Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

Throughout it all, the duchess sits between the regent and the Duke of Orléans, talking happily with him, for they are old friends. There had even been rumors of a match between them, but there were too many obstacles, the primary one being Orléans’s wife. She is sister to the regent and the king, and the French crown would have fought any attempt at an annulment. His presence is a welcome olive branch.

After a long but pleasant meal, we finally retire to our chambers. Before I have even begun to undress the duchess, there is a knock at the door. She sets her jaw firmly and squares her shoulders. “Enter,” she calls out.

The door opens, and Madame Regent steps into the room, followed by the Duke of Bourbon, and the Duke of Orléans. She closes the door firmly behind her. “Your Grace, I trust your accommodations are to your liking.”

“They are, Madame Regent.”

My mind struggles to guess the purpose of their visit. The regent glances briefly in my direction. “Is there anyone else you wish to have with you?”

“No.” The duchess’s chin comes up a little higher, and a sense of dread begins seeping into the room. The sympathetic expression on the Duke of Bourbon’s soft face adds to my unease.

“Your Grace?” I ask softly, hoping she will inform me what is going on.

The regent spares me a brief glance. “We are here for the premarital inspection. Out of courtesy for her rank and a desire to be tactful, we agreed to wait until she’d left her own holding and conduct it here, but it will be conducted before the wedding can take place.”

The force of my revulsion robs me of caution. “The legal contract has already been agreed to and signed,” I protest. “Surely this is not necessary.”

“This was stipulated in the contract,” she answers coolly. “We must determine if she can produce an heir.”

As if such things can be ascertained by a public examination. Outrage erupts, burning away the day’s fledgling caution. “Did Madame have such an examination prior to her marriage?” My voice is polite and courteous, my words covered in the finest silk.

“Of course not. But it was not my duty to produce an heir for the kingdom.” The sharpness in her tone gives me pause. The last thing I want to do is draw unwelcome attention to myself—?especially from her.

She turns to the duchess, frowning. “This cannot be a surprise to you.”

The duchess is pale, but maintains her regal composure. “No, but that does not make it any more palatable. And I was not expecting such a large audience.”

Something ugly, like an eel slithering in the murk of a pond, darts across the regent’s face. “There must be witnesses. The matter of an heir is far too important to leave to my judgment alone.” Her eyes are overwide, her tone more self-deprecating than the comment warrants. I glance over at the Duke of Orléans, whose stoop is even more pronounced as he tries to make himself nearly invisible.

That is when my wits finally catch up. The regent, profoundly aware of the late duke of Brittany’s hope to foster a union between these two, wishes to punish them for it.

Her revenge is so nuanced and diabolical I can scarce wrap my mind around it.

She will punish Orléans for daring to consider putting her sister aside ten years ago. It does not matter that when he was only fourteen, the old king vowed to cut off the heads of his advisors, sew him into a sack, and toss it into a river if he did not agree to the marriage. His mother finally gave in, but Orléans never agreed and has always claimed he was coerced.

The layers of humiliation the regent has woven together are truly astounding. With one brief action, she will remind Orléans of all that he can never have, punish the duchess for her father’s grand ambition, and heap further humiliation on her.

By forcing Orléans to be complicit in this degradation, there is a very good chance that their fondness will turn to hate. Or at least mortification, thus forcing a permanent wedge between them. Even though any chance of them marrying has long since passed, the regent is now ensuring they will never be allies, or even comfortable with each other, ever again. These few minutes will bear bitter fruit for years to come, and all out of the regent’s spite.

“Now,” she continues, “the sooner we do this, the sooner it will be behind you. Disrobe, please.”

I clench my fists in frustration. Where are the duchess’s great protectors from the Privy Council now? “At least let us stoke up the fire and have a robe ready,” I suggest. “Unless it is your goal to have Her Grace catch an ague, rather than simply force her to parade naked before strangers.”

For the first time since entering the room, the regent turns her full attention on me. Careful, I warn myself. Up until this point, I have been naught but a piece of furniture. The duchess reaches out and gently touches my arm. “That is a good idea to stoke the fire,” she says. “It has grown cold in here.”

I seethe across the room to the large fireplace, grab the poker, and stab at the lazily burning logs until they erupt into orange and yellow flames. My feeling of helplessness grows as I fetch the duchess’s fur-lined robe from the large chest and lay it on the bed.

When I return to the duchess, she presents her back to me. Her grim determination is coupled with a sense of embarrassment so great it borders on shame.

She does not have the emotional armor to protect herself from this vile woman’s devious machinations, but I do. I was raised in precisely such a nest of diabolical vipers. I can draw some of the sting from this wound the regent is trying to inflict.

Although by protecting the duchess, I risk alienating the regent. She is not an enemy I or my sisters can afford.

But to truly honor the vow I made to her, I must I lend her my armor until she forms her own. To do otherwise reeks too much of craven self-servitude. I lean in close to the duchess. “It will help if you picture them naked,” I whisper as I unlace her bodice.

She emits a muffled gasp. Encouraged, I lower my voice further. “And,” I add as I slip her gown from her shoulders, “I believe the Duke of Bourbon’s doublet is padded to make his chest appear larger than his belly.”

She says nothing, but the corner of her mouth lifts.

When there is finally a ghost of a smile on her face, I pull the linen undergown over her head so that she stands completely naked in front of these strangers. But at least she is thinking of their nakedness instead of her own.

“She is small,” the Duke of Bourbon suggests, almost apologetically. “But soundly built.”

“It is the width of her hips that most concerns me,” the regent replies, tilting her head. “Turn around, if you please.”

To keep from saying something foolish, I grab the duchess’s robe from the bed, nearly crushing it in my fingers.

Keeping her eyes straight ahead, the duchess does as instructed.

“Wait. What was that? Did she limp?”

“Yes,” the duchess says. “My shoes are made to hide the fact, but it is no secret.”

I put my finger to my chin and make as if studying the matter. “Is the length of one’s legs known to facilitate breeding?”

The regent casts a cool gaze upon me. “Who are you?”

I sink into a deep curtsy. “Lady Sybella, Madame.”

Her attention remains on me a moment longer before she turns back to the duchess. “It is important that no flaws pass to the king’s heir.”

I press my teeth into my tongue to keep from pointing out that the king’s other sister has precisely this type of limp—?although from all accounts that is only one of her ailments. It is why the match with Orléans was so devious. By marrying him to a daughter whose afflictions rendered her unable to bear children, the king could ensure the crown had no challenge from the Orléans branch.

The regent orders the duchess to walk to the far wall. With a surprising degree of composure and grace, the duchess begins to traverse the room.

Everyone’s eyes are on her: Bourbon’s are soft and compassionate. Orléans’s are full of apologies, regret, an

d a desire to be anywhere but here. But the regent’s—?ah, they are not only cool and assessing, but gleaming with triumph as well.

My hand longs to smack that triumph from her face. I do not want to merely shield the duchess, but to brandish a sword on her behalf. I close my eyes and remind myself of all the reasons I should not. But when I open them again, all I can see is the duchess, head raised proudly, cheeks pink with shame, eyes bright with unshed tears.

I direct a sweet, bland smile to the regent. “Perhaps when she’s finished parading before you, you’d like to examine her teeth,” I suggest. “I know our master of horse always insisted on seeing those before adding any new additions to our stable.”

The regent sends a basilisk glare at me that would turn a lesser woman to stone, and the Duke of Bourbon’s chin recedes even further. But I do not so much as flinch. Still staring at me, the regent addresses her words to the duchess. “You may come back now.”