The Bride Tournament (Hexed Hearts Book 1)(43)

She’d never been to a ball or soiree. Her sisters ensured Ellie stayed busy at home.

“What does it even matter? I’m not going.” Sorrow thickened her throat.

“Not going where?”

Gasping, she bolted upright. Gerard stood in her doorway, arms crossed, as if he saw her lounge in bed every day. A telltale blush swept her cheeks and pinpricks of embarrassment spread along her skin.

“Gerard!”

She scuttled off her mattress and shoved him into the kitchen. She yanked her door closed behind her.

“Ellie.” He nodded, the barest hint of a bow.

“What are you doing in my home?” Sweat dampened her palms, and she rubbed them on her gown. He’d seen her bedroom, clearly not the room of a lady. Muscles tensed for his rebuttal or ridicule. She’d hinted at her low status but never come outright to say it.

She was a glorified servant.

“Ellie?”

“Yes?” She sidled across the floor to the kettle and made quick work of brewing tea. Distraction, she needed a distraction.

“Was that…your room?” Disbelief raised the pitch of his voice. “I thought that was the cook’s quarters.”

She colored but stiffened her spine.

“Yes, you knew I was a servant.”

“I thought you meant it as a metaphor. You’re still a born lady, and that room did not belong to one of your stature.”

She gave him her back and sawed a fresh loaf of bread in two. His feet shuffled on the gravel-laden tiles. She busied herself buttering the bread slices to go with the tea.

“I hope raspberry tea is okay, it’s not too energizing for evening.”

The dull knife shook in her hand.

He padded closer until his big body pressed against hers. She closed her eyes. Not fighting the emotional turmoil within, she leaned into him. A moment of comfort. A gasp escaped her as warm hands pried the butter knife from her fingers.

“Ellie, I did not mean to offend in my tone.” Firm lips grazed her ear, and her eyes shot wide. “Honestly, I’m more surprised to have seen the room you sleep in than judging your station.”

She turned to look at him, to see the expression on his face. Her lips parted in shock. Heartfelt concern cleaved his features and creased his forehead. Hazel eyes blinked and those damn broad shoulders pressed her back against the counter. Crowded her.

She let him. To be enveloped in his warmth, his strength, it allowed her the freedom to rely on another for a second, a fleeting tick of time. Heat spiraled in her belly. The last time they’d been this close he’d kissed her. She straightened in a rush.

“Sorry, I’m not feeling like myself. I had to defeat one of my stepsisters tonight.”

She placed her palms against his barrel chest to move him away. He didn’t budge. A wry grin twitched at his lips. He reached up and trailed his fingers along her cheek. The hot flush of embarrassment turned hotter still in desire. Sparks of awareness shot across her skin at his touch.

She leaned into the sandalwood scent of him. The earthy freshness like the forest after a heavy rain. She breathed it in. Breathed him in.

“Why did you beat your sister?” The words flew past tight lips, all trace of a smile gone.

Desire fizzled into confusion and Ellie angled her face away. To tell the truth, or not to tell the truth: that is the question. She opted for neither. And both.

“I finally realized that it didn’t matter how I saved my sisters. Only that I did. Dumping them from the competition keeps Olivia’s nasty little hex far away. Besides, it was only a matter of time before they lost.” Ellie shrugged. “They’re tolerable, when they want to be. But my sisters aren’t the brightest, the most graceful, the most deserving of the throne.”

The kettle whistled. Gerard took a step back and granted space for her to slide out from his grasp.

She spoke over her shoulder. “Either one of my sisters are more likely to bankrupt the kingdom than be of any help to the future king.”

“You mean of any help to me.” Gerard snorted. “Though I must admit, I agree with you. Neither one of your siblings have the intelligence to maneuver a kingdom.”

She poured the tea and placed an assortment of old biscuits on a plate, bringing everything to the long oak table used for prepping food. Gerard sat in one of the mismatched kitchen chairs, a question in his features she feared he’d ask.

“Sugar? Lemon?” She handed a steaming mug of raspberry tea over at the shake of his head.

“Ellie?” He spoke low.

“Yes?” She closed her eyes. Here it came, and she didn’t want to lie, which meant she’d have to tell the truth. It didn’t matter what he thought of her, they would part at the end of this Tournament. He would marry another while she watched. Why then, did it matter to her how he looked at her? How he felt about her?

“Why do you live in the room off the kitchens?” He sipped the tea, nodded and continued, “Isn’t that reserved for actual servants?”

“It’s simple.” She clutched her starchy gown at the hips and forced her legs to cease quaking. “My stepmother, Lady Irene, refuses to pay for a servant after the last one died. She and her daughters have no idea how to mend clothes, care for my father’s illness, clean, cook, or take care of a house this size.”

“Can’t you teach them?” He raised a brow.