him to his darkness and ghosts.
On my way back upstairs, the magnitude of my mistake dragged at me like ballast. I’d been so sure that marrying Kyven equated to a masterstroke of strategy, but now I was sickened by what I’d done.
I’d jeopardized Amryssa’s welfare. Comethisclose to robbing my best friend of a future.
At least Olivian had gotten my head on straight. And, knowing what I did now, I could fix it. I could bide my time, unmask my new husband’s darkness for myself, and dispense with him when the time came.
I would clean up the awful mess I’d made, whatever it took.
9.
That afternoon, in the open-sided cupola on the roof, I sweltered over a basket of mending. Amryssa sat on the far bench, staring out over the marsh. Her lips moved, though her words failed to carry on the muggy air.
Kyven lounged beside me. In a concession to the heat, he’d foregone a waistcoat and rolled his sleeves to the elbow. Rather than expressing anger over my duplicity, he’d spent the day studying me with open interest.
And...shit. I was studying him back. Again. Who knew why, because I hated his face. Everything about it annoyed me, from the squared vee of his chin to the taper of his nose. Even his hair made me angry. It fell across his forehead as if he’d planned it that way, which he probably actually had, the narcissist. The longest, shiniest lock just kissed the arch of his brow, and I couldn’t help but notice the chestnut hues matched exactly, unlike most people, whose hair and eyebrows differed by a shade or two.
I forced my attention back to my mending. What entitled him to stare like that? Creep.
“For someone who just vaulted from lady’s maid to princess,” he said, “you look remarkably unhappy. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you find your new husband lacking.”
My mouth twisted as I jabbed the needle in with unnecessary force. “You’renotmy husband.”
“Oh, I beg to differ.” Amusement and that stupid, snobbish accent molded his words into a taunt. “I distinctly remember becoming so last night.”
“Fine. Maybe you are, for now. But you won’t stay my husband for long.”
I’d told him about the annulment the moment I’d found him—not in Amryssa’s room, as I’d dreaded, but at the breakfast table, working through an assembly line of piled-high plates with his attendants. Just before walking in, I could’ve sworn I’d caught hissed words in an Oceansgate accent, but Vick had given me a narrow-eyed look upon entry, and I’d paused. All three men were from Hightower, weren’t they?
I must have imagined it.
Now Kyven propped his elbows on his knees and gave me a casual once-over. We were effectively alone—his attendants had disappeared to Zephyrine-knew-where, and Amryssa may as well have ascended to another plane.
“How long will this annulment business take, again?” he said.
“Two months, roughly.” Stitch, stitch. “Less, if we’re lucky.”
“Lucky?” He chuckled. “You almost sound as if you mean that.”
I gave him a withering look, which he endured without appearing to suffer any ill effects. “This might come as a shock,” I said, “but I don’t want to be married to you a second longer than I have to. This whole thing was a mistake.”
“Hmm.” Sparks flew in those skylit eyes. “And yet you didn’t seem to think so last night, when you were making that delightful little whimper and inviting me to do my worst.”
I spluttered. Something red and angry swarmed beneath my skin.
“Oh, don’t look so apoplectic, I’m only joking. And I do have one honest question.”
“Which is?” The words hissed from me like steam jetting from a teakettle.
“How much did the seneschal offer you? To annul our marriage?”
I paused my sewing and waited for the punchline, but not a single one of those chestnut lashes flickered. “Nothing. He didn’t offer me anything. Why would he have?”
