Heartless(74)

Timid or arrogant, charming or infuriating, and Catherine was falling, falling, falling.

“His Majesty keeps coming to me for advice.” He looked up again, misery in his expression. “He seems to think I’m an expert on how best to court you. What to say, what gifts to send.” He hesitated. “Of course I help him, because … well, I have to. But also, I sometimes pretend that it’s me, instead of him. I suggest he do the things that I would do, if I were … deserving of you.”

Her heart drummed. “You mean, if you were nobility.”

“I mean.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, that there can be no more nights like … like the tea party. And you’re right. I was a terrible cad to sneak you around like that, and I know the harm that could be done. Not only because of the Jabberwock, but … the dangers to your reputation, and your courtship, and … it was selfish of me.”

“I hope you’re not taking all the credit.” Her voice held little of the fire she wanted it to. “I made the choice as well as you did.”

“I accede your point.”

Her fingers itched to reach out to him, to touch him. She refrained. “I swear to you, I’m not meaning to be fickle. I don’t want to be in this courtship. It’s just…” She laughed, a dismal sound. “I didn’t think it would be so hard, but how does one reject a king? Not to mention my parents. My mother. Oh—” She groaned. “She wants it so much. She’s so happy when she talks about the courtship, and I can’t stand to think how disappointed she’ll be.” She squirmed and pulled her hands through her knotted hair, tugging it over her ears.

Disappointed did not begin to cover her parents’ reactions if she were to reject the King, especially once she told them that she’d fallen in love with the court joker instead.

“I want to make them proud,” she said, “but we have such different opinions on what my future should hold. It’s as though … if I love them enough, surely I could learn to love the King too. I know that’s how my mother sees it. She would think that I failed in this most simple of obligations. To be a good daughter who marries the King. Who makes them proud.”

“You talk as if love is doled out like prizes at a festival. Surely they just want you to be happy.”

“Of course they want me to be happy. They just think I’ll be happy with the King, but I know they’re wrong. I never could be. Which is why…” She squared her shoulders. “When he proposes, I won’t—I cannot accept him. You must believe that.”

He eyed her for a long, long moment, before he said, “I believe that you believe it.”

She frowned. It was not the confidence she’d hoped for, but she couldn’t blame him. Until now, she’d done little to dissuade the King’s advances. “I can tell when the gifts and the poems are from you and not him.”

He flashed a wry smile. “I should hope so.”

She looked away. “Jest…”

“Lady Pinkerton.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, unable to find the words she wanted to tell him. Not sure that she was brave enough to tell him anything at all.

He edged closer. “I understand how much the King has to offer you, and how very little I have in comparison. I’ll understand should you accept him.”

“Jest—”

“Truly. He’s the better choice in every way.”

“Certainly not every way.”

“Please don’t give me false hope.” His voice chipped, forcing her to meet his gaze again. Her pulse thundered. “I can’t compete with a king, and I won’t compete with the man who’s given me employment, who’s offered me a place in his court when he had no need to. I don’t mean to make your choice more difficult than it already is. He’s a good man. I believe he would do his best to be a good husband.”

Catherine’s mouth ran dry. A crack was burrowing through her chest, threatening to break her open.

“But,” he said, his voice tender and low, “should you decide to refuse him…”

She blinked back the mist in her eyes.

“Then I hope it won’t cause offense if I were to…” Jest hesitated. There was a new tension in his shoulders, an unexpected self-consciousness to the set of his brow. “To call on you. Or … your father.”

“My father,” she whispered.

“Do you think … is there any hope at all that he would entertain my request to court you? With every good intention a poor joker like myself could possibly have.”

Her heart clamped. At the restrained hope in his voice. At the pleading in his eyes. At all the memories of her mother pushing her into the arms of the King.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Is Rook a very high rank in Chess?”

He pressed his lips and seemed to be considering the question. “Actually,” he said, “it’s on equal ranking to a marquess.”

She straightened, surprised at this answer.

And to think that all her parents would ever see when they looked at him was a lowly Joker.

“But,” Jest said, perhaps seeing too much hope in her expression, “we are not in Chess.”