Forbidden Fate (Crowne Point 3)

Avoid kissing my husband.

Avoid being spotlit even more.

The door opened behind me, and I spun, nervous it was West. Ever since we’d come close to kissing, it had been different between us.

“Miss Abigail?” I gasped.

Abigail Crowne stood in the doorway, dressed in the cutest knee-length black maternity dress with matching boots and hat, showing off her slight bump. I was so used to looking away that I averted my gaze.

She laughed. “You’re married to a fucking du Lac, and my last name is Hound. I think we can look each other in the eyes.”

I slowly lifted my gaze. Abigail always had a hollow look in her eyes, like all the Crownes, really. Now she had a smile on her face and not a sneer.

“You’re pregnant,” I said.

“What gave me away?”

She turned, showing her little bump.

In the few weeks that had passed, Grayson had kept his distance, and West had been…perfect. He only held my hand, not even a kiss on the cheek.

The only thing marring this was the internet.

Maybe we’d spun the story, but I was still gossip fodder, and there are always a few people you can never truly convince.

“Why are you here?”

“I guess you could say…I’m your girl for the day.”

I choked on my spit. “I’m sorry?”

She held up a hand. “Don’t expect me to get on my knees or bring you tea or anything. I’m just going to give you a desperately needed makeover.” She arched a brow at my chosen outfit for the day: a high-collared white lace blouse and black skirt.

“I might not live in this house anymore, but I will never kneel.”

A moment passed; then she turned on her heel.

When I didn’t follow, she threw her head over her shoulder. “You coming?”

“This is Tansy Crowne’s wing.” I whisper-hissed as Abigail led me into the sprawling, opulent part of Crowne Hall that demarcated Tansy’s personal wing. I hunched forward, hiding behind Abigail as if that would save me.

Abigail led us through two grand arches carved with intricate molding into a brightly lit room. She walked us up stairs that overlooked the ocean on one side, with scowling portraits at our shoulders. We went past a bed made neatly with pastel satin pillows and into a walk-in closet bigger than my room in the guest wing.

This was Tansy Crowne’s dress room.

Famous.

Photographed.

Insured for millions.

Ball gowns hung along the wall, spotlit and beneath pristine glass cases.

“She’s going to kill me,” I said. “This is how I die.”

“Let me tell you something about Tansy Crowne,” Abigail said, completely ignoring the fear in my voice. “She has more dresses than Jesus had wine and only keeps track of a few. As long as you don’t disturb those…” She gestured to the ones beneath glass. “She’ll never know you’re wearing one of hers.”

“We were always taught that Mrs. Tansy has all of her dresses catalogued and the rooms are heavily watched.”