The Bride Tournament (Hexed Hearts Book 1)(37)
“I forget because you’re a noble. It runs in your blood, in your tone, in the tilt of your chin, and the bearing of your stance. Why do you work? At the castle, no less.”
She averted her gaze. Shame bit her words. “I work because it’s an honest livelihood. I dirty my hands, sow crops, cook, clean, tend fires, split wood, care for animals, care for my father, look after my ‘family,’ and mend my home. I do it all because I have to.”
“Why do you have to?” Gerard pressed his thumb to her chin.
She looked him in the eye, stance as regal as he claimed. “If I don’t, no one will.”
“How does that mix with your place in the tournament?” Gerard sat back. “How do you expect to tend to your responsibilities and be queen.”
“I don’t.” She sighed. “I’m not here for the throne.”
Chapter Ten
Her words and the softness of her skin haunted Gerard for hours. In dreaming, he couldn’t escape the honesty in her voice, the truth in what she’d said, the lack of bitterness that should have colored her tone.
He’d never been to the old estate that bordered the Citadel. It was one of the few remaining ancestral homes that should have belonged to a historical register.
If she took care of her father, it implied he was unwell: ill or disabled. Ellie had people who relied on her, needed her. And I want to take her from that life because she deserves better. Gerard groaned. So she doesn’t welcome another into her marriage bed…
He wanted her in his.
The feel of her skin had been enough to arouse him and he’d fought to stay clinical, to not appreciate her curves. In his own selfish way, Gerard had overlooked her reluctance to enter the Tournament. He’d only focused on her noble blood, her smarts, her ability to heal with old magic.
If she had old magic, why not use it to change her life circumstances? Grow crops without breaking a sweat, chop wood with a flick of her wrist, prepare a five-course meal with a head nod?
“An honest livelihood…” He quoted her to his bedroom ceiling. That’s all he wanted for his people. Despite his reluctance to take the crown, he had plans for Galacia. Good plans, ones he’d plotted during his six-year absence.
His parents were wonderful rulers, but they let the nobles and groups like MAM push them around without a fight.
He didn’t operate with such a lackadaisical outlook. He was still fresh from seeing the world, watching other kingdoms prosper and fail. Galacia needed action before the stagnation of the new golden magic swept the land and the old ways were forgotten completely.
Emboldened and energized, he jumped from bed, changed into garments that belonged to a crown prince and hastened to breakfast. Pierce, too, was up before the dawn. Chatting quickly, Gerard drew up a proposed draft for the official advisor position over mushroom and tomato omelets.
“Seems fair,” Pierce said as Gerard maintained that the king and only the king signed bills, laws, and treaties.
“How is she?” Gerard sipped his coffee.
“Veronica?” Pierce fiddled with his unused spoon. “The physician says her symptoms seem to have leveled out.”
He marveled at the change in his brother, from cocky ass to concerned man. “I’m glad.”
“It was a good idea to insist upon quarantine. Now that five others have fallen prey to this hex, the whole country fears a contagion. Meanwhile the enchanter responsible for the pox thinks their crimes have gone unnoticed.”
“That was my plan,” Gerard said. “What’s on the agenda for the Tournament tonight?”
Pierce dug a gold-embossed leaflet from his vest pocket. Gerard noted his brother dressed in somber hues today, basic tans and greens rather than his usual flamboyant yellows and midnight blacks.
“It says, Poise.” Pierce shrugged. “Table settings, menu plans, flower arrangements—girl stuff.”
“Important stuff, my son.” The queen sailed into the breakfast room in a pale cream gown. “You men may think we women only blabber.”
“Well, it’s the truth.”
The queen shot Pierce a snide look. “We engage in subterfuge. Plotting, planning, slowly and efficiently cutting down our enemies. We’re vicious.”
“Mother, you talk about dress colors.”
“Sure, that’s what you hear. But underneath it all, I’ve discovered the financial status of the nobles, ensured their husbands will be present to sign treaties, planned confidences, unearthed blackmail plots, and murdered nefarious ideas.” She plopped a piece of hot ham onto her plate.
Gerard smiled. “It’s reading body language, forming allies, and creating political schemes.”
“Correct, my son.” The queen beamed. “I’ve created several scenarios, all secret, placed them in sealed envelopes, and will hand them out in person tonight. Each woman is granted fifteen minutes to plan an informal tea gathering.”
“To what end?” Pierce asked.
“My most trusted friends and I will wander amongst the competitors to see how they handle pressure, their ability to plan a tea worthy of their future station, and most importantly, how they read their situations.”
“Building friends or foes,” Gerard finished.
“Exactly, I’ve held my share of frigid teas. Subtly informing the women present that I am not happy with their actions. It’s a passive way of curtailing behavior.”