The Ring and the Crown (The Ring and the Crown 1)

“It is Eleanor’s proclamation,” her cousin said evenly, reading the paper once again.

Isabelle laughed. “She is merely a puppet at that man’s command.”

Hugh Borel frowned at his cousin’s loose tongue. He was called the Red Duke of Burgundy, not for the color of his hair (which was a nondescript brown) but for the rich, ruby tannins in the wine from their vineyards. Or so Isabelle guessed. She herself had many names for him. “Lech” was one. He was ten years her elder, a squirrelly, myopic man with thinning hair he combed over his forehead, and shifty, bulging eyes. “Even so, you will do as she has asked. You will release Leopold from his promise.”

“You would like me to sign my future away, wouldn’t you?” she said, with an upturned chin that she couldn’t keep from trembling.

“Like I’ve said before, I only want you to be happy, Isabelle. But if you do not do what you are asked, you will face the wrath of all England and France and the power of her magician. I cannot protect you from that,” he said with false concern.

You have never protected me from anything, Isabelle thought, balling her fists against the folds of her dress. Her elder cousin had a way of staring at her for too long, and he was always “accidentally” running into her room just as the maids were helping her undress. He gave her the shivers, and she had been counting the days until she would be free of him and this damp, stinky castle. She had a feeling he would change for the worse once her engagement was dissolved. Her betrothal to Leo meant her freedom from Hugh, among other things.

“Leo loves me,” she whispered.

“His feelings aside, he will marry Marie-Victoria to bring glory to Prussia,” Hugh said, almost smugly.

It hurt Isabelle to know he was right. Nothing mattered more to Leo than his country. He loved her, but he loved duty more, and the crown of the Franco-British empire was too tempting to refuse.

The defeat in Orleans had been five hundred years ago, and yet it felt to Isabelle as if she was reliving it at every moment—that she was still a victim of that long-ago failure. She was the rightful dauphine, not that sickly pretender who was to marry Leopold once she signed the papers allowing it. Her father, rest his soul, would have been Charles VIII of France; but House Valois had lost the throne to the British king, Henry VI, when the Merlin broke the spell cast by their sorceress and won the battle

. Jeanne of Arkk had been burned by the English madmen, and her wyrd women disbanded and killed.

Isabelle’s family had been banished to their ancestral holdings, and tacitly forbidden to appear at court. Even so, her father had a few loyal allies left, and at birth Isabelle had been betrothed to Prince Leopold of Prussia. It was an alliance uniting them against a common enemy. But who needed Isabelle of Orleans if Marie-Victoria was being presented as a bride?

“I heard the princess is deformed—a freak—that no one ever sees her, that she is nothing but her mother’s pawn,” Isabelle said bitterly.

“She is sickly,” Hugh said. “And her mother’s daughter. But she is said to be gentle and soft-hearted.”

Isabelle snorted. Leopold’s victory at Lamac was no victory after all, if this was the sacrifice it entailed.

“You will sign the papers when we arrive in London for the season. We must be grateful, as Eleanor was kind enough to extend an invitation for the royal ball to us all, for the first time,” said Hugh. “Look at this as your chance to secure a good match.”

As if Hugh cared about matching her up with anyone, or about her future away from his influence. When he had arrived in Burgundy to become her guardian, he had made it clear that as highborn as she was, she was completely at the mercy of his kindness. He kept accounts of every piece of bread she ate, every dress or gown that was made for her, against a ledger that he would collect on when her inheritance was settled: when she turned eighteen, or married. Hugh knew she despised him, that she couldn’t wait to get as far away from him as possible.

“Why do I need to find a husband?” she said. “Remember? Until yesterday I was to marry Leopold.”

“But that is no longer the case,” Hugh said smoothly. “Be grateful the queen did no worse.”

“Bastard,” she muttered.

“Excuse me?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“I am grateful for the invitation,” she said, gritting her teeth and lowering her eyes to the floor.

“Good,” he said, standing up and walking behind her seat. He put a heavy, sweaty hand on her shoulder.

Grateful.

She had to be grateful for everything the royal family—those British usurpers—had given her. Grateful that her family had been allowed to keep their countryside estates after the Battle of Orleans. Grateful that they had been granted their lives and retained their titles, which assured that the Valois line would forever be prostrate to the throne. Forever grateful for scraps; forever in debt; forever losers.

Grateful.

Now both of Hugh’s hands were on her bare shoulders, and they were massaging her skin. He had never groped her so publicly before, and Isabelle couldn’t help but think it was due to her looming status as a woman without protection. If she wasn’t betrothed to Leopold, she was nobody; there would be no prince or royal family to answer to. No one would care what happened to her.

“Leave her alone,” said the third person in the room, probably the only person in the world who did care what happened to her; he had remained silent until now. Isabelle glanced nervously at her other cousin, Louis-Philippe Beziers, who had grown up in the castle with her. His parents had been felled by the same wasting plague that had taken hers. Louis had finely chiseled features, dark hair and eyes, and would grow up to be strikingly handsome one day, but right now possessed a gangly, boyish awkwardness. Quiet and reflective, he was the only bright spot to her dark days. They clung to each other against a common enemy, but Louis had never dared speak up to Hugh until now.

“What did you say to me, Jug Ears?” Hugh asked, turning to Louis with a dangerous look on his face. Their entire childhood, Hugh had been dismissive of Louis—continually mocking his interests, calling him names, and making it clear that he was nothing more than a burden. When they were younger, Louis had hardly ever spoken a word.

“I said, leave her alone,” Louis said, rising from his chair and standing a foot taller than his cousin.