Page 64 of Scarred
“Well, what am I walking into here, Timothy? Is she the rose or is she thorns?”
“Milady, she’s no rose.” He chuckles as we approach her door, turning to face me. “But neither are you. I think you’ll handle yourself just fine.”
Maybe I should be offended by his words, but instead, there’s a comfort that spreads through my chest—because he’s right—I am no rose, and I like that he sees me enough to know that.
The door swings open, a young lady in a simple pale-blue dress smiling and stepping to the side, allowing us to move into the room. My hands are clammy, making my pink-lace gloves stick to my palms, but I breathe in as deep as my corset allows and straighten my shoulders to fake the confidence I’m not feeling inside. We’re in her personal quarters; a place I’ve never been, and I’m struck at how similar to mine the sitting room is.
Deep browns of wood accent the red and cream wallpaper, and a fire crackles in the center of the room. There are two burgundy couches facing each other, and at the head are two brown leather chairs surrounding a small round table, already set with a tray of tea and white china with blue birds and gold trim.
None of that, however, is what catches my attention. Because from the second I walked into the room, I could feel him. A hum that weaves through the air and dances on my skin, wrapping around my middle like rope.
I try to resist glancing his way, I do, but I give in, acknowledging—perhaps for the first time—that my self-control with the prince is severely lacking.
My father’s pendant weighs heavily around my neck.
Our eyes lock. Tristan’s gaze peers like I’m an animal at a circus, and even though he’s across the room, it feels as though I’m on display just for him. My already shallow breathing stutters as he flicks his stare down to my decolletage, my thighs tensing to stem the ache flaring between them.
Timothy clears his throat, his hand grazing my elbow, and it’s only then that I snap out of it, tearing my eyes away and focusing on the woman I’m here to see.
Queen Gertrude Faasa: the woman who stood by while her son killed my father, watching him hang for daring to question the crown.
Rage burns bright in my gut.
I step forward, dropping into a curtsy, the pale-pink hem of my dress fluttering on the ground at my feet. “Your Majesty.”
“Come here, girl,” she snaps. “Stand up straight and let me get a good look at you.”
Her words slice through the air like a knife, demanding and almost cruel in their tone. I move forward and when I come to a stop before her—her eyes squinting and jaw setting as she catalogs every piece of me—I’ve never wanted to revolt more.
“So you’re the girl here to marry my son.” Her eyes trail up my form. “Do none of your ladies know how to tame those wild curls?”
My back stiffens at her shallow insult, but my confidence surges, realizing that she’s resorting to petty remarks instead of bone-deep jabs.
I let out a small laugh. “Curls like mine are difficult to tame, ma’am. My ladies do what they can with what God gave me.” I tilt my head. “Perhaps you could do my hair one day and show them how it’s done.”
Her lips purse. “And what makes you worthy to wear a crown, Miss Beatreaux?” She smiles and I move without waiting for her invitation, sitting down on the couch next to her.
“Please, make yourself at home,” she quips.
I smile so wide my cheeks ache. “Thank you.”
“Tell me.” She nods toward one of her ladies. “Do you come from nobility?”
“My father was a duke.”
The same girl who opened the door steps forward, pouring tea into the fine china before moving back to her place against the far wall.
“And what does he do now?” the Queen Mother continues.
The pit in my stomach gapes wider. “Rots in the ground, unfortunately.”
A sharp laugh from behind us catches my attention, the sound making my stomach flutter. I twist my head, glancing at Tristan who’s leaning against the door, his black boots crossed at the ankle. I’m not sure why he’s still here, but oddly, I find his presence comforting. Almost as if he’s standing at my back instead of hers.
“So, he’s dead then?” she asks. I turn my attention to her, the butterflies in my belly dissipating as soon as she speaks.
“He is, ma’am,” I confirm, although the conversation is sending a wave of anger through my veins.
She doesn’t remember him. She knows my name, knows where I’m from, but doesn’t even remember.
